Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Monthly Archives: August 2021


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Tuesdaying

Shakespeare has been credited for creating hundreds of words for his plays. I’d like a little of that Shakespeare invention now. I think we need a new word for dreams. You know, the supposed daytime ones – the kind they mean when they say, “Follow your dreams…” Well, the person who created that statement has never spent a night in my head. Yikes. Those are some dreams – terrible dreams. And I would really rather not associate anything I love, anything I want to create, that I want to follow, with such horrible moments. So I search for a new word.


Because maybe, (even for you lucky ones that don’t experience these horrible dreams) maybe, they aren’t really ever dreams at all, these “daytime, heart-filled, hopeful goals” that we want to achieve. “Dreams” sound somewhat unreachable, or not even real. But I say, these “daytime, heart-filled, hopeful goals that we want to achieve”, they certainly can be real — very real. But they take work. Aaaaah, work. People don’t really want to hear that — that’s so not “dreamy.” And it isn’t. It’s gritty, and exhausting (in the best possible way)!


When I awoke this morning, from an awful dream, tears running down my face, I was never so happy for some reality!! The reality of homemade bread and jam, and the smell of coffee that fills the kitchen. The reality of love beside me. The sun in the sky. The birds singing. And another glorious opportunity to create. Create what I love. Write down the words. Move the paint. Do the work! This is my glorious reality.
Reality isn’t boring. It’s beautiful – or it sure can be! You can create your own reality — far better than any dream! Be curious. Be inventive. Be open. Do the work! And you will make love that is real. Friendships that are real. Jobs and art and lives that are fantastically different, and curious and very, very real!


Shakespeare saw a need, and filled it. When there wasn’t the perfect word, he created it. Or he took an existing noun and made it a verb (this perhaps is the ultimate definition of doing the work — taking your noun of a life and turning it into a verb of living!)


Today, when you are Tuesdaying, maybe forget the dream, and awaken to all the possibilities around you, within you!

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The sweet spot.

I have always been drawn to the still life. And not just in painting. The living as well. That doesn’t mean not doing anything. Quite the opposite. I like doing something all the time. My morning schedule is filled with breakfast, Duolingo, blogging, yoga and swimming. Which connects me to an afternoon of painting, discovering, filling, learning. But nothing is done in a frenzy, or a fever. All work to keep my spinning brain and feeling heart at a manageable pace. If my home is in chaos, it rattles my soul, so I work very hard to keep it calm. Things in place, keep my focus in place. My focus in place, I can find the most real part of me. And this is the sweet spot I suppose. The spot that I want to share. That’s the spot where I want to find people. This, I think is where we can make the true connections. It’s hard to connect to a spinning top.

Somewhere along the way, busy became a symbol of status. I’m not even really sure what the word means. We all have things to do. We all live under the same time, the same sun and moon. It seems like busy means “I’m so important,” or “what I’m doing is my important than you,” or “I have worth.” But how can we see the value in each other if we race around in circles? I want to see your worth, but I’m going to need you to slow down and actually show me who you are. Slow down and let me show you who I am. And here, we won’t be busy, but oh, it will true, still, and forever sweet!

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Family

He used to sit right above my head in my office. Sold recently to a wonderful family in my home country, he now has a new home. Now it is she who rests above my head. And although they are completely different, she teaches me every day, (because I need it – perhaps we all do…) the lesson of empathy. The lesson of seeing other people. Because once you see someone – truly see them, you know better, and when you know better, you have to do better.

Yesterday I sat with my family outside at the garden table. We drank wine. Ate the fruits of the sea. Barbecued. We were one. Now, in reality, we are not related by blood, by language, or by culture, but we are family. Because we chose to be.

Across the sea, my mother put on her new dress, and went out to dinner with her best friend, Carol. They drank and ate. Gave and received compliments. And I could feel their joy! They are family, because they choose to be. And I will always choose to be theirs!

The world needs to make some big choices now. Are we really prepared to see what is happening to humanity? And if we truly see them, can we every look away? Or can we make the choice, that as humans, we belong, we have a place at the table. We are family. I look at the face that rests above me. She tells me this has to be true.

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Pont du Gard

The most visited ancient monument in France, listed as a world heritage site by Unesco, the Pont du Gard aqueduct remains one of humankind’s great masterpieces. A marvel of Antiquity and a true technical feat.

48 metres high, it has three vertical rows of arches: 6 on the lowest level, 11 on the second level and 35 on the third and top level. Its upper part reaches a length of 273 metres (originally 360 metres when there were twelve extra arches). It served as an aqueduct until the 6th century before becoming a tollgate in the Middle Ages and finally a road bridge from the 18th to 20th century.  

Perhaps even more impressive, an olive tree lives, over 1,000 years old, next to this masterpiece — a masterpiece in and of itself.  

Nobody takes the time to plant an olive tree anymore. (Or bothers to build real bridges.) You need patience with an olive tree. You can plant it and wait five years for the olives, maybe twelve. 

Yes, twelve years of nurturing, watering and pruning. The reward is not instant. Ah, instant gratification. I know, I get impatient too. But I’m trying, really trying, with my life, to plant an olive tree. Trying to give without worrying about the pay-off, the reward. 

Maybe it’s not about the fruit. Maybe it’s about the tree. Maybe it’s just about the growth itself. I want to have the patience, the beauty, the stamina, the strength of an olive tree. And so I will put in the time to learn, to love, and to live, without measuring the sun, only feeling its warmth. I offer this to you as well. I am here for you. 

No abandonings. For you, for me, I’m planting an olive tree. I am building a bridge. I am taking the time.

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— and my heart beside —

I’m not sure which lesson is hardest to learn, to be there for someone when they need you, or to let them be there for you when you need them.


My mother had two male friends. And they were good friends, to her and to each other. When one of them was near the end of his life, the other wanted so badly to be there, to help in the biggest, or smallest of ways. In any way. And not just wanted – needed. Really needed it. Needed to be by his side and show him that he mattered. Show him that their friendship mattered. To be let in this one last time. But the failing friend couldn’t do it. Couldn’t allow this last gift. He saw it as weakness – and not the final gift that he could give his friend.


I can’t claim to know either side of this exact experience, but what a lesson! For our daily lives. Some days we are the one who gets to stand strongly beside, and other days, we get to rely on that nearby strength. Both gifts. I want to be strong enough to stand. I want to be strong enough to let you in when I can’t.


And we do this together. Side by side. Each the better for it. No one keeping track of whose turn it is. Our shadows and hearts melding as one.


Emily Dickinson wrote, “It’s all I have to bring today — this and my heart beside –“


Beside. Today and every day. The perfect gift.

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The journey.

“…rocks in shoes are as much gifts as well lit roadways – all a part of this yearly, this daily, this hourly, this constant journey home.” jodi hills

I have already started packing in my head. Soon it will actually be time to fill the suitcase. I’m getting better at it. I still have a lot to learn, but progress is being made. I used to think that I had to bring everything. The amount of luggage I brought with me on trips years ago was astounding. I hung on to my things desperately. Perhaps it was because I had learned how easily it could all be taken away. So I clung.

When I moved to France, I made the decision to sell, give-away, repurpose, most of my belongings. And surprisingly, it was fairly easy. Maybe when your heart is full you don’t need to carry as much with you.

What I need now, are the things I create. The books, the paintings, the photographs, the memories, and mostly the experiences new. None of which need to be ported. People often ask if it is difficult to sell a painting. And the answer is, of course, a little, but the true joy is in the creating, not the having. Every stroke lives within.

I write it all down today, as a reminder to myself. Keep the luggage light, Jodi. Let go the conversations, the hurt, the disappointments of every yesterday, throw in a little joy, a few cute dresses, and leave a lot of room for what’s to come! The adventure awaits. Not just on vacation. Every day! There is only living. Pack light. Feel everything. Travel far. Find your way home.


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Set up to fly.

She was really too petite to be a Barbara. We called her Barbie. Barbie Smith. She was the setter on our volleyball team in high school. She was excellent in her role. She knew each player. How high they could jump. When they were ready. Quick set. High set. And when she did it perfectly, the hitter got all the credit with the perfect spike. But we knew…without her, there was none of it.


I’m not sure we value these people enough. The setters. Those that set us up for success. As school is about to begin around the globe, maybe it’s a good time to recognize those that have lifted us, lift us now.


My mom worked in the Superintendent’s office at our high school. She took all the calls. She was the first to handle the ball. She welcomed the teachers, new and old. She directed the parents, upset or confused. Kept the administrators smiling. Not only made the school run, but made it look good. The perfect setter.


And the teachers. To say I can’t thank them all would be wrong. I do thank them all. They gave my broken world structure. Gave it a play. Popped the ball in my direction and told me to jump. Jump as high as I could. And I did! I still do it. Every day. Because they set me up. Sure, they offered up the words and the skills and the rules…but they also gave me a reason to stretch my every muscle, a curiousity, a belief that I was part of the game. And I am. They “Barbied” me into a wider world. What a gift!


Today, let’s look behind the curtain. Give thanks to all those who lift us without reward or recognition. The every day heroes — I don’t say everyday because they are not ordinary — they show up every day, they lift us. They give us not just a chance at winning – but a chance to fly!

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BIG HOUSE, LITTLE HOUSE, BACK HOUSE, BARN.

The farmsteads in Maine and throughout New England evolved over time as barns and other structures, including farmhouses, were built. Throughout the 1800’s, a unique layout of connected farm buildings developed, based on functional needs including shelter from the winter weather. They were referred to as Big House, LIttle House, Back House, Barn. This connection created greater comfort for the family as the farm grew.

The first time I visited, I fell in love with Maine. The color palette drew me in. A greyish blue sky, that held both the promise of sun, and rain. The guarantee of warmth and growth. The houses and barns, never thick with fancy, but filled with a gentle strength. Such beauty in the simplicity. I wanted that simplicity. That strength. Those connections.

To connect — I suppose that’s everything. Barn. To know the work, the hard, back breaking, “foot in each furrow” labor of living. Back house. To be forever welcomed through back doors, no matter how stained and weathered from the day. Little house. To rest in the comfort and familiarity of the ordinary. Big house. To celebrate the grandeur of the extraordinary!

Big House, LIttle House, Back House, Barn — a world away, I wander through each on a daily basis, giving thanks, knowing that I am home.

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Sans temps. (Without time. )

My mother-in-law is without time. Some days she is forty years old. Some days 60. I suppose after nearly a century you should be allowed to choose your own age. And she does. Without apology, she is young, she has babies, and thinks you are the crazy one for getting older. She’s probably right.

There is a young girl that I have painted. Little girl blue. She is just about to dance. She’s just a tiny bit afraid, but determined. And you know she will do it. I see her every morning. In my bathroom mirror, her reflection is just beside mine. I put on my dress, and I too, am without time. I, too, have the legs of youth, and can hear the music. There is no yesterday, or tomorrow, just the open blue of today, and I can’t waste it. I let go the fear of time passing, and simply dance.

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Cardinal on my sleeve.

We sang a cheer in high school –


“We are the cardinals!

Mighty, mighty cardinals!

Everywhere we go – oh,

people wanna know – oh,

who we are,so we tell ’em…

We are the cardinals… (and repeat and repeat)


I never thought about it then, really, but what a lesson. I’m not sure that people often describe cardinals as mighty, but we did. And why not? It was our decision after all. We were cardinals. That was the mascot we were given. We could choose to wear it proudly, or sink behind someone else’s fragile truth.

So the black and red became a symbol of strength to us. A symbol of celebration in victory. A symbol of perseverance in loss. And we were nothing, if not mighty!


You get to decide what makes you strong. You get to decide who you are. Stand up in the colors you were given, and the colors you create. Even with the most fragile of wings, you can choose to be mighty!

I paint the birds again and again. They are my heart. My fragile, but ever-winged, mighty heart! The heart I wear proudly on sleeve, and in song, because I still think, maybe, you just “might wanna know – oh…”

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