Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: November 2021


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To flutter.

I woke up to another 5-star review on my Etsy page. She said my painting “was her very favorite in her whole house!” Just a few words strung together, but they fit perfectly into my heart and filled it!
It’s amazing what we can do for each other. Just the tiniest bits of kindness. Humanity. It’s so contagious. I give you a piece of my heart. You pass it along to someone else. It flutters and flies and fills the air.


Some will call it the butterfly effect — how the simple flapping wings of butterflies in India can change the weather in Iowa. I am not a scientist, but I have seen this play out with humans. I have seen the flapping of kindness change the behavior of many. I have seen the soaring effects, the light and airy beauty of it all. And I want to be a part of it. A part of the beauty. Of the changes.


Today, can we let go of all the things that are weighing us down? The weapons of bigotry, and hate. Fear and anger. Can we just let them go and fly? Oh, how I hope so! Let’s fill the sky. We can be the change.
I’ll see you up there!

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Rise up.


She sang with her whole body, this woman in the choir. I was just a child at Bethesda Lutheran Church. Sitting in the pew in front of the choir loft. The crowd was silent as she swished to the music stand. I know now that it was her nylons rubbing together, but then it seemed as if she were floating. She was more strapped in, than wearing that polyester dress. The fabric gripping each curve of her torso, rising up to the gold plated brooch on her shoulder. The organist began the intro, and I heard her breathe in. I could feel myself being pulled back with the intake. I turned around, resting my head on the wooden pew. It would not be enough to say she “sang” this song, this hymn, “The old rugged cross,” but more that this music rose from within her. It rolled, so majestic, through each ripple of that Lutheran polyester, gathering strength in her core, building through her heart, and then, like powerful lava flowed over the congregation. She said she would cherish the old rugged cross, and I, we, believed her.


I want to say her name was Doris. I’m sorry if that’s not right. But I can see her, to this day. Rising above us all, with this gift of song.


I don’t think I can recite most of the things we had to memorize. I can’t recall the sermons. But I remember the pure grace I saw with this woman. This unconventional beauty.


My mother is still waiting for a call of support from her church. It’s only been six years since she received her first diagnosis of cancer. But, at the same time, she has been given love. Friends who show up with cookies. Rides to doctor appointments. Beautiful cards. And books. Phone calls of laughter. Hugs of encouragement. Shared tears. For what is church, other than the kindness of people. The grace of the imperfect, rising up! I give thanks for each Doris willing to carry your burden for just a few moments. Moments that will last a lifetime.

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Adelaide!

Adelaide!

The apricot tree in our front yard is letting loose her leaves. She, (because of course I named her — Adelaide) is not bearing fruit, not green with the youth of spring, but golden. So beautifully golden. And never, I think, is she more vibrant. She cries her golden tears, not in sorrow, but gentle tears of tenderness, so loving, such beautiful memories of summer breezes. The pines that surround her, evergreen, never make fun of her…I imagine they marvel at her strength, almost envy her ability to feel the changing seasons — her ability to color her surroundings with her ever adapting heart.

My mother had to shed a few tears on the phone yesterday. It was one of those days. An Adelaide day. She worried that she was letting me down in this moment – that she wasn’t being strong. Impossible, I said. I stand pine-tall beside her, and know that I am witnessing the most beautiful colors of an ever adapting heart. The most golden pool of life itself!

Remember in the movie, Fried Green Tomatoes — when she shouts out “Towanda!” “Towanda” is a reference to the alter-ego of the character Idgie. Idgie refers to Towanda as an “Amazon woman” and introduces herself as “Towanda.” It is the name she uses when she wants to feel strong, empowered. So, too, aging Evelyn shouts out “Towanda!” as she runs her car into the snobby young ladies who take her parking spot. “Towanda!” It became a battle cry for 80’s. Well, today, my Towanda is Adelaide! Adelaide I shout to the sky! Adelaide, I shout for all the beautiful women in their beautiful golden battles! You are strong! You are empowered. You are beautiful! Adelaide!

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Unstoppable.

During our latest trip to the US, I got to see one of my dearest friends. When we pulled into the parking lot of her building, I started to get emotional. I opened the door and I could see she was crying. That laughing cry that’s unstoppable. We danced around each other, so overcome with emotion we didn’t know where to land.
It had been a while for my eyes, but in my heart, no time had passed at all. We could finish each other’s sentences and jokes. We had shared everything. Our time. Our experiences. Our stories. Our fears. Our laughter. Our gum. Nothing had changed. Even as I’m typing this, my heart swells. She has seen me on my best days, and on my worst, and has befriended me unconditionally. And I will forever do the same for her.


You might think we are exactly the same. But other than our name, we really share nothing in common. We have lived, and continue to live completely different lives. We have different interests. Live in different countries. But for some glorious reason, she knows the language of my heart, and I hers.


I will never downplay the importance of family. But how can I stress the true importance of real, real and true friendship? I want to invent a new word. Because friend isn’t enough. Sister isn’t enough. So for now I will just say, she is my Jody Skinner. My one and true Jody Skinner.


I hope you all have one. This forever friend. This person that can crumple you in a fit of laughter. This person that holds so close to your heart, no matter the time. No matter the distance. Today, I encourage you to pick up the phone. Write a letter. Send an email. Do something. Hold them close. Together, you will be unstoppable.

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Easy now…

When I’m painting a portrait, I like to find what I call the soft beauty. The resting face. So comfortable in their own skin. The true elegance of ease. It’s the face that a person gives you when they trust you. No tension. No tightening. Nothing awkward. Nothing to worry about. Just the welcoming softness of being.


I want to feel that softness in my own face. Oh, to trust you. What a relief. But perhaps, even more, I want to be the face that allows you to feel the same. The face, that when you look at me you think, this is a safe place, for my feelings, my fears, my joys, my dreams, my not so secret garden.


If we could do that for each other, be a safe place to fly, a safe place to land, oh, my, how beautifully gentle, how elegantly soft this world could be.

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Fizz.

An Italian Fizz cocktail, with Dutch tulips, in front of the Mediterranean Sea in the south of France – this was yesterday’s lunch. Of course we had a few healthy things like calamari, fish, and carrots. But sometimes (all the time) you have to feed your soul, and not just your stomachs.


It pleases me to see how the drink matches the tulips. The colors meld into each other. This is so satisfying. This was not vacation, but a Sunday, a day — a day that could have easily been ordinary. They all can be, I guess…but we need to give ourselves permission to enjoy. It’s so easy to let the days just go by. But we’re not given that many. Each one is priceless. I don’t want to let any of them slip through the cracks, my fingers, my attention.


I don’t know what colors today will bring. From my desk, I can see the golden leaves of the apricot tree — shining against the evergreen of the pines. They tell me to look around. Look within. There is so much to enjoy. See everything. Feel everything. Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life!

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Print your photos.

I “purchased” my first camera with Bazooka Joe gum wrappers. It was plastic and came in the mail. It lasted three days. Three glorious days. I took pictures of my banana seat bicycle, my sister’s dog – who jumped out of frame, my own feet – accidentally, the neighbor girls, and the summer grass. Film in pocket, I rode my bike to Peterson’s drug store and gave the roll of Kodak film to the smocked woman behind the counter. And I waited. And waited. When they called my mom to tell her that the prints were ready, I raced on my bike back to the drug store. Gave them three weeks worth of my allowance, and clutched the photos in my sweaty hands. Beautiful. The most beautiful photos I had ever seen. Because I took them. Me. With my Bazooka Joe camera. The plastic camera that I did in fact drop and drive over with my own Banana Seat bike. Still, perfection.

It’s so easy to take pictures now. I take them with my phone, my ipad, my actual camera. All digital, it’s so easy. No worries about mistakes, just take another. And another. I take hundreds, thousands. I swipe through them occasionally. It’s nice. Convenient. But not extraordinarily special. So I decided to have a few printed. I looked through my galleries and chose five. Just five. I made sure the quality was good. Uploaded them properly to the online store. And waited. And waited. I received 8 emails. They would arrive between the 5th and the 8th. They would arrive on the 9th… no, the 10th… no, the 15th, no, for sure on the 13th. The mailbox sat empty for two weeks. Until yesterday! They arrived! The most beautiful prints. Prints I could hold in my hands. Place in frames. Put up. Stand in front of. Remember the time. The love. And they were beautiful. They are beautiful!

I don’t often quote fictional movie characters, but this one is pretty good. It was Ferris Bueller who said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” It’s not always convenient, this life, but oh how lovely, when we invest our time, our efforts. Make today. Every day. Important. Take your time. Make some memories. Print your photos.

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Good morning, Fern!

We got a new plant for our library. She is a fern. I named her Fern. (Everything doesn’t have to be hard to be delightful.) She sits beside the antique typewriter we got from Dominique’s mom. So in my head, Fern works in this office from the 1950’s. Every morning, when I open the shutters, let the sun in, I say in my most boisterous, yet cheerful, of voices — “Good morning, Fern! Take a letter.” I hope you’re laughing. It makes me laugh every day. I’m smiling as I type this.

It really takes so little. Today, (well, and every day) find something that tickles your heart from the inside. I’m old enough to know about the Reader’s Digest magazine. They had a section in there called “Laughter is the best medicine.” I was probably six when I started reading them. I didn’t always understand, but I knew I liked to laugh, so I hopscotched through the words and found myself laughing just the same. I guess I had already started making a choice to find the good. And it is a choice.

So fling those curtains, those shutters, those hearts wide open. Greet the day. And find the good — it’s out there! Good morning, Fern!!!

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Thanks.

Some mornings when I sit down to write, the idea is at hand, jumping so quickly from my heart to my brain to my hands. Other days, I have to breathe slowly, look around, thumb through my sketchbooks, and aaaah… there it is. Still others, like today, I know I will have to dig for it. Dig deeply. Be patient. Attentive.


To quote Meister Eckhart,“If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough.” I suppose it’s the same with living. With creating. With writing. Today, instead of searching for the lesson, I’m just going to give thanks. I’m going to say hello to the sun, and be thankful that I have another chance, another chance maybe not to be clever, to be smart, or to be creative, but a chance to be joyful. To be grateful. A chance to look around, listen to the sounds of morning, and simply say, thank you.

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Belonging.

At first, she was always surprised that she was accepted. And more than that, looked to, her company welcomed – enjoyed. How could she fit it? She didn’t have the money, the pedigree – but no one else thought that. She came with me across the country. To shows in Minneapolis, Chicago, New York. She dressed in her curated, tasteful style – tall, elegant, crisp white collars – popped to present her ever smiling face. I was so proud to have her stand beside me, my mom. She knew the pricing, the availability, and more than that, she knew the stories behind each piece of art, each book, each card.


This didn’t surprise me. I knew she could do it. But the real gift came for me when I saw that she knew she could do it. When I saw her belonging. Belonging, not because someone told her she did, but belonging because she herself felt it in her heart, her soul, her being. This is something!!!! To belong.


I think she’s still delighted when people remember her, from galleries in New York, shops in the Midwest, bookstores across the country. And why wouldn’t they?! I’m delighted! I’m delighted every time she tells me what she’s wearing to her doctor’s appointment. She makes the effort, and oh some days what an effort it takes!!! Because she belongs here, in her own skin, in this beautiful life that she has made.


I walked into the art gallery in Rhode Island. The neon sign read, “You belong here.” I knew it in my heart. My soul. My being. This was not my first glowing sign, my mother will always be that.


Welcome to this day. You belong here.

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