Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: April 2022


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Small mercies.

The first time I got lost on Van Dyke road, I was 6 years old. I rode my flowered banana seat bike to the “North End” – the undeveloped area north, (I’m guessing, I had no sense of direction) of our house. It was, I suppose, just a gravel pit and a bit of a swamp, but not in my imagination. It was unknown, undiscovered, so certainly it contained danger in various forms of “North End” creatures. 

I was free to ride my bicycle on Van Dyke road. There was no traffic. Front doors were unlocked. Parents of all kinds were in shouting distance. We didn’t announce when going outside of the house, we just went. 

As the gravel got looser, my wheels dug in deeper, and so did my thoughts. If I got stuck here, would anyone find me? Would anyone look? Did they know I was gone? What was lurking behind that tree – for surely things did not live here, but lurk. My heart beat faster and I turned and spun and wait, not this way, there’s water, that’s not right, round again, where is the road??? My cheeks were getting hotter in the cool spring air. I had no watch, but the hands on my heart’s clock spun faster and faster. 

And then I heard a familiar noise. A garage door. Opening. Shutting. (I wasn’t that far from the last neighbor on the road.) I rode towards it. The sound that led me home was so small. Perhaps that is the way with all mercies. 

My mom was on the phone. The curly cord reached from the back door, through the garage, into the driveway. She smiled and waved without breaking conversation. I waved back. Time stood still. I was home.

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A berry in the window.

I’m currently reading the book, “Sorrow and Bliss,” by Meg Mason. The main character is remembering a period of time when her mother, a sculptor, would get lost in her work and not want to be disturbed. (Her mother is quite the eccentric character and a delicious read.) During these periods she would put a note on her studio for her two daughters, “Girls, before knocking, ask yourself this, is anything actually on fire?”  I’m still laughing. 

I was still a teenager when my mother started dating. She met a man, we’ll call him Roger, (because that was his name). When she (they) wanted a little alone time, she hung a decorative berry in the window of our garden apartment on Jefferson Street to alert me. It was a small strawberry, made of plaster, with a tiny string. So unassuming. So telling. If, when returning home on my ten-speed bicycle, I saw the berry in the window, I knew to keep riding. And joyfully, I did. 

I knew my mother was human when I saw her cry. Sorrow. It was good to now see her humanness for (forgive me) berry different reasons. Bliss. I can’t see a strawberry now without smiling.

I put up my painted berry today, in hopes that she can feel that girlish heart. In hopes that she will know, I will do anything for her to feel that way again. So I keep riding, round and round the block.


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Justice.

When I’m just sketching from my head, it’s not unusual for me to paint a blonde woman. She just arrives. Because I have seen her. Daily. Since I was born.

Perhaps it was in college when I first felt noticed for what I could do – arranging words on paper. It was Professor Gremmels who wrote on one of my assignments, “maybe you should consider making a career out of it” – this writing. It was so significant – just scratches in pen on a piece of paper, but it was everything. I felt seen. Heard. It made, not only, “it” possible, but me possible. I had arrived at something close to hope. And my journey was beginning.  

Yesterday, Ketanji Brown Jackson made history as the first Black woman confirmed to the US supreme court. Finally, finally, she has arrived. Maybe it’s more correct to say finally we have arrived. Finally, we see! What a glorious day for every young girl (and for every young boy)! Possible now shows her glorious face! And it is beautiful! She is beautiful. This is truly a day of hope – and our journey is just beginning.

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Swagger.

For a brief period he was the principal at Washington Elementary. Bob Jones. As solid a man as his name could convey. A bald head and a smile so big it seemed to lift his steps – giving life to the verb swagger. He was, as our first grade teacher taught us in spelling class when differentiating the words principle and principal, yes, he was indeed our “pal.”

We wanted him to like us. What a gift that is for a principal to have. It was my cousin Vicki who gave me my first opportunity to speak with him. I get goose bumps remembering. Vicki, several years my senior, asked me one weekend, “Do you think he remembers me?” Remembers you??? He’s a rock star, I thought. “Ask him,” she giggled in delight. One thing about Vicki, she was always giggling. A giggle that made things seem possible. And so I agreed to do it. I would ask him, during his Monday morning stroll through the school.

I barely slept Sunday night. I waited near the back doors that opened to the playground. His usual rounds took him there just a little after 8am. I wouldn’t hear him coming, I would just have to wait – one never hears swagger. And there he was. White belt. White shoes. (I hope it was spring.) I stepped in his tracks. So nervous and excited, I blurted it out with no context. “Do you remember Vicki?” He stopped. He stopped for me! He bent down on one knee. “What’s this now?” he asked. “Vicki. My cousin. Vicki Hvezda. She wants to know if you remember her.” He smiled, even bigger than normal. “Aaah, yes, one of the Hvezda girls.” I beamed and ran to my class, as if she would be waiting there for the answer. I carried that answer with me for the rest of the week. I couldn’t wait to tell her. He remembered her. He stopped for me.

I’m giggling, even today. He left soon after and rose through the ranks of the school system. But for a moment, he was ours – our Bob Jones – and he saw us.

I guess we all want to seen.

It may seem crazy, but it was this simple pear – this tiny, still life – that reminded me of this story. But how beautiful, I think. How fitting. It all matters. The tiniest of moments that lift our faces, and fill our hearts’ pockets. I carry it all with me. Life’s swagger.

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First, again.

When visiting Dominique’s mother, we relive everything with her, for the first time, every few minutes. Of course she knew me, but time has taken that away. Yesterday she asked Dominique, “Is that your fiance?” “My wife,” he answers. She claps her hands – “Marvelous!” I smile even as I type this. She apologizes for not getting us a gift, and in two minutes we go through the same conversation. And it’s still marvelous!

It’s ironic, I suppose, that her forgetting is a wonderful reminder.

Our first kiss is long gone, but not our first kiss of the day. We’ve had countless croissants, but today’s is fresh. This day is one we’ve never experienced. Words align themselves in different order. Paint grabs hold the canvas like never before. Trees bloom again in our yard, for the first time this spring. I look around. Clap my hands together! Marvelous!

Thank you, Lucie.


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Feel like blooming.

There is something to the spring cleaning. The refresh. And it’s probably no surprise that the new Home Edit series was just released on Netflix. I will admit that I am excited by their organization. Inspired to do my own. This, mixed with trees in bloom, the flowers singing along with the birds, I begin.

I am not one who believes I have to buy more things to get my old things in order. No judgements, just me. I’ve always liked shopping my own dwelling. And I do. Frequently. I started with a good clean of the bathroom. Changed out the painting. Changed the postcard. Took the candle that I was gifted for Christmas out of its red container (red wouldn’t do) – put that candle into an appropriate container (a previously used up candle), and lit it, of course. And I picked a small flowering stem from our garden. As we say here, quite loosely I might add, Voila!

There is something quite satisfying about a spring refresh, and I slept well. The next morning, not quite awake, I turned on the bathroom light, and my heart smiled to the tips of my mouth. That, my friends, is refreshing.

I’ve started tackling my office. And it occurred to me, maybe I could do this within, within myself. An edit. Let go of the old feelings I’m not using anymore, the ones just cluttering up space, gathering dust…wouldn’t that be something! And even if it lasted for a day, a season, and I did it again, wouldn’t that, just like the spring birds, give my heart something to sing about! I think so! My inner voices must deserve as much attention as the shelf in my office. And so I begin. The load a little lighter, a little cleaner, in my house, in my heart. I smile, and feel like blooming.

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A moment.

It took me many years to go back to Van Dyke Road. The place I grew up. I don’t know what worried me the most – if it would be the same, or if it had changed. I am able to write about it now, those days on that road, because I understand that actually both are true, and will forever be true, and that’s OK. 

I painted this bird. It landed on a flower pot that I had placed outside because I was trying to coax the plant back to life with a little sun. A little fresh air. I had just given it a good drink when this beautiful little bird sat down on the edge. It was only a moment. But in the painting, I feel the movement. The energy of the plant – still trying. The energy of the bird, perhaps showing it the way. And it is alive. 

Everything is a moment to be captured. The Van Dyke Road I grew up on is kept alive with heart and hands and memories. It is in the falling off of bikes, and friends made, and families broken, gravel stuck in shoes, and hope stuck in hearts. Today’s Van Dyke Road is alive and well and making its way on and through the hearts of those that live there. It’s all just a moment, and oh, it is beautiful!

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Again.

On our last trip to the US, we had a bit of a snag. (I can say that now, at the time it felt completely devastating.) After leaving Minnesota, we flew to New Orleans. As per usual, my husband kept our passports in his large pockets, for their constant referral. The next day he asked, “Do you have your passport?” “No, you haven’t given it back.” And so the nightmare began. Tears and panic. Because for me, no passport meant, no going home to France. And oh, how my mind raced. Do I live here, by myself, in New Orleans… no, I could make the next flight without my passport to New York, but I can’t live there…check the website… 7 weeks… I can’t live here 7 weeks… We made more phone calls. 

We still had two weeks left of vacation. We didn’t want to ruin every day. So we moved on. Got our car. Started our wandering as planned. Made it to Mississippi – we so wanted to see Laurel. But it was looming. A dark passport cloud. Tiny bits of hope from phone calls – possible emergency status… but the looming.  We loved Laurel. Such a great city. We were enjoying it. After two days, in our hotel morning routine, somewhere between yoga and showers, I saw him standing there, holding a blue square in the air. My passport. I fell to my knees in joy! If ever I had had a Dorothy moment, this indeed was my Wizard of OZ. It had been with us all along, buried deep in his carry bag. “You’ve always had the power, my dear…” (Glinda, the good witch, was so right.)

I’m not sure how many times I need to learn this lesson…

Yesterday (home in France) I was working on a computer project for hours. It just wasn’t coming together. I knew there had to be a way. But it just wasn’t clicking. I was just about to give up. And there it was. What if I did this, moved this, and yes, wrap this around the tripod, light this, move that, photo this, first, illustrator, no, photoshop, no, yes, indesign — there. There it is. I smiled. “Oh, Dorothy!”

Today’s sun is rising. I don’t have all the answers, but maybe, just maybe, with each day, I trust myself a little more and I believe a little deeper, and just a little sooner. I’ve got this! We’ve got this! Straight from within. “Good morning, my dear!”


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…and if I did that for you

I am working feverishly to prepare for the launch of my new website. Taking photos, scanning, making new prints, cards, displays. I am always surprised at how subjective the eyes are. At first glance, I see what I want to see. Then I look again. Wait. Is that the best scan? Is that the right color? Then the camera shows  a different look. Then I put it on the computer, and there is something else I didn’t see. And wait, print it out on paper – oh, yes, another look. And still, I show it to someone, and they see something different. 

When I painted this wren, I know what I was thinking, so my eyes saw that story. When I showed it to my friend, she saw her sister. And I saw her heart. When I painted the image of our coffee pot, my husband’s son said he could see our reflection in the image. Did I paint it there, or does his heart just know us, know our home, our kitchen, our breakfast table? 

We see the world with our hearts, our minds, our experiences. And if we’re lucky, we see, too, through the eyes of those around us. It’s really not enough to just look. We have to start seeing each other in every possible light. 

…and if you did, see that I am not just my face, but all that I have faced, and if I did that for you…

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My mom thinks I’m pretty.

I made a magnet of that years ago. It made me laugh. I used to say it, when I made a mistake, or did something stupid…”My mom thinks I’m pretty.”  (as if to say, well, sure I did this, but nevertheless…)

It still makes me laugh, but I suppose, there’s a lot of truth behind it. I knew, I know, always, even in my lowest moments, in her lowest moments, she loves me. And that tickles my heart in the most glorious way.

And to think she knew how to do it, when her mother (bless her heart) wasn’t fast and loose with the compliments (it just wasn’t the time, nor the way.) But if I think again, maybe that’s exactly why she knew how to do it. 

It isn’t because they’ve never been knocked down, these people who stand so tall — I think it’s probably because they have. Surround yourself with these people, these unexpected beauties! They will have a story to tell and a heart to share. They will make you laugh, and help you cry. Not much more beautiful than that!

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