Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: August 2022


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The sun was for her too.

I was so relieved to wake up and find out the world hadn’t ended. I spent a good four hours in my dreams trying to save it. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but we are still here…

I suppose we should feel that way every morning — so happy to be here! And I do try. I can honestly say I love the morning time. I love coffee. Breakfast. The taste of beginning. I feel optimistic. Believe in the goodness around me.

It wasn’t always the case though. I used to have so much fear. And once that fear is thrust upon you, it’s so easy to keep creating it, recreating it yourself, and the cycle continues.

In my dream, the world wasn’t actually ending, but there was a group of people who started the rumors. Told us everything was blowing up. Everything was gone. You can’t go home, they said. Nothing is there. And chaos ensued. People began running. Trampling. Trying to flee from a danger that wasn’t even there, creating an actual danger.

I will admit to you, for years, I was afraid to come home. Was the danger still there? The fear kept repeating it in my head.

The sun came through the Minnesota window this morning, carrying the same relief it carries in France. The relief it carries around the world, for all those who dare to believe the sun was meant for them too. Oh, the relief – the possibility! The joy that says, Good morning, you are home. That sun that smiles, maybe even brags a little, and says – “I’m still here!”

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You know, you don’t have to follow.

There is a path easily made when things go wrong. I have walked that path before. Paved with anger, and how could they, and how stupid… It seems the stones just lay themselves — welcoming, encouraging.

I could see it happening at baggage claim. With each person. The temperature kept rising. The stones kept falling. We could have easily taken to it. It was so open. And I’m no saint. I have to admit that I can get impatient with incompetence. But usually, it only ends up making me feel bad. Makes my heart knotted and I hate feeling like that. So selfishly — and I don’t mean that as a bad word – I mean to take care of myself, I, we took a different path. The bags weren’t going to come faster if I shook my fist harder.

So we went to Whole Foods. Bought sushi. Spent the afternoon with real friends. We ate. We laughed. Lounged on sofas as comfortable as the palette of our matching personalities. We told the stories. Drank the coffee – told the stories faster and laughed louder.

Maybe it was my grandfather who first told me, find your own path. My mother repeated it. And I have wandered and stumbled and fumbled my way along, but oh, what a journey! It has been written before – “the road less traveled”, I suppose – but I think it’s worth repeating again and again. I know I need to hear it. Make your own way, at your own pace, with your own unknotted heart.

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Journey home.

Had I known I was going to be running at full speed, I would have worn tighter underpants.

Yesterday’s adventure began in Marseille. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Checked our bags. Got yelled at by the girl at the coffee shop — “anglaise,” she said with disdain – meaning English. Sure I had a few tears, and then threw the coffee away after three sips because it took her 20 minutes to make two lattes and we had to get through customs.

But the flight to Paris was uneventful. We waited on the tarmac for 40 minutes. Dominique’s back is extremely broken at the moment – so we had reserved assistance to cross the airport for our connecting flight. 40 minutes of our 90 minute layover had already been used up. They would be boarding soon. The walkie-talkies were humming and finally we got the wheelchair and the woman took hold of it, looked back at me – as I felt the rush of her orange vest, I heard, “Run Mother F####r!” And she was off. Yes, in full sprint! I, wearing a dress, because I still refuse to wear what some dare to call lounge wear on the plane, grabbed a hold of my underpants with one hand, balanced my sack with my other and ran! And ran.

I caught my breath on stairs as she navigated the lifts. One bus and two shuttles later, we were on the flight, just as the captain announced a thirty minute delay.

In air, we wrestled with the usual subjects — movies we would never watch on land. I read most of a new book. We stretched. Laughed, replaying our airport run over and over. After landing, we realized no one had taken the time to yell the same encouragement at the baggage handlers — our bags were still in Paris.

But Minneapolis! This! Empty handed, full hearted, we were here – we ARE here. We stopped at Walgreens to pick up a few supplies for the night. Toothbrushes, etc. I got a little make-up – yes, my mother taught me well. Water. Hair brush. I was only hoping for one more thing that I couldn’t find. I asked the clerk in the aisle – “Do you have underpants?” She looked at me strangely. “Do I?” she asked. Realizing her hesitation – “No… the store – do you carry underpants?” Her relief was palpable. “Yes, in the back corner.” Exhausted, we were given, once again, the gift of laughter.

Home has never been perfect. But it has always welcomed me. It has always taken me by the heart and made me giggle. So yes, I will make that run – again and again! I will take that journey home!

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Sketchbook.

You might think it would be the opposite. When painting, there is a looseness, a letting go, that must be learned. (Maybe it’s relearned – children seem to have it, but as they get older, it tightens up — I guess because they (we) become too aware, too concerned and it sucks the life right out of the art — I guess the same could be said about life itself.) 

Through daily practice, I gain the confidence of letting go. Letting go of the worry of perfection, and just allowing the image to come to life. Letting the canvas breathe freely, along with myself.  And the beauty comes, in my humble opinion, not in the exact line, but the movement, the strokes. 

Maybe it’s easier on the canvas, but I want the same for my daily life. To let go of the nagging need to please, to be exact. And it comes, slowly, with daily practice. Each day I can see it a little bit more clearly, the beauty of my imperfect strokes — and I have to let go of those who can’t. I suppose that’s the art of living. And oh, how beautiful it can be.

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Daily choice.

Maybe it wasn’t the first time. But it was the first time that I heard it – on the radio. I didn’t sleep the greatest last night, so at the breakfast table, waiting for my coffee to kick in, everything was kind of a blur. Even the music seemed muted. But then, clear as the sun shining through the window, I heard the announcer say it – Minneapolis. My heart paused. And I smiled. It may seem like nothing, but it felt big for this French radio station to say my city’s name. (I know it’s not mine alone, but it is mine, and I joyfully claim it.) It felt like being seen. Being welcomed. Now, I’m no fool, (well, sometimes) I know it was because they had just played a Prince song, but it still felt great. It felt like I nod in my direction.

We see what we choose to see. Hear what we choose to hear. The signs may come in whispers — sometimes even with accents barely understood. But they will come — if we are open. And they are magic, if we believe. And oh, how I want the magic. Need it. Welcome it. 

This day is not mine alone, but it will be mine, if I choose to claim it. If I choose to find the magic, maybe as joyfully as only fools can. I nod to the sun. Pause. And welcome the day.

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Learning to fly.

It was rare for someone not to get smacked in the face with the tethered ball. Yet we played. Again and again on the playground at Washington Elementary. Just a ball, tied to a pole. You hit it and hit it until it couldn’t go around any more. It was a strange way to win or lose, this inability not to be able to play anymore. After the brand name of the ball was imprinted on my face, I would think, you know I could just go to the swings.

Some days I feel like I’m beating the same ball around and around. Trying to learn the same lesson again and again. Then it smacks me in the face, and I realize, “You’ve done this before. You’ve learned this. You can learn it again, and move on.”

Sometimes we are our own worst enemies. Tethering ourselves to the negative thoughts that spin round and round. Replaying them until they make an imprint on our hearts and brains. Today, I give you permission, I give myself permission, to just walk away. Try something new. Let yourself be free. Untethered. Maybe today, you try the swings. Maybe today, you learn how to fly.

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Joie de vivre!

I remember our church was having an event to raise awareness for the homeless. Young students slept outside on the sidewalk for one night. While I wanted to celebrate the effort (anything is better than nothing) it was hard for me get on board. This was not homelessness. This was camping. This was going to bed knowing the next day you would go home. To a home. To the security of running water and soft beds. To the security of tomorrow and the day after that.

My brother in law became a US citizen this week. This is big! Huge! I can’t say exactly how long it took, but more than twenty years in the making. He has lived in the US for years – but today he is home.

The thing is, we think we know. We don’t know. Until we go through it. So how do we create empathy? We can’t possibly live out every situation to really know how it feels. But we can listen. We can read. We can be open.

I suppose I was guilty of it, before moving to France. I didn’t understand what it is like to live in another country. Be a stranger. To be singled out. To be a minority. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I have every advantage at my fingertips. I wasn’t fleeing. Running. Hiding. I was moving for love. And yet, I experienced the fear, the uncertainty. I know millions of people feel this daily. Some are unwelcomed because they are immigrants. Others because of the color of their skin. Their religion. Their social status. Reason after reason.

But being empathetic is not merely feeling the pain of others. Being empathetic means you also get to feel the joy. And maybe that’s the hook. Seeing the special. Not discriminating. Not tolerating. But celebrating. Different doesn’t have to be bad. Shouldn’t have to be bad.

So today we celebrate. We welcome my brother in law to this giant experiment. I am in France. He is in the USA. Neither of us camping. Bravo, Pascal!

Joie de vivre!

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The gift of summer ending.

It’s easy, I suppose in the heart of the summer to let a day just slip away. I try not to, but it can happen. “Oh, it’s hot – I don’t want to set the table…I’m tired from mowing the lawn…we could just have a pizza…” And the day disappears.

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts of summer is that it ends. I can feel it. It’s not here yet, but it is around the bend, telling me, reminding me, urging me, to enjoy the moment.

Yesterday was some of summer’s finest work. Yellow sun, bouncing off tanned shoulders. Not too hot, just warm enough to welcome the pool. Hair still wet, I gave the white cloth a whip into the tiny breeze, flinging it over the outdoor table. I placed the pool-blue plates with waves, atop the large white chargers. A wine glass next to each. Summer in the south of France calls for a rosé. White napkins. I cut the peppers, green and red, the eggplant – aubergine — and cooked them on the outdoor plancha. Next came the fish — rougets – in my opinion one of the Mediterranean’s finest. We toasted the day as the gift it was given. Not looking ahead. Not looking behind. We always eat slower outside. Gathered in a sea of green, we are still… and ever.

I was having such a good time, I forgot to take a photo. And perhaps that is the best compliment I can give the day. To be in it. Truly in it. Maybe that’s the only way to say thank you – thank you for this beautiful day!

If it never ended, I wonder if I would give it the reverence it deserves? I’m not sure. But I know this — yesterday was a beautiful day, and I, we, enjoyed it. The morning sun is telling me, reminding me, urging me, to do the same today.

Our someday is now.

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Welcome to the garden.

Our fruit trees had a bad summer. Wait, that could be a mistake…I don’t know if their summer was good or not… maybe they had a great summer, taking this time off. What I should say is that they didn’t produce any of their usual fruit.  

This winter, there was a sudden warm up, then cold again, and they got very confused. It threw off their timing. And they took the summer off. To regroup.  They are still lovely. They flowered. Greened. Stood tall in the summer sun. Still valuable. Still part of our garden community.  I would, will, never stop loving them. 

Trini Lopez is the name of our lemon tree by the front door. He has yet to produce a lemon, but again, I love him. He greets me every morning by the kitchen window, with a green so full, leaves so hopeful, that I think, I, too, want to grow.  

This patience that I have with our garden, I fear, maybe I’m not that patient with humans. I am quick (I hate to admit) to think people are lazy. But maybe I, we, don’t always know what the person is going through. Maybe they aren’t being lazy at all. Maybe they are recovering from their own difficult winters. Maybe they are slowly, as best they can, growing into themselves. Finding their way to the sun. Maybe they are offering, not the usual gifts, but other ones. Maybe this year’s fruit is a delicate shade. Maybe this year’s fruit is a place to lean on, in the comfort of silence. 

You know that friend, (I hope we all have one), with whom you can sit, without words or entertainment. Just sit in the comfort and safety of their company. I want to be that friend. I want to be as patient with love, with growth, as the trees in our garden. I want to give you (and myself) a chance to grow, or better yet, to just be. To calmly, daily, without demand, or judgement, greet those who dare the morning, and say, “Welcome to the garden.”

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Crossing over.

It’s no surprise that I write about my grandparents, my mother, my childhood experiences. The stories, not only on the page, but on the canvas, straight from my heart. It is the most vulnerable, but the most rewarding thing that I do.

I suppose I have been practicing since I was a child. Showing my work, my heart. Building my courage, my strength. More confident in myself, my story. So it came as a bit of a shock when I moved to France and realized I would not only have to start over, but build a bridge, and cross over. A bridge on paper, on canvas, on heart.

I’m not going to say it’s not terrifying, this vulnerability, but when you get something back, oh my, there is nothing like it! Each day when I write these blogs something magical happens. I tell you a bit of my grandmother, and you respond with your memory of yours. Bike for bike, we exchange our stories. Our stumbles on gravel roads and our victories in schools. This is glorious. This is living — this sharing — these connections.

The French, as a whole, are pretty protective of their feelings. They are not fast and loose with praise or compliments. I’m certain that I can be terrifying to them at times, running with arms waving, hugs approaching, feelings everywhere, heart dripping from my sleeve… but it’s the only way I know how to build this bridge, make a connection.

Yesterday, on Instagram, I received a letter from a French woman. She wrote, in French, that her daughter had sent her one of my pieces of art, because it reminded her of her grandmother. She told me that her mother, who has passed on, loved art, but never dared show anyone. She thanked me for the reminder of her mother. How it connected her to her daughter. And wished me well with my art — hoping that I would sell lots of work from my gallery!

This is amazing for two reasons. First, that I read and understood her message, in this new language. This has been a long time coming. And I don’t want to gloss over the victory! Second, that she, this French woman, risked all of her Frenchness and exposed her heart. She dared, as her mother hadn’t… and we connected! For me, (and I hope for her too) this is heart waving fantastic!

I know it’s not easy, this offering of your heart, but oh — OH! — how important it is! If you can, today, offer someone a compliment. Tell a bit of your story. Be vulnerable. Feel everything! Connect. Risk. Build a bridge. DARE to cross over.

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