Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: October 2022


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Reflections of the heart.

I was watching the British National portrait challenge. A variety of artists are given four hours to paint the portrait of a person. All are good at their craft, for sure. And it’s interesting to see the different techniques they use in their respective mediums. But the most fascinating thing for me is seeing the different ways in which they see a person. When completed, most portraits look like the person sitting, but often the portraits look nothing like each other. One subject commented, “They all look like me, but they are all so different.” Another man was simply moved to tears because he had never seen himself in this way. The subjects get to choose their favorite portrait of themselves and take it home. Interestingly, what they choose is often not what the judges deem the “best” portrait.

So how do we see people? How do we see ourselves? The only answer I can come up with is to keep looking. See people in every light. When they are happy, or sad. Winning or struggling. And give them a reflection. I don’t mean we all have to be portrait artists. Of course, if you can paint someone, show them what you see. Or send them a letter.  Return the smile they give you. Or catch their tears. If they are reaching out – reach back. Reflect the heart offered. The same applies to the face in the mirror.

When I painted my mother’s portrait, she said, “That woman doesn’t look like she needs to be afraid of anything – maybe I don’t either.” I pray every day that this is true — reflecting the heart she has always so generously offered to me.


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My heart sings to my brain.

Before there were iphones, earbuds, ipods…before discmans, or walkmans, I found a way to keep the music in my head.

I was only in the 4th grade. I didn’t have a stereo, or albums. But my sister did. I would sneak into her bedroom and play them over and over. To save time, I picked the same one almost every time – Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark. I memorized two songs. Raised on Robbery, three minutes. Twisted, just over two. Five minutes of songs that have carried me through decades.

As with modern technology, I could play them while walking, or riding my bike. I didn’t need headphones, and I could turn them up as loud as I wanted, drowning out angered voices, the fears in my brain…or even just the neighbor’s lawnmower.

I found out pretty early the power that we carry from within. So far, all the things that I thought I would never survive — I did, in fact, survive. And more than that, because surviving is really only a minute or so, if it is anything at all…what really matters, is the living. Beyond blocking out the negativity, you have to find the positive. Hear it. The music in your head. The song that plays over and over, and sings, “Actually, I can!”

I sang along in the car yesterday to Joni’s album. A different time. A different country. A different fear that doubts if I can handle what lies ahead…

And as I dance through the lyrics, get lifted by the melodies, I know I can do this. My heart sings to my brain, “Yes, you can! Actually, you can!!!”

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The twirl.

Some mothers make a path. Mine made a runway.

It was my first job out of university. Just sixty miles from my hometown, but it was a huge step – maybe all first steps are. I was to make a fashion show for wives of clients. I had never done anything like it before, but Crossroads mall was just down the road, and I had indeed been training there, with my mother since I was a little girl.

I don’t remember her first response. I wasn’t even really asking. We both knew she was going to be in it. She had loved fashion her whole life. She was made for this – the runway. Even if others in her small town didn’t always see it, I could. So clearly. What a joy. A privilege. To see someone.

We went to the mall for fittings. Confidence grew from giggles to twirls. It all went so fast. Soon the music was playing and the lights were shining. Her outfit was ahead of mine. My heart was beating so quickly. And then I saw her. At the end of the runway. Everything was in slow motion. I saw her twirl. And in that moment, I knew I could do anything.

The music, that seemed now to be coming directly from my mom, carried me down the runway.

There’s a song that asks the question, “How do we keep the music playing?” I just smile, and know, for me, it will never end.


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The new math.

She started us off with the times tables. Each day Mrs. Bergstrom would hand out a new sheet. The ones and twos were easy. Then they got a little harder. Threes and fours and up the multiplication ladder. This times this. Over and over. We learned them all. We could feel ourselves growing. Taller in our wooden chairs with each number, multiplied again and again. And just as our spines straightened, she let us have it! Right between our confident hands. Division. If we hadn’t already learned it on the playground, here was proof positive that everything was divisible. 

We started off slow, but then came brackets and points. New math. Always new math. Our erasers shrank as our brains tried to grow. And with each change it became more clear — there would never be just one way to do things. 

I bought an empty frame at Emmaüs (our version of Goodwill). I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but I knew it would be something. I looked through my completed paintings. Nothing quite fit. The standard route of painting a picture, then framing it, was not going to be possible. I had to come at it from the opposite way. I needed to paint something to fit the frame. 

It doesn’t exist anymore, this “north end” as we called it. The wild untouched land at the end of Van Dyke Road. I have no photographs, but for the ones in my heart’s memory — this strange mix of fear and possibility. I tiptoed down the gravel road in trepid tennis shoes. Everything was divisible, and when I did, divide fear with possibility, I always came up with this, an adventure, a life. 

I painted my north end. A combination of Minnesota and France. And it fit beautifully into my frame. Into my life. This times this. This divided by that – I am, and always will be, whole.

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Welcome to the garden.

I found out yesterday that I have been gardening since the age of five.

I certainly never wanted to get my hands dirty. Some of the neighbor girls made mud pies — the thought of it…. no! I constantly checked to see if the outdoor hose was working, just in case. 

My grandmother made real pies, but still, her hands… deep in the garden, she pulled and cut the rhubarb. You could see it from the dining room window. And I was fascinated that the day before, or even that very morning, it was in the ground, and now, here it sat, round and steaming, crusted, on the table.

I was asked the other day at what age I started to write, to paint. 5 years old. Did you share it? she asked. Oh, yes! With my mother. I would come out of my bedroom, arms straight out – holding it like the steaming pie I imagined it to be, and presented it. Words and paintings, I thought, were meant to be devoured.  

Mid-feast in my newest read, “Our Missing Hearts,” by Celeste Ng, I read that the word “author” means to bring to life, to grow. Like a gardener, I thought. 

She asked me if there were other writers, artists, in the family. No, I said, but there were gardeners, farmers — people with hands and hearts, dirtied by life’s abundance of heartache, challenge and joy. Teaching, inspiring, giving everything, with arms reaching straight out — the authors of living.

Each day, ready or not, we will be asked to grow, to give. The sun comes up, and says, “Welcome to the garden!”

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This orchestra.

I came up the staircase and lifted the telephone cord over my head so I could enter the kitchen. My mother had the 8′ cord stretched to its limit. She was talking on the phone while doing the dishes. I could tell she was talking about me. Why was she talking about me? Something about Washington school. A teacher? Was it a teacher? I tugged at her blouse. She nudged me with her hip. She said goodbye and motioned with her eyes for me to catch the phone as she lifted her chin. I caught it and climbed onto the chair to hang the receiver back on the wall.

Who was that? I asked.
Mr. Iverson.
Mr. Iverson? What did he want?
He said you have good hands.
Good hands?
Yes.
That’s it?
He said you’d be good at the vio- something.
Violin?
No, the other one.
Viola?
Yes, that’s it.
He called to tell you that?
He said you can join the orchestra if you want.

I was in the fifth grade. I had just gotten a clarinet from Carlson’s music store. No small purchase for our family. My hands were already invested. But I liked that he noticed them – my hands. Imagine that! A teacher paying that much attention. What gifts we were given daily at Washington Elementary.

I played the clarinet through my senior year. I still have it. But my hands had different ideas. They are daily covered in words and paint. They are good hands. And I am grateful for them every day. I wonder if I would have believed in them though, if people hadn’t believed in them first. If I hadn’t had teachers who invested their time. A mother who invested her heart.

I believe in myself, because they believed in me first. So I use them, these hands. Once more, again, still, ever, to give thanks, and to tell you, you can join the “orchestra” if you want.

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Racing toward trouble.

I had to move to France to make these friends from California.

We were introduced online, connecting through the love of art and words. I was happy to see them posting pictures from their vacation in Aix en provence. I suppose everyone wants people to love the place they live. And then the true delight came when they asked if they could come to say hello.

It never occurred to me say no. The best things in my life have always started with yes.

“Don’t go to any trouble,” she emailed me. I smiled. My whole life, all I have ever wanted was “to go to the trouble.” Everything should mean something. It all deserves our effort. Our respect. Our attention.

And all this “trouble,” really takes so little. I only baked the croissants, and placed them on the table. Offered water. My heart. And my time. I received so much more than that in return. And it means something! To make new friends! What a thing!

I told them stories of my art, my books, my life, and our connection was real, not virtual. I have new friends. This is what keeps me racing toward all the “trouble” of my own life! It matters. Oh, how it matters! — not the location, but to love the “place” you live.

Merci, mes amis!

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Trust in your own length.

I wish I had the same patience with myself as I do with a block of wood.

I searched my woodpile for wood that could be made into a frame for my newest painting. First, I had to find enough length. I did. Two pieces that could be cut into four. Imperfections everywhere, but the length was there. So I began sanding. And sanding. Ending each day covered in dust, filled with the scent of possibility. I filled previous nail holes with putty. And sanded again. I will continue this process for days. I trust in it.

I asked my grandpa when I was about six or seven — (I calculate my age in the length of my steps compared to his) — “…but who tells you what to do?” We were walking back to his tractor in the field. I was always amazed that he could fix anything. The tractor. The mower. The combine. Whatever it was. He made the walk to the garage, or the barn, found the right tool and fixed it. I was fascinated. And it wasn’t just that. How did he know when to plant? Where? When to harvest? What to do every day? “I’ve made this walk before,” he said.

I’m not sure I understood the answer, but I knew enough to try to keep up. 

I suppose nobody can really tell you how to make the journey. You have to put in the steps. Believe in them. Trust in your own length. It’s difficult for sure. But I see myself making the journey with a piece of wood. It’s just a small journey, I know, but it gives me patience. It offers me faith. And I take another walk, each time a little less afraid. A little more forgiving. 

Somedays, it may feel like you are being asked to do the impossible. Be patient with yourself…kind. Believe. You’ve made this walk before.

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Behind you.


From 3:30am to 6:00am, I spent the time looking for my painting of Georgia O’Keeffe. In the end, I did find it. It was at another store, (in a chain of stores that I sold it to.) Sure it was only a dream, but it felt good to find it. We take our victories where we can.

And maybe it felt so good because before I had gone to sleep I was trying to fix something on my iPad. I didn’t. I even shed a couple of tears. I can see that it’s no big deal this morning, but in my defense, it was nighttime, when things always seem to be at their largest, and I was, in fact, just ready to be small.

In the book I’m reading now, Lucy by the Sea, by Elizabeth Strout, Lucy sits on her husband’s lap — she’s having a difficult time and needs a hug. Closer, she says. He hugs her tighter. Closer, she says again. He tells her the old Groucho Marx joke, “If I were any closer, I’d be behind you.”

And maybe that’s what we want. Someone “behind” us. Behind us. Beside us. The world is big, with big problems. And sometimes I think I need to be the biggest. And I wear myself out. But I had a thought — when we hug someone, we become twice our size. And if at twice our size, we helped someone else, at twice their size… well, you know what I mean, I don’t want to get into the math of it all.

I can’t fix everything. Sometimes nothing. But I’m a good hugger. And so easily, I can get behind you. Help you carry it, all of those big girl problems. I am here. With. Beside. Behind. Xoxo

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On the road to Vauvenargues.


I didn’t realize how straight the roads were in Minnesota, how flat, until I moved to France — where everything is around the corner and uphill.

You could see it from far away. Car window open. Head out the window, I watched for it.  Feverishly brushed the long hair away from my view. It stood in the field before my grandparent’s house. One single tree in the middle of all that dirt. 

It wasn’t unusual for people to moo out their car windows at the cows in the field. I had been known to do it on occasion. But more than this, I wanted to communicate with the lone tree in the next field. How did he do it? Stand so tall?  All alone?  So I would wave. Slow motion in the car’s breeze. “I see you.” 

For years I waved. The tree got bigger. And so did I. Everything changed around me. 

We drove past it the day my mom went to tell my grandparents that she would be alone. She was scared. Unsure. Hands gripping the wheel at 10 and 2. I dried my tears in the open window. I waited for the tree. I reached out my hand. “You grow,” it said, “That’s how you survive. You grow.” 

I knew my mother would do the same. I rolled up the window. Turned to her, and smiled. She would be OK. We all would be OK.

There is a small stretch of straight on the road to Vauvenargues. Just a brief moment when the road doesn’t turn. It follows along the field. The field with the single tree. I wait for my moment, as we drive to see Dominique’s mother. I brush the hair from my face, wave, and know — there is nothing here I can’t survive. The road will turn. We all will be OK.

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