Jodi Hills

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


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A clean start.

A fresh snow was a gift on Van Dyke Road, if you were 6 years old and needed to make something. We learned pretty early that rolling your ball of snow in last week’s, lasts month’s falling, was never a good idea. You picked up everything left behind in the yard. Gravel spread by the plow. Dead grass. Trash from a tipped can or a note for parents thrown from the school bus. But a fresh snow…this was clean, pure…a blank canvas, a brand new start. You could roll that small ball into one bigger and bigger. You could make a snowman. A family of snow people. You could roll that snow, only picking up more clean snow. You were reinvented. Born. Saved!

We have to stop telling ourselves the same stories – the stories that we don’t want to hear, the stories that we don’t want to be true. The stories we don’t want to be our stories. Even the simplest ones. Things like “I’m a bad sleeper,” or “I’m always late,”. “ I can’t cook.” I’m nothing special.” “I’m not worthy.”  We roll these words over and over in our minds and they pick up more negative thoughts until they become too big to even push around and we just become them. I have been guilty of this. Sure. We all have. But I want more for myself. I want more for you!  We can do this. We’ve already learned it. We can learn it again. Daily. We can be the fresh snow. For ourselves. For each other. Each day we can offer ourselves that pure and possible fresh start. Give ourselves that open canvas. Be the new story. We can be born. We can be saved. 


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The storm given.

One of the first paintings at the museum was of a tornado. Not the swirling, cows in the air kind, but the dark clouds, brewing…the beginning of the storm. The grass green. The ground calm. The sky graying, moving to black. And it was beautiful. So very beautiful. I wasn’t afraid.

We don’t get to decide what we live through. Which will be our storms survived, but we do get to decide whether or not it is beautiful. We have this choice daily to take our darkened clouds and say, “Look…look what I have done with åwhat I’ve been given.”

Years ago I painted a pair of work boots. Worn weathered. Used. Used on me. I was kicked with a pair like that. I know people would wonder, “HOW COULD YOU EVER PAINT THEM????” But there’s beauty, you see. I took away their power. They are empty. I took away their power and gave it to my own hands. My own heart.

I decide what it beautiful. They can never hurt me again. I am not afraid of the storm.

You may think that is where the story ends. But that was just the beginning. I changed the narrative of that painting years ago. When you buy a print of it, it reads, “My heart is well traveled.” Because this is the real beauty. This is what came from that one decision. And as I can spin under skies of every color, I can say with all certainty, “Look… look what I have been given!”


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Abundance.

Maybe it was my grandmother with her apples. My grandfather with his knowledge. Or my mother with her love. But I had already learned the lesson that Mark Twain wrote of, long before I read it : “If you want love and abundance in your life, give it away.”
— Mark Twain

It was in our green house on Van Dyke Road. In the bedroom I shared with my sister. Above the renters who lived below us. I leaned against the wall. My feet perched on the bed to make a table for my book. Tom Sawyer. I devoured the words. So engrossed in the story I wasn’t even bothered that she kept kicking my feet off the bed. Space was not our plenty. But since the first day Mrs Bergstrom taught us to read at Washington Elementary, she knocked down every brick wall of that school and told us we could go anywhere. Anywhere! Each word was a ticket and I turned mine in. Over and over. My abundance.

You can ban the books. We already have the words. You can lock the doors to the church, we already have the love. You can overprice the school, we’ve already knocked it down.

Today I’m waking in the lovely home that our dear friends share with us as we travel. Basking in their abundance, offering you mine. We all have something to give.


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I saw the sign

We used to always leave notes for each other. Reminders. Encouragement. Or simply love. I knew her hand writing. She knew mine. We didn’t have cell phones or pagers. When apart, my mom and I, we had paper and a pen. And we were connected.

I was coming home late on the team bus. I can’t honestly say how the parents knew when the game was over. When we would arrive back at our own school, but they did. And my mom was always there. A light blue Chevy Malibu mini station wagon, with the engine running. The bus pulled into the parking lot. I looked around for the familiar blue smoke. Nothing. Probably just late. I waited. One by one, the other girls headed home. As they cleared away from the double doors, I saw it. A little yellow sticky note. “Call Spoden’s (our neighbor’s). You’ll be ok.” In my mom’s handwriting. I used my emergency quarter and called from the pay phone. Andria picked me up.

It’s hard to imagine now. How we got by with only notes to save us. Now we travel with keys and phones and pads. But we made it. I suppose because we were connected in the way it mattered most.

Yesterday in the community workout room, I saw it. The most hopeful note I had seen in a long time. It was taped to one of the treadmills. “Temporarily out of order.” The word temporarily added so much hope. Promise. Everything would be ok.

People search for signs all the time. Maybe it’s silly, but I need to believe in them. I always have. And so yesterday I saw the sign from my mother. Yes, things feel strange, out of order, but we will always be connected. I will be ok. We all will be ok.


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Amid the words.

It turns out the coffee I held in my hand was not really a coffee at all, but a Time Machine. I hadn’t seen him in years. It was Dominique who saw him first – this man staring in our direction, watching me. I was busy touching every book cover, reading every title in this Barnes and Noble.  I almost ran into him. I looked up and seeing his face my brain flashed with words of Emily Dickinson, for he had always given me books of poetry. I wanted to say, “In the name of the Bee — And of the Butterfly — and of the Breeze — Amen!”  But all I could say, all we both could say was, “Oh, my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! The words squeezed between us as we hugged away all the distance of space and time. 

Words tumbled out, almost incoherent, as I tried to introduce him to Dominque. I said something like spiritual leader, guide, friend, I don’t know. Because as Roethke said in his poem, he had no rights in my matter, he was “neither father, nor lover.” But oh, how he mattered to me. 

Dominque and I just celebrated our 8th anniversary, but it was here, in this Barnes and Noble, I was walked down the aisle.  He told Dominique how very special I was. How lucky he was. Words I would have imagined to hear from a father or brother. Words I never really even let myself dare the hope to hear, but he offered them so freely yesterday. Above the din of all the stories, he said mine aloud. Maybe it’s not even correct anymore for a girl, a woman, to want to hear it, need to hear it, but I can say now, how good it actually felt. He told Dominque to take care of me. He said I love you. And on this day before Valentine’s Day, I felt like I got married again. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, Dominique! I love you! I would marry you again and again. I will say all the words above the words and write new ones and arrange them to tell you I love you, now and forever. 

And Happy Valentine’s Day to all those along the way who show us that love is possible. That we are possible of giving. Of receiving. Love. 


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Allowed in.



I cried in front of the stack of books. I was only six. I wasn’t sad, but overwhelmed by the choice. So much beauty. I couldn’t believe I was allowed inside this magnificent place. The Alexandria public library.

My first Saturday morning. I climbed the stairs. Opened the door. The fragrance was intoxicating. I thought it was the sweet smell of words. I loved the smell. I saw the believers open the books and place their faces inside. I did the same. Someone would tell me later that it was just the paper. No, that couldn’t be right. I asked the librarian. She could see what I wanted to believe. What I needed to believe. It is the words, she said, and smiled a secret agreement that has never left my heart.

My mother dropped me off at the bottom of those stairs every Saturday morning. My faith only grew stronger. I became joyfully entangled. Fingers tracked through the card catalog. Then tracing the spines along the shelves. Seeing it. Pulling the desired book out slowly. Cracking the spine. Breathing in the ticket to ride. Then taking the journey.

When they told me they were publishing my first book, the tears streamed down my face. I would be in those hands. Those believing hands. I would waft into the faces, the hearts, and the beauty of all that was overwhelming, the beauty of once again, being allowed in.


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The Girl’s Gym.



The fact that they were even separated should tell you something. The gymnasium for the girls was wedged into the basement of Central Junior High. Brick-lined pink angled stairs led the path to our designated rectangular room. For just short of an hour we played each other, all wearing the same uniform. The compact room had few advantages. The only that comes to mind, when playing basketball or volleyball, the “out of bounds” was quite clear — it was a wall.

We played. We did have fun. A sweaty break from all of the thinking. And I’m not sure we would have even been aware of our subpar conditions, but for the fact that once a year we joined with the boy’s class, in their gym, for a few days of square dancing. The dance itself was humiliating, but beyond that — their gym!!!! Our mouths hung wide open, as if entering the promised land. The space. The windows. The light. The bleachers. It was clear. We weren’t playing on the same field.

There were only two choices. To be inspired. To be defeated. I chose, as I hope I always do, to be inspired. Life isn’t fair. So you shower-up, and learn. You grow. Take what you’re given and make it better, for yourself, and for the ones to follow. And it’s not to say that sometimes those walls don’t seem too intimidating. They can feel like they are closing in upon you. The desire to curl up in a ball can be overwhelming. But we have to keep climbing up. Climbing on. The light awaits. For all of us.


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Fixer Upper

We never shopped at thrift stores when we were young. It wasn’t in fashion then. And even worse, I think we thought of it as demeaning. And by we, I mean culturally, because frankly, our status in the community was the least of my mom’s worries. 

I’m not sure exactly when it changed. But it has completely flipped. Now it’s cool. Encouraged. Celebrated even. It’s even a verb!  “Look what I got thrifting!” People are making fortunes taking videos of themselves at Goodwill. And it’s not just clothes. Its the same for houses. The world is completely addicted to the show Fixer Upper. Myself included. 

We are able to see things differently. And this is beautiful. That old house is now potential. Potential!  Imagine that! It’s not ugly. It’s paint worthy.

I bought a pair of jeans at the thrift store. We only go there maybe once or twice a year when we visit the US. The clerk remembered us. It felt so good to be remembered. Yes, I loved the jeans. And $7, that’s hard to beat, but to be remembered – to me, that’s just another way of being valued.  I smiled in the car mirror – this smile — Look what I got thrifting!

We can do this for each other you know. Change the way we see things. See others with potential. See them as worthy – maybe even ourselves – no matter what condition we are in.  Beauty. Love. Maybe the greatest gift each of them holds is the ability to change. 


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Choosing love.

He commissioned me to do a painting of his family. As he was selling me on the idea, he said, “Well, we’re actually almost related.” We are? “Sure. My brother’s ex-wife is now married to your cousin.” All right. That made complete sense to me. I did the painting. We were, are, all connected.

Someone once told me, about love, “You just decide,” he said. “You make the decision to love someone.” I was young and still wanted to believe in only the magic of it all. But I get it now. Making the decisions, sometimes daily, to love, is not taking away the magic – it may be the most magical of all. When we can see the people around us. See the connections, no matter how far or ridiculous they might be — take all of the absurd, and choose to make it sublime – what could be more magical than that?

Dominique’s family, now my family, is becoming rather a United Nations of sorts. I wandered into my first rainbow at his family’s reunion. A coloring of cousins. French, German, Polish, Italian, South Korean, American, and the list goes on. This growing French family is growing, one decision at a time. His mother’s brother’s son, is married to a lovely woman from Thailand. Their children – twins – beautiful. Do they look like Dominique. Not at all. Like me? Ha! But they look like family. They were nice to me. And that was more than enough. We decided to love each other.

When I saw her picture on Facebook, I knew I had to paint her. She was with her mother’s mother — a woman I may never meet, but we are connected as well. The gentle beauty of her grandmother seemed to radiate in her face. I wanted to capture that warmth, that light. I grabbed my pastels and paper. The decision had already been made.

We have some choices to make today. With our family. Our friends. With the people near and far. We can connect or push. Maybe the first step is just deciding to decide. Choosing the magic after all. Choosing love.


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Louder and louder.

We lived in the upper level and rented out the basement to Tech School students. I didn’t have the words for mortgage, or need even. I just thought it was something people did. I suppose everything is normal if you are living it. 

They were always boys. I had a banana seat bike and an unbroken trust. (I would outgrow both in a matter of a few years.) He was enrolled in the class that was building a canoe. We had a small second gravel drive path next to the basement entrance. He had the shell set up on saw horses. I was curious. I started asking questions. I didn’t know what my 6 year old self would need with this knowledge, but I desired it just the same. I didn’t know what insulation was, nor what it looked like. I can’t explain the why of what happened next. Maybe I was an annoying little girl. But I was a little girl. I asked him what it was. I didn’t notice his gloves and long sleeves. He said go ahead and touch it. It’s nice. Really, go ahead, rub your arm against it. I did. My arm burned with a million little cuts. I was horrified. Why would he do that? It perhaps stung even more than my arm. And you better not tell anyone, he yelled. I ran off in horror. But what horrifies me now is that I didn’t — tell anyone.

Are we preconditioned to “not make a fuss.” Don’t make any trouble. Where did this come from? 

I had a hair appointment with a new woman last evening. She was lovely. When she said, let’s step over to the sink to wash your hair, I told her, calmly and honestly, “I don’t like this part. I actually hate it.” She smiled, and then realized, oh, you really do. “Yes,” I said, “You’re lovely, but I hate the position. It’s so uncomfortable. Always has been.” “No problem,” she said. “I’ll be fast. I don’t really like it either.” It was said. Survived. Forgotten. Nothing. 

I told my friend afterwards. She said she struggles with it too. It hurts her neck and arm, but has never said anything. It’s crazy, but we were both amazed that I said something. Why did you say it today?  “It was just enough already.” We both smiled. And the relief. She said she would do the same on her next appointment.

These are baby steps for sure. But steps are steps. And we take them. No need for fanfare, just doing better for ourselves and for each other. We speak our truths without apologies. Strong and beautiful, we decide the normals we want to live in.  Tell everyone!