Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: March 2023


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Green-footed

I received a pair of green rain boots for my 7th birthday. We lived in green house on Van Dyke road. It being spring, I vowed to wear them, rain or shine, every day until the grass was the same color. I didn’t know the word palette then, but I knew what I felt, and “how glorious,” I thought, if I could run green-footed in the green grass in front of our green house. 

Spring came as promised, and I, feet blistered, and perhaps a little smelly, was a part of it all. I belonged.

I suppose that’s what we all want — to be a natural part of things. Without the need for invitation, to just belong. And it was, glorious! Glorious to find out that this wasn’t a place at all, but a feeling. A feeling I could not only create, but carry with me, anywhere. 

You can wait your whole life and not receive an invitation. You have to give that to yourself. Step into your own palette. Wake up and say, “I’m here.” Wake up and know that it all matters. That you matter!  

My husband asked me yesterday why I was bringing in his old green rain boots from the garage. “Because you’re part of my palette,” I said. He smiled. We are home. Glorious!

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True blue.



I got my driver’s license at 16. Not long after, I had a cast on both legs. A full length plaster on my left, from ankle to hip. And on my right from my toes to my knee. I could still walk. A little like Frankenstein. I couldn’t sneak up on anyone, but I kept moving. I could ride my ten speed off-brand bike. I tied a shoe lace around the right pedal to hold my foot in place and rode one legged from Jefferson Street. I could still drive. My mom had a sturdy (even more than we thought) used Chevy Malibu station wagon, in light blue. To get into the driver’s seat, I opened the door wide, lifted my left straight leg, (there was no way to back in) and in one full swoop, I grabbed the steering wheel, slid my left leg under the dash, hoisted myself up by that same light blue wheel, and seated myself at the ready. I’m not saying it was smart, or even legal, but I did it. Somehow we all survived. Me, my mom, and the Blue Chevy.

You never know what will end up supporting you. I suppose it’s the same way with friends. There is no way to anticipate or predict even what you will need. It’s not like you can go to the car dealership and hang from every wheel before you buy the car. But in this life we are gifted by the strength of others. Those beautiful friends who will support you, the full weight of you, when you need them. Without knowledge or permission we grab them by the wheel, and they hold. Some for a lifetime. True blue. I give thanks for them, every day.

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Steady.

When I woke up to check the time, the numbers on my phone were swaying from left to right. The whole phone was. The room. Dizzy. Maybe it’s a “bug,” or the barometric change of spring, or just a little reminder of my mom. She was dizzy most of her life. I have only a touch of it from time to time, but it does rock you when it comes. I held tight the sturdy wood of the nightstand. I don’t know why that works, but it does. Nothing is actually moving, but holding tight to the certain seems to stop it.

Everything has seemed a little wobbly these last few months. Unstable. But in clinging to my certain, I find a way to not just get through, but enjoy the day. Yesterday I began a small painting. The stretching. The gessoing. Then the painting. A still life. No pun intended. It’s what I needed. I moved my brush to the music, and let my heart settle. It felt so good. I didn’t feel the time passing. I went to the woodpile. Cut the lengths. Sanded. Framed my certainty and felt whole.

There is no shame in doing what you need to do to feel whole. For you it may be gardening. Reading a book. Baking a cake. Doing nothing at all. Clinging to the nightstand beside your bed. This is not weakness. There is strength, deep strength in knowing the little things that save you. That make you happy. Do them. Daily. Find your certain. Live in your still. 

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Crossing over.

We were in the car yesterday morning. Paused at the bridge. It was built in 1655, so it can only support traffic going one way at a time. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but we both burst into laughter, just as the car approached from the oncoming direction. Because you have to drive slowly, the driver could see our explosion of laughter and he too, not knowing, not hearing, also burst into a smile. That, I suppose, is the pure power of joy.

Decades before selfies, my mother taught me to smile in every mirror. She did it out of necessity. Even during her lowest times, she still had to “put her face on”, walk out of her apartment door at 7:15am, go to Independent School District 206 and answer every phone call, every visitor, with a smile. She did it with a grace I didn’t yet know, or understand, but I could see it. Every day. She willed herself to cross over. To cross over and find the beauty. It may be the slow approaching reason that I am able to pass on my smile today. Because of hers, I am able to give you mine, and together, we all cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.

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Curtains wide!

I don’t know when I first heard the song. I didn’t have my own radio. Certainly not my own records. But my six year old brain knew the words. My six year old legs knew the melody. 

I took the early bus home from first grade. I had 45 minutes alone until my older siblings came on the later bus. 45 minutes of pure freedom. And it was our green living room hassock that told me to climb on, and perform it to no one. It was a big step up. My knee bent almost to my chin as I hoisted myself aboard. “You better wait a minute…” I began singing, “Mr. Po-oh-oh-oh-ostman…won’t you check and see, one more time for me…”  I quickly climbed back down and opened the drapes to the gravel road, still dusty from the bus. It wasn’t so people could see me – there was no one on this road – it was for me – so I could feel the light on me! It also gave me a direct view of our mailbox. I climbed back on and sang and jumped. Shaking my long blonde hair in the afternoon sun…”deliver de letter, de sooner de better…” 

I’ve heard it said recently that we used to do things for love, and now we do things just to get “likes.” I’ll take it even further and say, we, I, used to do things for the pure joy of it all. I had no aspirations of becoming a singer, or a dancer. Because I was one. For 45 minutes, in the audience of an empty Van Dyke road, I was a singer. I was a dancer. I didn’t need anyone to confirm it or deny it. Or even like it. Because I did. It brought me nothing but joy. Heart racing, voice raising, hassock denting joy!!!

I only mention it because I find the same green calling to me lately. It’s my palette. It brings me joy. There are videos on “the colors for 2023” that I have never watched, and never will. I know what colors I need right now. I know which ones bring me joy. So I paint in them. In the light of my studio window, I am free to be an artist, free to be me!

I hope you can find it. Today and every day. The things that bring you joy. And when you do, my only suggestion is to throw those curtains wide!!

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The clinking of spoons.

It wasn’t instant cocoa, but it didn’t take long. My mom heated the milk on the stove and added the Nestle Quick. She poured it into grown-up mugs and handed us spoons. We stirred vigorously, and much longer than necessary, immersing ourselves in the healing. Because it was usually when we were sick, a cold, or touch of the flu, or just a bad day at school — this was when she made the cocoa. And then the bread popped out of the toaster at just the right time. Buttered, we dunked it into the steaming cocoa, because that’s really all it was for, and we were, if not healed, at least saved. 

Two pieces of toast – that was usually enough for me. I was young, and full of feelings. Some might have thought me as weak. Often full of tears and poems, but I knew. I could see it. Some days, it took my brother a full loaf of bread. He was bigger, faster, taller, but even then I was pretty sure it was me – I was stronger. 

You have to get inside to know. Hear the clinking of spoons. The beating of hearts. To be sure. Outer appearances can be so deceiving. I encourage you today to really look. Really listen to those around you. Because it takes more than an instant to know someone. To know what they need. To immerse ourselves in the lives of others. And maybe, just maybe, if we do, take the time, we will all be saved.

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My Swedish Dishcloth.

Maybe it was because she had nine children, or maybe it was just her nature, either way, my Grandma always had a sink full of dirty dishes. And maybe it was because of this, my mother never did. 

I suppose I could have followed either one. But I like my empty sink. We all have our own way of doing things. Things that make us happy. And it can be the tiniest of things. On our recent trip, we bought a few Swedish dishcloths. I had never seen them before. They looked like art. And would easily fit in the suitcase. Reasons enough.

Upon returning, fighting jet lag, fighting to once again make familiar the familiar, I bake the bread, serve the Corsican cheese with the French wine, and wash the dishes with my new Swedish dishcloth. It’s probably silly to love it, this 6″ square, but I do! Maybe because it works well, or maybe because it made me fall in love with my kitchen once again after a three week break. 

I am so proud of my grandma and my mom. Both lived the lives that suited them best. Neither made apologies for their preferences. Nor judged others for the differences. They found happiness, big and small. 

My dishcloth is now drying on the faucet of my empty sink. I find my path daily. And I am happy.

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Nut Goodie.

My mom always bought a Nut Goodie candy bar to have with a cup of coffee while waiting for me to get out of surgery. Because, as she said, “There was no need for us both to suffer.” 

I was just coming out of the anesthesia. Foggy, uncertain, a little scared, all I wanted was my mom. For her to tell me everything would be ok. My eyes were trying to blink her into focus. Then I felt her hand on my shoulder. I knew she would lean in and say something important. Something to tell me that I was fine. Something to tell me I was safe and loved. She leaned in close. I could feel her breath. My lips couldn’t yet form a smile, but my heart knew there was no need for her to lean in close — she had never mastered the whisper. She breathed in deeply and said, “Somebody stole my Nut Goodie.” And I was saved.  

We often think we don’t know what to say when someone is suffering. We don’t know “the right thing.” So we just stay quiet. The thing is, all we have to do is be there for each other. Be close and be kind. My friend’s father recently passed away. In all of my words, words that I type daily, say daily, paint daily, I’m pretty sure I don’t have the right ones. Not the words to take away the pain. No one does. So I tell her about the vegetables I cooked outside on the plancha for lunch. The podcast I listened to while walking. The pants I want to buy, but can’t afford. I give to her my “Nut Goodie.” I think she’ll find the love in that. I hope so. I always did.

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A double Elsie.

There was a weight to everything my grandfather said. And everything my grandmother made. Upon entering the farmhouse, you were gathered in the scent of baking sugar and pipe tobacco. The furniture was thick and sturdy. Each bed ballasted by my grandmother’s quilts. It all felt so certain.

When I was young, I couldn’t stay overnight at anyone’s house.  I would get too lonesome. But I could stay here. Grandpa Reuben would say “Good night,” and I believed him. Grandma Elsie would kiss my forehead. Tuck the quilts around me. And I was safe. I was loved. Certain.

The house still stands, I am told. A variation of it. I haven’t been there in years. I don’t really need to. I carry it all with me. I have paintings of the barn. Of my grandfather. Quilts that my grandmother made. Even in this country far away, I am saved.
We returned from vacation yesterday. Running on no sleep and wobbled by jet-lag, we stumbled through the afternoon (Everything always seems a little off at first.) And the house was cold. No sun had entered. No heat had been on for three weeks. We opened the shutters and gave light to the familiar. 

And I saw it — this beautiful life we have created. This home. I felt steady. I put two of my grandma’s quilts on the bed, (a double Elsie), and I sleptin the certainty that I, we, are home.

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Good morning, Paris.

We were nearing our gate and I heard my name. I didn’t turn at first. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone. I heard it agin so I turned. It was for me. A friend from a gallery life long ago. 

The city that held the gallery has almost completely changed , but not so for the sound of my name. 

There were two other girls in my high school that shared my name. But it was never confusing. Somehow you can hear it. I suppose I have my mom to thank you for that. She was the first to call me by name. The first to give it meaning. Because of her I will always hear it. 

And what a gift that is. I spoke with the woman at the airport. We remembered gallery openings and friends and wine. And with just the sound of my name I traveled to the familiar. The joy of my life in that time and that place. 

I have changed a lot since that time. Since that place. Everyone has. Continues to. And someday everyone will seem younger and smarter, but it won’t matter because you will remember the little things, like when summer days lasted forever and flowers weren’t so fragile, like the feel of a curved arm around your neck and the warm sound of the voice who first called you by name,and you’ll be happy.

I walked to my gate smiling. And woke up in Paris.

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