Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: May 2023


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Permission

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My freshly earned driving permit was burning a hole in my pocket. “I don’t care where it is…I’ll take you anywhere,” I pleaded with my mom. When you’re 15, a Sunday can seem as long as, well, a month of Sundays. And not to use my state issued permission to drive (with another qualified licensed driver) seemed unthinkable. “We could go see…” “Yes,” I interrupted. “Grandma,” she finished.

The roads to my grandma’s house were long, straight, and for the most part, untraveled. I got in the driver’s side of our light blue Chevy Malibu station wagon. My mom got in the passenger seat. I put on my seat belt. Adjusted the mirrors. Started the engine. Turned off the radio. Looked in every direction. Put on my blinker, even though there was obviously no one behind us in the driveway, and proceeded with caution onto the road. The football coach who taught us Driver’s Ed was fresh in my mind.

Even with the windows closed, I felt the breeze in my mind. Wide open. Such freedom. I had experienced it on my bicycle, but this was fresh, exciting, this new travel — it was indeed Malibu!

My Uncle Ron was also visiting my grandma that Sunday. He watched me pull in the driveway. He slipped the toothpick from his mouth. He said things slowly, like my grandpa. “What kind of mileage do you get?” he asked me. Not only did I not know “what kind of mileage” I got, I didn’t even know what it was, or if in fact I was actually getting it. I shrugged my shoulders. “You don’t know. You have to know,” he said. I looked at my mother. She raised her eyebrows as if to wish me luck, and went into the house. I looked at my uncle. He led me inside to the kitchen table, where all things were learned and/or decided. He took a scratch pad and a pencil from the rolltop desk and proceeded to do the most math I had ever witnessed on a Sunday.

I stared at him, which he may have mistook for attention. But it was really more amazement. This was our first conversation in 15 years. I think he actually cared about me. Sure it was all disguised in a car metaphor, but I smiled and nodded. I stashed his full proof formula inside my pocket.

Freedom isn’t always measured in distance. Sometimes it takes you to the familiar, in a way you’ve never been before.

Today’s journey is beginning. I look in the morning mirror, and give myself permission.

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Soundtrack.

The first few notes played on the radio this morning. So iconic. We both put down our toast and jam. “Start spreading the news…” we sang. New York. New York. Perhaps one of only a handful of songs about a city that is known internationally. “I can name that tune in five notes,” I said. “What?” I explained to him the game show Name that Tune. 

It was my mother’s favorite. And she was good at it. She loved music. She knew the notes. The words. As easily as my grandma could beat me at cards, my mother could beat me at Name that Tune. But as we sang together, laughed together, sometimes even danced, it felt like we were both winning. 

I don’t think the show was on the air that long, but we kept it alive in the car. It was difficult at first, with cassette tapes. Trying to cue up the song to the right position. We kept a pencil nearby to wind up the ribbons that we abused. The game was significantly improved when we graduated to cds. It was so easy to cue up the song. To start and stop. To Name that Tune.

We didn’t really keep score. We knew the music we owned. And of course we always created a playlist for the city we were driving towards. A trip to Chicago always included Frank Sinatra singing “My kind of town…Chicago is!” 

It seems funny to even mention it – because we never really gave it a thought – but neither of us were particularly good singers. That was never the point. What we were really good at was being friends. I suppose nothing else really matters. When you know someone, really love someone, above all the flaws and the shortcomings, you only hear the music.

I had the privilege of taking my mother to New York three times. I can’t hear the song without descending in the plane over the Statue of Liberty. Sitting beside her on Broadway. Looking up in Times Square. Drinking the wine. Trying the clothes. Singing on the sidewalk. There’s a reason your heart “beats”  – to keep time with the ones you love. 

Ask me anything about my mother. I can name that tune. The music never ends.

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Inspiration Peak.

To date, being only six years old, it was probably the furthest any of us had seen, looking out over the surrounding plains of Inspiration Peak. It was our debut field trip as first graders in Washington Elementary. True to its name, we did feel inspired, gazing at nature’s finest (within busing distance of Alexandria, Minnesota.)

Then Mrs. Bergstrom sent us down the steep hill. Wait…what? Before I had even decided I was swept up in the descent. Once a few of the boys began tumbling down, we all seemed to fall like dominos. Nervous laughter filled the air. Bumper tennis shoes above our heads. Dirt in pony tails. Skirts flying. Arms flapping. “Had I gotten the word wrong? What was the meaning of inspiration?” I thought as we clumped together at the bottom of the hill.

Mrs. Bergstrom waved her hand, beckoning us back. Some flew up the side like gazelles. Others struggled. I remember thinking, “this isn’t so bad,” as I reached the 90 percent mark. I could see Gerald Reed sitting on the top edge. Maybe I relaxed too early. He was saying something and I slowed to listen. I began to slip. I spun my legs faster. Like a cartoon character, I remained in place while my legs circled frantically beneath me. The only thing rising was the dust. I could see his mouth still moving. “Why was he talking???? I was fighting for my life here!” Others passed me. I was so close…why wasn’t I moving??? With each breath I sucked in a little more dirt. Gerald cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Sloooooowwwww Dowwwwwwwnnnnn!”

In all of our classroomed days, he had never lied to me, so I stopped. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall. I put one foot in front of the other. Slowly. Firmly. And reached the top of the peak. He shook his head and smiled.

It may not come as a surprise, but I can still work myself into a panic. Getting caught in the whirl and twirl of the day. Kicking up way more dust than necessary, I remind myself, “a little less fighting for my life, and a little more living it, please.” I smile. Brush the dust from my legs. And breathe. The view from gratitude is always inspiring!

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Possible

I was but a teenager when I first saw it, the giant cherry that rested on the spoon in Minneapolis. The color was magnificent — that red against the blue sky — wow! But it was more than this — for me it meant something so simple could be extraordinary — possibly even me. I didn’t know if the other students heard the secret of the cherry. I only dared to smile, holding the joyful truth inside for just a moment longer.

On this primary of days, we stepped away from the red of the cherry, into the yellow of the school bus, under the blue open sky. I asked the girl next to me, “Did you hear it?” She wriggled to unstick her legs from the seat. I wasn’t sure if she was more annoyed with me, or the fake leather. “What?” “The secret, from the cherry…” I repeated. “It wasn’t talking,” she said, and reached to open the window. “Everything is possible,” I said into her hair that blew across my face. Not even her dismissal could take away the beauty of this day.

It wasn’t likely that I would move to this city. That I would become an artist. An author. But it was possible. And I did. Nor was it likely that I would fall in love and move to the south of France. Yet, here I am!

I can barely contain my smile when I tell you that we have a cherry tree. I named her Becky. This morning, we ate the Becky jam that I made, on the bread that I also made. I am filled with cherry possibilities!

If you’re sitting next to me this morning, in the color of these words, I ask you to listen…Can you hear it? The primary message is this, reach beyond the “likely,” and head straight for delicious! Everything is possible!

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My best yellow.

“If I were a bird,” she thought, “I would fling myself from limb to limb. The breeze would take away all the weight of being, and I would feel alive.”

“If I were her,” thought the bird, I would change out of my yellow dress and lie, pillowed, comforted, and still.”

It’s so easy to see what we think the “others” have. It takes a special effort sometimes to see it in ourselves.

Yesterday, I took two hours to hand paint a single bookmark. As the woman was coming to life on the paper, she looked so familiar. Someone I knew? I couldn’t quite place her. As I cut her, tasseled her, gave her a sleeve, I saw it — the yellow bird painting. She was the yellow bird. And that’s when I heard their voices.

I’ve heard those voices before. In my head. The ones that compare, Oh, the French do this, or the Americans have that… and I can get lost in this battle of others. It’s so ridiculous, and never makes me happy. I’ve seen people do it online, comparing their lives to the manufactured world of social media. Ugh. But it seemed so simple, when I saw the yellow birds, the yellow-dressed woman — we all have everything we need, we just have to see it. To live it — live our best yellow. When I want to fly, I must fly. When I need to rest, I can rest. There are no “ifs,” there is only YELLOW! And when comparison tries to whisper in my ear, you don’t belong here, you’d be better off somewhere else, I simply fluff my winged dress and say, “Oh, but it IS my place!”

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Dreams come true.

If you’re going to be turned away, it really should be by the best in the world.

Several years ago, we were walking past a vineyard, about 10 minutes from our home. Chateau Simone, scrolled beautifully on the gate. It was unclear which was the main entrance. We seemed to be on the path to the tasting room/store. We heard the familiar creek of the shutters above us. Straight out of casting, she looked down at us, or should I say “looked down on us,” (both would be true). She clasped her burning cigarette between the quintessential two fingered V, and said, “Privé, Privé!” (Private, private!) She flicked her ashes in a shoo motion. We seemed to be in the French equivalent of a Seinfeld episode — No wine for you! Not to be out-Frenched in his native country, Dominique offered up a few neatly placed words that were not in my vocabulary. We turned around and walked back home.

We’ve used the incident repeatedly through the years — smoking our imaginary cigarettes and dismissing the unwanted — it’s a gift that just keeps on giving. We just found out yesterday that Chateau Simone has been voted the best wine in the world. Best in the world! Our neighbor! We were not shooed by just anyone…we were shooed by the best in the world!

Having the story seems almost better than drinking the best wine in the world. Well, maybe not… we ARE going to go back to try again. Who doesn’t want the best?!

I’ve come to realize it’s all important, it’s all a gift- each step, each path, each rejection, each laugh. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, maybe it ends with the best wine… or maybe lemons…but I do know this, it’s all a part of the dream, and each day, I am coming true!

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Never finish loving you.

When you complete a painting, the recommended last step is to apply a fixative. This chemical substance acts as a preservative. It stabilizes the paint. It protects the painting from damage. It is finished.

But for a small cage of ribs, the heart is offered no such protection.  It carries the pain, both exquisite and excruciating. Some may try to put up walls and barriers. Fighting it, as if love were a wind. But I’ve never looked to stability as the cure. The only answer for me is to ride it, feel it — feel it all. 

Walking yesterday, experiencing the exquisiteness of each painful heartbeat, I stopped at a gathering of poppies. Most were braced against the wind, but there was one, not fighting it, just dancing. Petals whipping. A glorious blur of red. 

My life doesn’t need to be fixed. Only lived. And I know, this glorious poppy that beats inside of me, that dances in the winds of change, it, I, will never finish loving you.

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Lofted.

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Pauline joined us our sophomore year in college. She was the only “single” on this floor of double rooms, which already made her special. But then she lofted her bed, along with my impression of her.

With her bed raised high, there was room for two chairs. Room for conversation. Not lying on your bed conversation, like teenagers, but seated, postured conversations. It felt so grown-up, sitting in chairs, face to face. She even had a plant. She wasn’t waiting for life to begin. And I wanted to join her.

We talked about poems and books. Boys and mothers. Dances and classmates. We talked about the future like it had already begun. We talked about dreams in the same way. We sat in that space when my grandpa died. She helped me cry. We sat in that space when she broke up with her longtime boyfriend. (I suppose everything seems long term at 19.) I helped her cry. I suppose once you’ve seen someone cry, the laughter comes so easily. (Both states of vulnerability.) And oh how we laughed! I can still see her back teeth!

In the spring, she unscrewed the posts holding up her bed. Put the plant in the back seat of her car. And she was gone. She transferred to a new school. Maybe it was only a handful of months, but Pauline taught me about friendship. About the perfection of the time that is given. Nothing wasted.

I mention it now, because it seems so present. I know it’s Sunday, but it feels like a Friday afternoon. A Friday, sitting in Pauline’s room, waiting for my ride to come and take me home. Wearing my pink sweater vest and white pants. “You look nice,” she said. I smiled. “You dressed up to see your mom.” I shook my head yes.

Today, this Sunday, this mother’s day, this mother’s day that feels like a Friday afternoon — a Friday afternoon when I’m still almost a girl, wanting to please my mother. Wanting to tell her about my school, my week, my friend — because nothing felt as real as when I told her. I sit under the comfort of lofted memories. I laugh. And I cry. I sit in the perfection of the time that was given. Knowing nothing was wasted. Not time. Not emotion. Knowing I had such a friend. I had such a mother!

Life begins and begins. I’m not waiting.


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Join in the dew.

I suppose it’s all how we come to it. The morning light.

It’s not that different from yesterday. But it is beautiful! How can it still be mixed with a hint of surprise after all these years?

The birds see it before I do. Each in their own language of song, “Look! Look!” they say. Never one to argue with a tune, I open the shutters, and let it all in. The glistening light carried on wings.

Diamond lit are the leaves on the trees. Sparkling too with each blade of grass. Even yesterday’s weeds join in the dew. It seems that all is forgiven in the garden. Nature has it right.

I bow my head before the morning light. Humble. Vulnerable. Open. Just a hint of surprise, as my heart seems as willing as all the green to accept the sparkle. A mix of willow, wren and weed, I come to the day. I come to the garden. Ready to shine.

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Weight.

I had to go back and reread it — the lesson I had “learned.” The lesson I re-learned and wrote down on paper. The lesson on paper that I typed onto the computer. The lesson I shared with you, more than once. 

“Each rock seemed to give birth to another. I was so tired. But Grandpa didn’t seem to be. He just kept picking those rocks, one after the other. He seemed to get stronger. There was precision in each movement. I watched carefully. It was like an oil pump that didn’t have a beginning or an end to its motion, but just kept going. I had been throwing the rocks with anger, but he moved them with purpose…and that was the difference.“

I was pulling weeds yesterday in our backyard. Powerful weeds that I struggle with every year. At first I just pulled them. Strong, I thought, but nothing I can’t handle. Then slowly I started to give them the weight of my anger. Stupid weeds. The weight of my bent back. You’re killing me! The weight of forever, like I was never going to win this battle. The weight of I’m going to have to do this every year again and again, and…. OH MY! I could barely lift them at this point. I started to cry. Oh, good! I thought. Now I’m watering them!

It all sounds so ridiculous after a good night’s sleep. I read the words, again, and I know, again, there is no need to give more weight to the rocks in our life.

I smile and tag myself with the familiar words — “Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.” Thank you, Grandpa.

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