Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: May 2023


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Out of the back seat.

I was learning the capitals of all 50 states when they shaved my brother’s head and assigned him to the base in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I had never heard of the UP, until the weekend we went to visit him. My only reward was a dusty blue sweatshirt with the words, “UP – 51st state.”

Wearing it, I tried to memorize the capitals of the other fifty on the excruciatingly long ride home. It may have been the first of a forever lesson on the existence of others. There were other states. Other cities. Even my brother had become an other. Soon, but for my mom and I, that’s what our family would be.

I suppose the awareness was just coming into light. But I could feel the discomfort. My mother could see that I was struggling. “Just make it familiar,” she told me. I reached my head over the back of her car seat, wondering what she meant. “You know, make the connection personal. Tie the capital and the state together with something you already know.” I stared blankly. “Name a state,” she said. “Michigan,” I said — it being in our rearview mirror. “What’s the capital?” “Lansing,” I read off of the map in my hand. “What’s familiar?” she asked. I said the words over and over… quickly. Lansing. Michigan. LansingMichigan. Lanigan. Cindy Lanigan – My best friend. I smiled. “See….” my mom said joyfully. I’ve never forgotten.

I aced the test on Monday, wearing my new sweatshirt. Some laughed. Thought it was ridiculous…a 51st state. But I knew, even then, there was more out there. More of the other, that I would connect to, make my own.

My mother gave me more than a home. From the back seat of a Chevy Impala, she gave me the world.

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Place by place.

I was using it as bookmark, one of my apple paintings. Lying in the hammock, he stood over me and picked it up from my chest. “You did that,” he said. I smiled with eyes, mouth and heart. It felt like we both were “holding my place.”

From the age of six, I wrote poems for my mother. Burned the edges of the paper and decoupaged them to the panels of wood I had stained with a blowtorch. It was my humble attempt to make her feel better. To feel safe.

I suppose in my childish ways, I thought maybe life was like a lifeguard at the beach — that you only had to be saved once. But I learned that in love, in life, we would have to (get to) do it again and again. I kept writing. I kept painting.

And all those poems, those paintings, they weren’t just saving her, but me. And day to day, as we reflected smiles from heart to heart, face to face, we could look at each other and say, “You did that.”

Life’s pages keep turning. True love moves with you. Recognizes you. Holds you. Place to changing place.



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To find out who I am.

They didn’t protect us from getting lost – in fact they encouraged it — our teachers at Central Junior High. We were swung through a carousel of mini-courses, each lasting six weeks. It seems they knew that in order to find ourselves we first had to wander off the paths of our familiar.

The transitions seemed abrupt. Moving from sewing to drafting. Drafting to metals. Metals to plastics. Back up to home-ec. Back down to wood shop. My mother’s laundry room/storage area was stacked with an uneven wooden shelf, a dangerously sharp edged metal toolbox, a yellow stuffed dog sewn with red thread, a glitter filled plastic soap dish in the shape of a pear, blue prints for an undetermined office building, and a lingering bitter taste of a slightly unbaked apple pie.

I suppose it was this balance that helped to form me. Being thrust from place to place in school, and then welcomed home, no matter what I carried, in hand or in heart — I knew it, I, would be saved.

I don’t think any of us knew that we would look back on these junior transitions and think, how simple, how small, compared to the ones life now challenges us with. As we move through adult time and space, perhaps the most difficult is when people transition in and out of our lives. This letting in, and letting go. Maybe that’s what they were trying to teach us all along.

They armed us with experience. I carry it up and down today’s stairs. I’m still learning.

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Fresh.

I suppose it took us a bit to make the transition. She was our first teacher who wore her hair down. Perhaps even the first to wear pants. She was young and beautiful. Our elementary school equilibrium had to date been neatly tucked in pencil skirts and bunned hair. But not Miss Green. We could smell it, this, her “fresh” out of university. 

But we were open. As open as the first team room in Washington Elementary. We played Jackson 5 records on the phonograph before class. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and we listened. She sent us off on “spelling trips” around the globe. We had to write stories together. In groups we created inclusive adventures. Each journey was dependent on every member. And we were hooked. 

We pledged allegiance to the flag, but mostly to her, to our class, and to each other. So when she came to us (Barb, Wendy, Lori and me) one morning and encouraged us to “Be nice to Danny today,” we didn’t question it. We didn’t ask why, or what was wrong. We just did it. Without our knowledge or permission, she had slipped it in, this lesson of empathy. We didn’t even have the word for it then, but we had the ability. She gave us that.

There is a lot of talk about artificial intelligence today — AI. I believe in progress. I believe in growth. Technology. Advancement. I am not afraid of the future. But I am still sure of one thing — human contact can never be replaced. What we learned, working together, there was nothing artificial about it. And it has lasted a lifetime. 

Maybe we just have to keep learning how to learn. If we can do this, stay human while we stay fresh, then maybe we can do anything.

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A part of it all.

It’s one of the first lessons they taught us at Washington Elementary. One that I keep having to learn.

Mrs. Strand told us to sit in a circle. We wriggled our way next to our best friend of the day. Up and down. Crawling on hands and knees. Maneuvering. Pushing. Wedging our way into position. Mrs. Strand had the patience of a saint. Finally, when we shaped ourselves into something nearing a circle, Mrs. Strand told us the game — “Whisper around the World.” What did she say? (Because in fact, she did whisper it.) She said it softly again. “Whisper around the World.” And because our world was contained within these four walls, we thought for sure we would excel at it.

She would begin by whispering a sentence into a student’s ear. That student would then repeat it into the ear of the next student in the circle, and so on, until it reached the last person, and then that last person would say it out loud. Words were passed, between snorts and giggles. Laughter and spit. And more words. Other words. We leaned in close. Leaned over in delight. The last person said the sentence out loud. Then Mrs. Strand said the actual sentence. Not even close. Not one word was the same. At first it was hysterical. Then we did it again. “This time we were really going to try,” we thought. We never got it right.

I suppose the lessons were multiple. And because we hadn’t yet developed the cynicism that age can bring, we still believed it was possible. If we really tried. If we paid attention. If we asked questions. If we went to the source. Our source was a tall, soon to be pregnant with twins, woman at the front of the class. When she told us something. We heard it. We believed it. “The truth can always be found,” she told us, “if you go to the source.”

I understand today, that even hearing the words is sometimes not enough. I’ve learned to stop and ask the questions. Not just “what did you say,” but “what did you mean when you said…”

Now being actually “around the world,” it’s even more important. Distance. Time. Texting. Emailing. They can all be as easily misconstrued as a passing snort. Maybe it’s naive, but I still believe. I still believe we can get there. We can see the humor in our mistakes. And come together, with all of our ill-shaped good intentions, we can whisper our way to the truth, and be a part of it all.

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Within the flutter.


The first time I showed her the painting of her dress we were at Barnes and Noble in St. Cloud. It was half the driving distance for each of us. Just an hour difference, but so necessary. This excitement that was bursting inside of me – a heart trying to contain a mass of butterflies – I just couldn’t hold back for that extra hour. And neither could she. We ordered our lattes. Found our table. And I ran out to the car and dragged the four foot painting inside. If people stared, it was probably due more to the butterflies than the painting. Our joy was palpable, and not to be contained.

When I walk up the stairs in our house, I pass her picture and there is a swelling, an ache, in my heart. I do yoga in the bedroom. The third pose turns my head toward her image on the dresser, and my there is my heart again. Sitting at my computer, typing these words, her dress hangs on the wall. My heart. For months after her passing, I would have called this pain. But it occurred to me this morning, sitting by her painting, I can still smell the coffee from the Starbuck’s counter at Barnes and Noble. It’s so strong, I’m waiting for the barista to call my name. I hear my mom’s laughter. Touch her purse with the side of my foot. Marvel at the crisp white of her blouse. As my heart sends those twinges, those heart swellings to my brain, I think this is not pain, these are the butterflies. This is love. This is joy.

I have been following the book bannings in the US — particularly one ruling in Florida – something about banning anything that made people “uncomfortable.” What a ridiculous notion. Not to mention impossible. I don’t want to live in that world. How would we learn anything? How would we grow? How would we even love? Yes, my heart may ache, but I wouldn’t trade that for the world. I want to feel the discomfort of every butterfly. The glorious discomfort of change, growth, of life itself. This is nothing to be feared — and I almost said “but embraced” here – but really, not even embraced, for butterflies as you know will never be contained. They can only be released.

I sit, books surrounding me. The scent of coffee in the air. The sound of my mother’s joy. This is love, I tell my heart, and run along in its flutter.

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Winning.

I was still playing with dolls when my brother came home from school with a handful of ribbons. He was saying something about Track and Field, competition, winning – I could barely hear over the noise of those silken colors. “How can I get some?” I asked. “You don’t GET them, you have to WIN them!” “How do I win them?” “Not for girls,” he said. “If it’s not for girls, why do they reward you with ribbons?” He pushed me aside, and I knew I had already won.

I would have to wait for several years, but I was first in line to receive our 7th grade track uniforms. The coach pulled out a gray hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants. Our school colors were red and black. I started to ask if this was my size. She rolled her eyes. There were no options.

Armed with youth, I donned the gray and ran in the spring rain to the field. With no worry of soiling our “uniforms,” we collapsed in the grass to catch our breath.

Experts at nothing, we entered everything. I ran in relays. Jumped high and long. Put the shot. And threw the discus. I was covered in stains at our first meet. Teachers of English and Math, dressed in sweatsuits, wrote down our times and distances. I placed in many events that day and couldn’t wait to get my ribbons. The teachers told us to get on the bus. Wait! Where were our ribbons? Did we get them on the bus?

Ribbons, they explained, would not be given out until the last meet. I felt like I was being dared to continue, so I did. I suppose it was ironic that my greatest competition that spring was a girl named Autumn. Autumn had long flowing hair, straight out of a TV commercial. In this battle of seasons, I dragged myself to the final meet of the season.

There were five places for each event, or as I thought of them — Blue, Red, White, Yellow, Green. I was so surprised that I had come to actually enjoy the events. I had worked hard. Even before the ceremony I found myself smiling. Proud even. With no thoughts of my brother, or Autumn, my heart felt strong. I had won, even before I took home two blues, a yellow and a green.

I don’t know what happened to the ribbons. But my heart remains strong. Able. Willing! (Winning) I find myself smiling, in every color, knowing that I am enough!

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Tools.


It isn’t often. It’s only happened a couple of times in 10 years, but it’s been enough to keep me humble. To keep me aware. I respect my electric saw. It cuts the angles to make the frames to enclose the paintings.

The first time it occurred, it terrified me. I can’t say why it happened. Maybe a flaw in the wood, or an extra strength… I don’t know. I always check for nails or screws in my reclaimed wood. I wear goggles. Take the usual precautions. But something snapped. And I mean cracked with the most vengeful noise and a piece of wood shot across the studio. Like a gun or canon went off! It took me several days to go back to it. To be calm enough to try again. But I did. And the fear slipped into knowledge. It became an additional tool. It happened again the other day. Less terrifying, but I knew enough to step away. To think it through, and return with a clear head.

I hope I’m smart enough to do the same in my relationships. I hope we all are. Gathering in the fear, the surprise, the anger even, and turning it into knowledge. To know when it’s time to engage, and when it’s time to step away. We are given all the tools. Right from the start — I guess we just have to keep learning how to use them.

Trust is a big one. I will admit that it has been a hard one for me to re-learn. Taken away with a bang at a young age, it took me a long time to go back to it. But I have been lucky. The door has been opened and opened again with the kindness of others. And I can’t turn away. There is beauty to be made. Joy to be felt. Love to be loved. Life to be lived. The day begins – my heart is a tool – I’m not afraid to use it.

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Heart bound.

We lived in three houses on VanDyke Road. We didn’t stop until we reached Grandma Mullen. For this brief moment in time, we were wedged between the two grandmas — Dynda and Mullen. The fact that we were related to neither of them, didn’t make the grandma bookends any less special.

We choose what holds us up. What keeps us together.

I remember thinking that gold was actually the color of white. Because in all of the fairy tale books beside my fairy-tale-needing bed, the women had hair “spun from gold.” The two grandmas had the finest, whitest hair. Hair that seemed so different, so magical, that my chubby fingers could do nothing but reach out and make a wish. A golden wish — that I would be forever held.

We lost that house. My mom and I moved into town. The grandmas passed away. They paved the road. I left the city. The state. And eventually the country. Some might say, “Well, that golden wish sure didn’t come true…” I guess it’s all what you choose to see. I think it has. I think it continues.

We used to play a game. Telephone. Strings and tin cans. Whispering into the tin, our voices traveled through the string into the other can. We said things that we didn’t dare say out loud in the light of day. Words only safe on magical white string. Sometimes, before I fell asleep, I’d imagine that Grandma Dynda would whisper a secret. One that would travel across the vacant lot. Through my open window. Translated by my heart. Passing through the trees, into the bedroom of Grandma Mullen. We were all connected.

You might say that VanDyke road was the place where everything fell apart. Or you could say, it is the place that gave me the tools to keep everything together. That’s what I choose. Daily. What lifts me. Daily. What holds me together. Forever wedged within the magic. Heart bound in the belief that we are all connected.

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No pretending.

Before I knew the word ironic, there was a brief moment in my youth that my mother and I colored together. My book was likely purchased from Olson’s Super Market – filled with cartoon characters. Hers was was given to her by a good friend who recognized her situation – it was titled, “Color me happy.”  It just occurred to me, the meaning of “make-believe.”

I suppose the only way of learning it is to live it. And that’s what she did. By creating a belief (sometimes out of seemingly nothing at all) she made me believe not all things are bad, many things are good! So many things are good!

It’s not lost on me that on some difficult days, the best thing I can do is make-believe (I want to be clear – this is not pretend – this is creation.) I take out my colored pencils. I draw something. And color, by beautiful color, I can see the beauty of this moment, this day, this life, and I know for certain, so many things are good! 

With this tiny bird, I did in fact, “color myself happy.” My mother taught me that. She taught me how to color. She taught me how to fly.

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