Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: September 2023


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Finding shine.

I suppose it’s only natural to get used to things. Even the things we dreamed about for years can become ordinary while living them. And we all want to be comfortable. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the shine, I don’t want to lose that. So I make the small changes. Daily.

It might sound silly, but for me, it’s the little things. I change the painting in my direct view from the breakfast table. And this brand new, this shiny comfort, reflects my smile, and the day begins. 

After lunch is my usual reading time. I switch up the place. Moving daily from chair, to bed, to outdoor hammock. Yesterday’s sun jumped off the pages as I swayed above the grass. 

Being my mother’s daughter, it is not only my joy, but my responsibility, to change my clothes frequently throughout the day. The more challenging the day, the more changes. I will hold the conversation in my head. Clutching my pearls, sometimes real, sometimes imaginary. Humbly offering my thanks. Accepting the worked-for shine that only a mirror and a mother’s memory can reflect.

Now some might say, well it’s easy for you, you live in a beautiful country. You have inspiration all around. Yes, that’s true. But I don’t eat breakfast under the Eiffel Tower each morning. I, like everyone else, am not given a reason to get out of bed…I (we) have to get out of bed and go find that reason every day.

I don’t know what today will bring. I’m not even sure what I’ll wear, or how long I’ll wear it. The clouds overhead say, “you’re on your own today.” I smile. “I’ve got this,” I say. And set out to find my shine.

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Not too busy.

Maybe because I never had to doubt it with my mother, I was able to write about it. 

We used to spend hours trying on clothes together. When the “fit” really fit — oh, it was magnificent. Praises of oohs and aahs filled the air. And when it missed, the knee hugging laughter went on through the entire fashion cycle. We were safe. Together. Seeing each other. Loving each other. From the lowest to the highest moments. Finding the beauty of it all along the way. 

For a couple of years, the clothing store J.Jill carried my book, “I’m not too busy.” Of course it was also at bookstores. Galleries. Gift stores where I sold my artwork. But this was something special. J.Jill didn’t sell any other books. Just clothing. We had shopped in the Ridgedale store enough for some of the clerks to know us. One Saturday morning, properly caffeinated with Caribou, we began trying on the J.Jill clothing. Continuously giggling in the delight of books being in the dressing room and on display throughout the store. It was the perfect pocket of time. 

My mother brought the white linen blouse to the counter to purchase. She looked lovely in it. I told her so. The clerk had as well. My book rested on the counter as my mother reached for her credit card. The J.Jill employee looked at me, in that way that maybe she knew me. And perhaps she had looked at my bio in the book, or maybe she just remembered from last Saturday. It didn’t matter. We all had been seen. And that was the gift. 

I have that blouse. Along with those precious moments. I carry them daily. I will never be too busy to remember. My heart giggles, and I am seen.

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A new measure.

I spotted it on the gravel path. The sun reflected off the silver case. I picked up the tape measure. It had a few scratches, but worked perfectly.  The metal strip was strong. It stayed in place when I pushed down the lever. A good measure. I looked around the nearby driveways to see if a work truck was nearby. There was no one. We are always in need of a tape measure. We have a couple, but they never seem to be in the right place. Smiling, I hooked my find onto the waistband of my shorts and kept walking. It was a good day.

The things that make me care are forever changing. There was a time when I measured the success of the day by the odometer on my bicycle. Each turn of the pedal brought something new. Then by school grades. Every “A” neared the way out. Paychecks and car doors. Plane tickets and galleries. Fax machines and store orders. Credit cards and rent paid. Computers and social media. “Likes” and “friends.” Measure by measure.

There are a million ways, I suppose, to monitor your success. I would never presume to tell you how to do it. The only thing I know for sure is that it keeps changing. That is the gift, if you choose to see it. But you have to change along with it. Find a new measure. I tell myself this daily. Will this painting sell? It doesn’t matter — I had fun doing it. Will this post get a lot of likes? The message was just as much for me. Did I get anywhere today? I had the time to go for a walk. New measures.

I don’t know if some signs are easier to see, or if some days we just choose to see them. Either way, I needed this one. Returning home, I presented the tape measure to my husband. “Bravo!” he cheered. Love — perhaps the greatest measure of all.

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Raison d’être.

I was maybe five or six the first and only time my mom told me to clean my room. I didn’t like it at all. Not for the reasons you may think. It was because I didn’t like being seen in this way. A mess. I suppose I just loved her so much, I wanted her to see the best of me. And she was right. This wasn’t my best. Bed undone. Clothes on the floor. I knew, even then, what this space was for. My room to create. I needed this space to gather all my feelings on paper. And she knew it too. The space to make sense of all the things we were feeling, this would save us. Saves me still. It and I became clear, as she smiled from the doorway.

I didn’t have the words for it then. And certainly not the French words. But I hear them. Daily. “Ma raison d’être.” My reason for being.

This is what I’m making space for. A clear path to feel it all. A way for everything to get in. For everything to get through. Because as hard as it is sometimes, I do want to feel it. All of it. I think that’s why I’m here. My reason for being. To feel it and capture it with words and paint. To unclutter the path so we can all make our way…together.

Sometimes one of you will pick out a few words, a phrase from the daily post, and walk it back to me. This is my mother’s smile from a path made clear, and I know, I’m exactly where, who, I’m supposed to be. I’m smiling too.

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Out wandering.

“If we opened people up, we’d find landscapes.” Agnes Varda

I cannot pass a golden field in any country, without thinking of my grandfather. The breeze that blows through the harvest to come is the breath of hard labor and kindness.

I was 19 when he got pancreatic cancer. They cut him in half to assess the damage. They closed him almost immediately. When I saw the row of staples, I couldn’t imagine they couldn’t see something — something that could be salvaged. Clung to. Some hope. Because that’s what I imagined beneath the scar. This was the landscape I knew lived within him. A field that had turned from brown to green to gold. A yearly harvest to be counted on — this, I knew for certain, was inside my grandfather. A landscape I carry still today.

We went to visit Dominique’s mother at the cemetery. She rests between two vineyards. We stopped at each one. Tasting the white. The rosé. The red. Delicious. What a fitting landscape for her. The vine that doesn’t end. From the work of the fields. To the joy of the table. The French landscape I will carry too, within.

We’re not always given the answers. But we’re always shown a way. If you look for me today, be patient. My heart is wandering landscapes.

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Ironed blouses.

There were no smartphones to capture the moment. Only real film. Real cameras. No google to tag the time and place. We relied on the story. Packaged it deeply into our hearts and brains. Told it again and again to keep it alive.

I came across the photo of my mother on her hands and knees, in her bra and short pants, all smiles, ironing her blouse on the carpeted condo floor. That’s Hilton Head, South Carolina. I can’t see out any window. There are no discernable markers. But I know the story. 

It was my first real vacation from my first real job. We packed our non-rolling suitcases and put them in my GPS-less car. We drove from the Minnesota winter to the beaches of South Carolina. 

Having only real film to document our journey, decisions had to be made. It wasn’t like it is today with digital. No, there was a real cost to each photo, so I had to be frugal with my image choices. With all the beauty that surrounded us, the sand and sun, blues skies and flowers, you may be surprised that I used precious film to capture the moment of my mother ironing her blouse on the condo floor. But this WAS the story. The one I wanted to remember. Because I knew the landscape could and would change through the years, but it was our relationship, this was the most important thing of all. 

I can still feel the heaving of laughter in my belly. Struggling so to keep the camera still, and focus on the image. It wasn’t really “funny,” — it was just the release of so much joy. This freedom to be ourselves, to be our best selves. So much joy, all we could do was laugh. 

I know I took some pictures on the beach. I’ve misplaced them through the years. They weren’t that valuable. I saved what was important. 

You won’t find ironed blouses in the Hilton Head brochures, but in my heart, the laughter, the joy, the real story lives on and on.

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Protecting grace.

It began out of necessity — “If You See Something, Say Something®” —  a national campaign to raise public awareness of the signs of terrorism. We’re nearing SeeSayDay, September 25th. It was established, as their website explains, because “We all have someone, or something, to protect.” 

And while I believe this is extremely important, I’d like to add a thought. What if we took this philosophy, this “If you see something, say something,” and used it in our daily lives, when what we saw was something good, someone beautiful…

I have never met her in “real life.” Only here on Facebook. My cousin, Shawn, introduced us. And from what I am reading in her recent posts, I will not be offered that chance of meeting her face to face. 

What I do know is this. She sat with my grandmother and made rugs. Quilts. Some might say, only making tiny artistic ripples in the small pond of Farwell, Minnesota. But the grace, and elegance she is showing in her final days is extraordinary. The words of peace and gratitude she is offering up, for me, has created a wave that reaches across the sea, and it is so very beautiful. If she ever had doubts about becoming an artist, let them end here. What I see is a gorgeous work of art. I see her, and I have to say something. I have to tell her, tell the world, that she matters. Thank you, Gloria.

Perhaps this is my daily campaign. To show you the people that I think ARE REALLY SOMETHING!  The SeeSayDay urges us to “get involved.” I guess I’m doing the same. Because I agree, we do have a duty to protect each other from the evil of this world. But perhaps just as important, we have the privilege of shining the light on the best of us. We have a grace to protect.

Today, if you are met with kindness, with love, with beauty of any kind — and I pray that you are — please, please say something!

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Beyond pumped.

My brother had already left home by the time I was in the fifth grade, but there was a part of me still trying to get his attention. 

They passed out the forms at Washington Elementary to sign up for the Punt, Pass and Kick competition. I can’t say that I was a football fan, but I folded up the paper and put it in the pocket of my no-brand jeans. I had no real intention of asking my mother to sign it. That would be admitting something to her that I wasn’t ready to admit to myself. 

I found his old football in the garage. What it had gathered in dust, it had lost in air. I licked the needle of the pump for my bicycle tires (I don’t know why, but I had seen him do that) and tried to squeeze it into the ball. I placed the small kickstand under my feet and I pumped and pumped and pumped some more! The needle popped out. The ball was still deflated. And I was on my way to be. 

Ever hopeful, I decided to still give it a try. I couldn’t quite reach the regulation laces with my fingers. I cocked back my elbow and gave more of a push than a throw. It didn’t spiral. It tumbled. I had no tee to attempt an actual kick of the ball, so I decided to punt (no pun intended). I tossed the ball slightly in the air and swung desperately with my right foot. It felt like a brick as I hit my shin against the flattened leather. I tore the sign-up sheet into tiny bits and through them in the burning barrel by the driveway. 

It’s a difficult lesson, one that I’m still learning. People can only love you for who you are. You can’t force it. Or even win it. You just have to be yourself. And that’s still no guarantee that they will love you. But if they do, love you for who you are, how glorious! How beyond punt, pass and kick fantastic! 

And never is it more true, than with yourself. The thing is, there’s no permission slip for that. You have to find your own way to selfcare, to self love. 

A few summers ago, here in France, my brother-in-law found an old American football. With his son, he was playing catch in our backyard. He threw it to me. Without thinking, I placed my long fingers on the laces, and threw a perfect spiral back to him. “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked in surprise. I smiled and said, “I guess I just found a way.” 

I am loved.

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Home. Sweet.

It was only out of complete desperation that I ate the semi-sweet chocolate chips in the upper cupboard of our kitchen. We didn’t have a continuous stock of candy in our house like my grandma. I stockpiled from each holiday and saved a bit from the Ben Franklin run before the Saturday matinee, so I was able to keep a small stash for afterschool snacks. On the rare occasion that I ran out, I frantically searched the house. Checking first the milk glass candy dish in the living room, but it only contained what my friends called “grandma candy” – usually mints.  (Which I never understood, because no one had better candy than my grandma.)  Only one other option remained. I pulled the wooden dining chair in front of the corner cupboards. Climbed up. Standing on the orange formica, I spun the lazy susan to the baking goods. Found the chocolate chips. Prayed for the off chance that we also had butterscotch chips to mix with the semisweet. We rarely did. Sitting on the counter’s edge, I poured a handful of the dark chocolate, still hoping for something sweet. 

I mention it only because I marvel at my youthful expectation. After countless climbs, it was always the same result — bittersweet — yet I remained ever hopeful. I suppose believers always believe. 

I don’t know what today will bring, but there’s a part of me that wakes, ready to push the chair, make the climb, hoist my feet and heart, in search of something sweet. I still believe.

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Shoulder pads.

While searching for our voices in the 80’s, we began at shoulder level. As Krystle and Alexis fought for their Dynasty, we too, built up our shoulders to face the future.

It didn’t come as a complete surprise. I had been hearing about my shoulders since I started grade school. At the breakfast table, my mom would smooth out my hair, check my outfit, and tell me, each and every morning, “put your shoulders back,” strengthening me long before I knew how much I would need it.

We embraced the shoulder pads. Stood even taller, claiming the space our hearts and minds so desired. Maybe it was just the boost we needed. It wasn’t wrong to find it wherever you could, my mother explained. And so we did. In lipstick. Positive thinking. Poetry. Music. Collective laughter. And yes, even the shoulder pad.

By the time the trend faded, we were strong in our strides. Building our own dynasty.

Grief can be powerful. The weight pulling you down. I’ll admit to times when I have grabbed my knees in battle.

In full gravity of missing her, I opened the drawer. Took out my mother’s blouse. Pulled it over my head. And I felt it. Them. Tiny little shoulder pads, hand sewn. I smiled. She always found a way. And so will I.

Even at its hardest moments, this life is so very beautiful. I stand proudly, tall, shoulders back, ever strong in my dynasty.

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