Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: December 2023


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Tagged.

There was a gift wrapping room in our last hotel. Everything but the presents themselves. Expensive colored papers and ribboned bows. Scotch tape. Scissors sharpened new. Candies — chocolated and caned. I wrapped our purchases while the carols played. Tagged each one by name.

I suppose that’s always been the most important part — the tagging. At first, as a child, it was to see your name on top. The “to.” Oh how glorious to be beside the “to.” What would I get? What could I claim? It seemed to be everything. I would have never imagined it differently. And I can’t tell you the exact date it happened, or even the time of year. But it did change. Without my knowledge or permission, it became glorious to see (feel) my name on the “from.” To be the giver. Just a simple tag, but oh, the power it held.

It’s always been love, I guess. On both sides of the tag.

It was no where near Christmas when I found them – this bundled string of tags. Weathered through years of neglect, I pulled them from a forgotten corner of my studio. I have no idea what the previous owners were going to give, but surely it had something to do with love, so I saved them. In the summer sun, I dusted them off, and began writing all of the gifts that I want to give. The gifts that I want to receive. (We need to be able to do both.)

We won’t be at our house in France for Christmas, but I have a strong feeling we will be home. My gifts have been tagged. My heart as well. I carry them with me.

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That’s enough.


They did the best they could to fill our minds, but it’s a longer path to the soul.

I’m sure we had a section about her — Rosa Parks. But to be honest, I’m certain we spent more time talking about our own bus rides to and from the very school that was trying to teach us.

In these desks, I had always assumed the word “enough,” was used in anger. Exasperation. “That’s enough!!!” — the teacher might say, often accompanied by a book, ruler, pencil, anything slammed against the desk. And we could be, well, exasperating for sure. We heard it from the bus driver who just couldn’t take the noise anymore as he drove us to Van Dyke Road, where parents, tired from a day’s work, said the same at the dinner table.

It was much later that I learned a new meaning. A calm, gentle enough. An enough that says farewell to the hurt, the anger, the torment, whatever it is pulling down on you. I suppose it takes a while to find this inner place. This inner peace. No bus can actually take you there, you have to find it from within. And when you do, you can say, just as Rosa Parks did, in the most graceful of ways, enough. To say with all of your mind, heart and soul, in a whisper that shouts louder than any slam, “Oh, but it is my place…” and take it.

We all have to learn it. But I’m so grateful for those who give us the examples of how it is done with grace. I have heard it from my grandmother. My mother. Rosa Parks. I painted the bookmark as a reminder. There is still so much to learn. So much to let go. But we CAN do it with grace. Enough of the name calling. The bullying. The fighting. The soul crushing, spirit limiting behavior.

Enough.

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Light as joy.

How many trips around the sun and down the road, does it take to learn this lesson?

As I move the luggage from hotel to hotel, I can’t imagine what it would be like if I hadn’t tried. And I did try. I do. That’s the most embarrassing part. Yet, my luggage weighs more than I do. The things we carry…

And it’s not like nature itself doesn’t teach us. When I feel healthy, joyful, the first thing I think of is that I feel so light. It’s a great feeling this release of stress, worry, angst, anger, whatever it is that weighs us down. And it can change from road to road, place to place, person to person. Letting go is one of the great lessons to be learned. And it’s ironic, I suppose, but I also have to let go of feeling guilty for not learning it already, not completely — because that in itself is just more baggage. Smiling in the mirror as I type this, as the mouth of my open suitcase stares back at me.

Oh what a smile can release! With any luck it will work its way into my heart and hands. It’s my wish for us all, the lightness of joy. Happy travels, my friends.





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Through any door.

My grandma pulled into her driveway. Put the car in Park. I unbuckled my seatbelt. Pulled up the lever to unlock the door. As she opened her door, she looked over at me and said, “Don’t say anything about her arms…”

I didn’t have time to question her. She was already half way to the front door.

My grandmother made quilts. She made rugs. Some of her friends did too. The friend we were visiting on this day had a giant loom. And apparently, something wrong with her arms. I raced my six year old legs behind her. My grandma pushed me through the door first. Her hand on the small of my back was both the courage and decisiveness I needed. She had done it since I could walk. Even when she was phone sitting at the funeral home, she guided me through each room in this very way. She taught me to enter boldly and gently. To greet whomever was inside. (Even the ones who were no longer with us.) So with the help of her farm hand, I entered the home of the loom woman. She was the largest woman I had ever seen. I’d like to think I didn’t stare, but the extra pinch on my back said differently. “Hello,” I said. I told her my name. “Ivy’s daughter,” my grandma continued. We went to the loom. Her giant arms waved in a way that impressed us differently, but we were equally amazed at the beauty she could create.

My grandma didn’t travel. But you would be mistaken to say that she didn’t see the world. She taught me that not all who lead are out front. Someone has to be there. Behind you. To support you. To make sure you walk through that door. Even when you are uncertain. Perhaps afraid. To present yourself with the assurance of who you are, where you come from. And through it all, to be kind.

I have seen more of the world than I ever could have imagined on that gravel road. But I know, I have never walked through any door alone.







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Verbing.


A few years ago we were traveling in New Mexico and stopped late at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. We didn’t notice that it was almost closing time. Prepared to buy our tickets, the woman at the front desk told us to just go through. Maybe it seems like a small gift, but we were thrilled. The museum was almost empty of people and we saw all of her glorious works that we love. Easily, and free!

Now, when visiting any museum or paid entry building, it’s always in the back of my mind, “Maybe we can just O’Keeffe it.”

Maybe we really only know someone when they become verbs.

If someone falls asleep in a chair, that’s pulling a Grandma Elsie. If I guess at the measuring for a recipe – a Grandma Elsie. If I take the time to write a letter, addressing it in a careful cursive – this too is a Grandma Elsie.

Maybe if we paid a little more attention to the verbs instead of the pronouns, we would all know each other a little better, treat each other a little more kindly. Maybe that’s just me being hopeful, looking for the best — pulling an Ivy.

The verbs of my grandmother and mother live on.



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When someone shows you their hope, it’s hard to unsee it.


Living in the south of France, I see the Sainte Victoire mountain daily. Each time, I give thanks for my current view, and also for the view Paul Cezanne gave us in his paintings. Would I have seen it without him? Would I have noticed the extraordinary beauty of this mountain without his vision? I’m not sure, so I give thanks with each passing step.

I suppose it has always been this way. My grandfather did the same with his farm. Without him, perhaps these fields would have just been blurs from a car window. But not for me. Not since walking with him. Holding his roughened artist hand that turned those fields from black to green to gold each year. Work. Magic. Love. I slow down the car.

We all have a responsibility to find the beauty. To share it. It’s everywhere. Poets and philosophers have tried to explain it. (Certainly smarter than me.) But maybe it’s all about hope. Maybe that’s what makes everything beautiful. So that’s what I try to create. In the faces. In the paintings. In this life. There is hope. Always, if we choose to see it, and share it with each other.

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To sit beside little.

He is probably best known for his golden colors. Brilliant yellows. Vibrant flowers and fields. This is Van Gogh. But yesterday, it was his simple drawing at the Chicago Art Institute that got into my heart more than most. Entitled the Christmas Prayer, it is an elderly man, with folded hands, giving thanks for what most would call “very little.” He writes to his brother, “I have a feeling of belief in something on high even if I don’t know exactly who or what will be there. I like what Victor Hugo said: religions pass, but God remains.”

There are lights all around us here. The city is decorated for Christmas. And I love it so much. Trees twinkling. Lions wreathed. Reds and greens. Goldens shining. But it’s not the real reason I love Chicago. I love it for the black and whiteness of it all. The strong shoulders of buildings that welcomed me long ago, when I needed it most. When I needed the strength and certainty of it, to become.

And so it is with people. There are some in bright and shiny colors who will take you to the party. And then there are some who will simply take you home. And sit beside you. In gratitude.

Perhaps we would all do well to remember it at this time, and throughout the coming year. To sit beside so little, and know we have everything — it is here where all the colors will remain.


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Present.

The way they warned us, the teachers at Washington Elementary, trouble seemed to be a place, a spot. “Don’t get into trouble,” they said. The only “trouble” I was having was figuring out where this place was exactly. Because when the teacher said, “Now Steven is in trouble,” he seemed to still be right there, sitting beside us. Hadn’t he said “present,” when she called out his name? Why couldn’t I understand? How come I couldn’t see it? Maybe trouble was invisible, I thought.

It sounds funny, I suppose, but it turns out, I wasn’t all that wrong. We never know what people are going through. We see the outsides so easily, but that’s usually not the whole story. To see the real story, we need to actually be present. It’s not enough to just call it out. We have to be there. Show up. Again and Again. And ask questions when we don’t understand. Listen. Raise our hands. Reach out. Find a way to connect. See with our hearts what our eyes cannot. Make all around us visible. 

And if you saw that I am not just my face, but all that I have faced, and if I did that for you…

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No dream left unspent.

The muted wave of the El train from behind the thick windows of the hotel sounds like the ocean.

I started coming to Chicago just after college. We were comped hotel rooms on Michigan Avenue from the magazine in which I placed ads. Of course I brought my mother. The magnificence of this mile was meant to be paired with hers. Shopping was our exercise and our entertainment. Everything was tried on — including this life where we could be anyone. I suppose that was the greatest gift of all. No past to lament. No dream left unspent.

When our three day excursions would come to an end, we would walk to Lake Michigan and release any lingering worry not left in the steps of the Magnificent Mile to the wave, return to our car and our lives, just a little lighter.

It’s hard to explain to those who don’t love it, to those who hear only the noise of the El train. But when you get past the rattle, into the wave, what a ride! And maybe it was easier for us…having survived the wrecking clatter of our lives — the noise and shake of uncertainty — this here, was beautiful. Lyrical. Musical. And oh, what a ride!

After losing my mother, I must admit that I can sometimes get caught up in the rattle of it all. But she wouldn’t want that. She was laughter and beauty and survival and grace. And so I hear it. The wave. The beautiful wave that tells me to enjoy it all.

The train keeps rolling. The waves are calling. I feel a little lighter. It’s time to ride. Magnificent!

The waves are calling and I must go.
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Pulled in close.

From the age of five we began looking to see if things fit.

We got our feet measured at Iverson’s shoes, checking for the length and width in the silver contraption. After wiggling our toes inside the bumper tennies, the man on the triangle seat pinched the ends in search of our toes. If he gave the all clear we raced to the glass windows and back. And we were shoed.

In Herberger’s basement, when it was still on Main Street, we tried on pants. The clerk pulled at our waistbands to check for room. Tugged at the length and estimated the time before they would be too short. Up the stairs, past the billing department, were the dresses. Beautiful dresses that were measured to our knees. Zipped up our backs. Smoothed down the fronts.

Dr. Blanchard checked for space in our mouths. Dr. Perkins took our heights and weights. We stood in lines in the school gymnasium to check our eyes and our hearing. All, I supposed, to see if we actually fit.

I had my own checks and balances. Accompanying my mother to Olson’s Supermarket. I waited for her in front of the book section, right by the check out lines. I would pick out the words I understood. Look at the pictures. Then clutch it to my heart. Somehow my heart always knew. The woman in the red smock asked what I was doing. “Just seeing if it fits,” I said. My mother never had to ask. She knew me.

I suppose I’m still doing that. With everything. People. Places. Time. The only way I have ever been able to tell if something really fits is by clutching it to my heart. Sometimes it still stumbles over the bigger words. The tighter spots. The growing pains. But pulled in close, beat by beat, it always leads me home.

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