Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: February 2024


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Only here.

It was the first poem I ever wrote. I was six years old. In Mr. Iverson’s music class. 

Houses, houses, houses red.

In it is a pretty bed.

Houses, houses, houses green.

In it is a pretty scene.

And so began my search. My fascination. With home.  I would go on to paint images of houses and doors. Windows and shutters. I wrote the stories as if they were maps. Each word opening. Letting in a little more light. A welcome breeze. Until one day, one moment, one heart beat, in the warmth of that sun whisking through cracks, it became so clear that there was no “there,” only “here.”

We have been traveling for several months. I have been asked handfuls of times, “Are you excited to go home?” I always smile, in the slight breeze of my answer. 

Sitting at the breakfast table, in a friend’s house, a country away, my husband is drinking coffee from one of my cups that reads, “Come in, you and your heart sit down…” I’m already here. I’m always home. 

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Beach or Store.



Like a bird surrounded by shiny objects, I could often get myself overwhelmed with choice. So many things to do. So many possibilities. Too much, and I would render myself immobile. I’m not sure why it took me so many years. My grandfather had given me the answer early on. Standing, almost dangling from the perch outside my grandmother’s second floor sewing room, struggling with the choice, he simply called up, “Jump, or go inside.” He saw things so clearly. I jumped. 

Even now, there’s a little part of me that will argue the point, “yes, but, what if…” and I catch myself dangling. So I break it all down. Give myself the option, this or that, sometimes even the smallest of choices, and then I jump. Oh, and I stumble. I fall. I walk away. Nothing is perfect, but I have found, always found, even the hardest of choice has always been better than dangling. 

And being the distracted bird that I am, the universe has to remind me, often and again. Walking in Cottagewood the other day, I saw the signs nailed to the tree, again and for the first time. One arrow pointing to “Beach.” One arrow pointing to “Store.” My grandfather would have liked this directional tree, just as if he planted it — and I suppose in many ways, he had.

Today’s path may not be clear, but my heart is, so I greet the sun, and jump…

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Nothing shy of super.


I bought a Bat Girl t-shirt at Ragstock yesterday. I like to give myself super powers. Wearing my sunglasses, I summon my best Anna Wintour. My gloves, Ava Gardner. I know it’s all internal, but I like to give it a name. Maybe we all do.

We went to Down in the Valley, the record store near Ragstock. It felt like a Time Machine. I thumbed through stacks, just like I did when there was nothing but time stretched far ahead of us. When we bought full albums at full price. Played it on the stereo. Lying heads beside giant speakers, feeling each note, each lyric as if it were written just for us. Wondering if our lives were soundtrack worthy. Willing to believe they were, and would be ever. 

My husband bought two Kris Kristoffersons. One for himself. One for his best friend from those days of lyrics and promise. I watched the man behind the counter place youth’s super power in the bag and hand it to Dominique.  

The afternoon sun bounced off of Highway 55 and we drove, each a little lighter, armed with nothing shy of super.

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Finding Cottagewood.

I was never one to Thelma and Louise it. Push it way too far. Not with my car. Not with myself. I tried to keep both “tanks” filled. I wasn’t always successful, but my self care was knowing when to pull over.

My friend Deb and I had a favorite place — Cottagewood. When life, love, work, got a bit too much, and meeting for coffee just wasn’t enough, we would take the 10 minute trip from the city, and back in time, to this simple, slow, beautiful place. Only one general store, one gas pump, and a few easy steps to the sandy beach. Nestled in Deephaven, Minnesota, it was indeed just that. Kids played in the street. Birds sang. Squirrels squirreled. We sipped and laughed. Slowly. And time had no choice but to gather in beside us on the wooden bench. 

Perhaps that sounds all too easy, but shouldn’t it be? Shouldn’t we all have a place of rescue — our last chance Texaco to refuel before getting on the road? I think we need it. 

In moving a country away, I knew I wouldn’t be able to visit. So I painted a piece of it. The gas pump now rests in our French home. A haven of sorts. 

I took Dominique to see the real pump. Kids were playing outside. A young girl was twirling round and round in her driveway, explaining to her young brother that before he shot the basketball he need to spin. He was having none of it. A squirrel ran away as the basketball rolled into the streets with no cars. We walked to the sandy beach — the beach slowly waiting for summer’s return. It would come soon enough.

I know it’s a Monday, but maybe as you rush head first into the week, you can take a minute. Find your Cottagewood. Pull over and just listen. 

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Grist for the mill.

Standing inside the Mill City Museum, you can see the Guthrie Theatre from the window, reflecting the history of all those who worked the mill, and never saw a play. 

I learned more about the history of the Minneapolis flour mill in that ten minute Flour Tower ride, than I had bothered to learn in the decades I lived here. Oh sure, I had taken the photos, but never really the time. Hearing the voices of those who worked there — those who dared the danger of the whipping wide-open belts, those who never really got the white dust from their clothing or lungs, those who thought maybe, just maybe, if they could work long enough to climb the ladder to get to $25 a week pay, that they would live like kings, but never did — the history, the story, came to life. And it became so clear, that there would be no Guthrie theatre — a place that I did get to learn, to see, to love — without the people who created this city, day by day, hour by hour, milling it to life. 

I suppose that’s why I tell you of my grandparents, my mother, my teachers. There will be no tour to visit, to learn, so I write. I show you their reflections as you look into my daily world. And you see them, in each word, in each stroke of paint. They are the ones that milled my world to life. Gave me the opportunity to do what I do, do what I love. A history that will never be erased from my hands. Nor my heart. Their love, a continuous grist for my life’s mill. 

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This ain’t Texas.

There was a time when our socks were never meant to be seen. It was almost embarrassing if they did. This was also the time when “nerd” was an insult. 

Not now. Now we put our socks and quirks on full display. Wearing our hearts not only on our sleeves, but right around our ankles. Depending on my outfit, you can tell how I vote, what banned books I read, and the music I listen to. All within an ever changing color palette. 

I suppose everything changes. And it doesn’t take away from what was. There is not only one beauty. We have to find our own. Again. And again. Allowing ourselves and each other the room to change and to grow. 

That’s what makes this nerd create sketchbook art from ruffled women, to hatted men. As Beyonce says, “This ain’t Texas, ain’t no hold ‘em…”, so I paint my cowboy, and put on my colorful socks and set out to find the ever evolving beauty of this world. Step by step. Out on the dance floor. 

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The seams will hold.

I bought the dish towels in France. Gave them to my mother. My hands to her hands. Each trip I would cook for her. Use the towels to clean up. She would wash them. Use them. Hand to hand until we returned again. Never out of touch.

I didn’t imagine I would see them again. Until I opened the UPS box from my sister-in-law. It was that pause that your brain makes, perhaps letting your heart catch up, when I saw them. Familiar, but new. She made the towels into pot holders. She joined her hands to the chain of touch, sewing each seam beautifully. They will be in my kitchen now. Touched by my French family, as I cook for them.

Things change. Evolve. Time changes everything. Even our relationships. Even the familiar becomes new. But the seams will hold. If we allow them. If we change along with them, and keep reaching out. Hand to hand.

I have often wondered, still at times, without my mother do I still belong to this family? Do I still belong to this home town? I run my hand along the seams and hear a whispered yes.

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In love’s hold.

Ice will warn you. The crack that it sends up was always enough to send me running to the snow banked shore. But I still have to test it. I go on it. Every year. These frozen lakes of Minnesota. Maybe it’s the thrill of the improbable. That this water will hold. Hold me. 

I suppose it’s the same with people. Even warned and cracked, we go back in. Maybe this one will hold. This love. And sometimes you think how improbable — that you could be loved at all. Then one day, you find yourself standing on the same thin ice, year after year, with someone willing to embrace the improbability of it all, willing to test the hold, that you will love them, day after day, into each new season. 

And it’s not for the proof. Not, “if you really love me you’d….” No, that never works. There are no guarantees. And would we even want that? I don’t think so. The magic of being in love, with all of its flaws and cracks that ring out into the air, daring the daily hold together, this is nothing short of wonderful! 

I didn’t know, as we stepped out onto the ice, that they had renamed it, this Lake Calhoun to Bde Maka Ska. Google says it was to “alleviate the pain of that history and celebrate instead the dignity of those who originally named the lake.” Maybe we’re all trying to do that. It’s all so slippery underfoot, as we try to get it right. But again, maybe that’s where the love is, in the trying, the daring, the renaming, the doing better… the ever attempt in love. 

Out on the ice, we smile together, in love’s hold. 


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The Great Harvest

I couldn’t deliver to every store. I sold throughout the country, so that would have been impossible. But there were a few in my city, especially the larger ones, where it just made sense. The Bibelot stores ordered a large volume every two weeks. It would have taken longer to pack and ship than to just fill the car and drive it over. Plus, truth be told, for me there was a real joy and satisfaction to take an order to completion. To walk in the door and be greeted by the smiling faces of those who worked there. To walk past the employees only sign. To be welcomed for heart and art. To see customers with items in hands — holding an idea that started inside of me, a thought that made it to paper, or canvas, or both. This, I suppose, was how my grandfather felt after a summer’s heat. A summer’s growth. 

There was even more to the routine. I called my mother when I neared her favorite bread and bakery — The Great Harvest — just across the street from Bibelot.  “Get a loaf of the honey wheat for me, and put it in the freezer, and a caramel roll.” She reminded me each time — though we both knew I wouldn’t forget. I would be getting the same for myself. After purchasing, then making the delivery, I would call her on my way home. “Was my favorite clerk there?” Yes. “Did they ask about me?” Yes. “Did you get two loaves?” Yes. “And a caramel roll.” Yes. “Did you already eat some?” Yes. And we’d both giggle in delight. 

Yesterday, Dominique and I went to that same neighborhood. The store is no longer there. I can’t call my mother, not by phone anyway, only by heart. But the Great Harvest is still there. And I don’t just mean the bread store. I can still feel each creation. Each delivery. Each phone call. Each giggle. My great harvest continues. 

I toasted the bread for breakfast, and welcome the day by heart. 

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In the clearing.

The music was playing loudly in the studio, Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.” She came to see me paint, my soon to be mother-in-law. Both being brand new, me to this language and she to sharing her son once again, we struggled to find something to say. I was so delightfully surprised when she joined them in the chorus. “Lie-la-lie, Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie…” She clapped along. Whirled her hands in a motion to tell me to play it again. I did. Twice. She touched my canvas (the nearest thing to my heart) and smiled. She made a motion like one would asking for the check at a restaurant. I gave her a pencil and paper, and she went back to the house. 

I found a note on my desk later. She wrote it in her best English. The words are mine, but I will tell you she welcomed me to this family. 

It was only a few years later. We weren’t prepared for things to be brand new again. I suppose one never is. Losing her memory, she needed the special care of assisted living. It was still new enough that she could tell the difference. She knew what was happening. Tears fell like drops of paint down the canvas of her face. I took out my phone and played “The Boxer.” She smiled, not with joy, but enough to say, “the fighter still remains.” 

We fill the car with music as we travel from state to state. When Simon and Garfunkel sing this song, I can hear heaven’s clapping “in the clearing.” We head toward the daily brand new. 

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