Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: March 2024


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Only perched.

I suppose it is when I am most certain that it’s necessary to loosen the grip a little and just perch. 

I can reach a conclusion pretty quickly in any situation. But I’ve learned that giving myself an extra hour, sometimes a day, or longer, to really think it through, is quite useful. Most often the solutions are a little less dug in. A little more flexible. A little more reasonable.It’s no secret that I love to paint birds. But it was only just the other day that I saw it. I had to put it on paper to really get it. I love the way they perch — just lightly place themselves on the branch. Never burrowed in with false certainty (which is usually just pride in disguise.) That doesn’t mean a lack of commitment. No, just a willingness, a readiness, to adjust to the situation. Giving themselves a chance to do what they were meant to do — to really fly!  

I won’t be perfect at it. But I think in the attempt, I will get better. I am getting better. And that in itself lifts my spirits, lifts my wings. I guess what it comes down to, (or up really), is I’d rather soar, than be sure. 

I don’t know what the day will bring, but I’ll see you up there!

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Risk the ridiculous.

I’m not proud of it, but sometimes I think my ipad might be disappointed in me.

When I’m away from home, I do my French lessons on my ipad. Duolingo keeps track of my progress as I move from day to day. Returning home, I change to my desktop. For some reason the two don’t interact and as my computer welcomes me back, my ipad sends me the prompts to continue. Each prompt gets a little stronger. I know I’m doing the work. But I have to admit, there is a little piece of me that wants to explain this to my urging ipad. 

As ridiculous as it sounds, I mention it mostly to remind myself that it is actually just as ridiculous to worry about what other people think of me. I suppose we all get caught up in this trap. I think I’m getting better as I get older. Not that I don’t give thought to others — we should all do that. We’re not alone on this planet. But what I mean is, I, we, don’t need to worry so much about what others think of us. Like what they think of our homes, our clothing, what we had for dinner. Who cares? The answer to that is really no one. I don’t want to be deterred from the silly, the fun, the weird, just because someone else might have a thought about it. I’m not going to change my schedule because someone might think painting is a waste of time. There’s a good chance I will trip on a rock in mid daydream on the path — and sure, I’ll probably look around to see if anyone saw, but I’m not going to stop walking. 

I know myself. I know my heart. So with all due respect to my ipad and the others, I’m doing my best, and I’m good with that. As the sun comes up, I am ready to live this day in my own way. Willing and able to joyfully risk the ridiculous! 

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To walk within.

It’s no secret that I love to go to museums. To see beautiful things, that’s obvious. Of course there is pleasure in that. But there’s more. So much more. Standing in front of a painting is like being in a time capsule. You are transported to the date of creation. You are within the movement of the hands and heart of the artist. You walk in their story. Be it pleasure or pain, calm or turbulent, you are there. They are there. With you. For you. Allowing you the comfort to bring your own story to life.

Yesterday I found the pin that my friend bought for me at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. It reads, “Support your local museum.” Holding it in my hand, it occurred to me that friendship, true friendship, is like a museum. It holds all of your stories. Your most celebrated moments in the brightest of colors. Your deepest thoughts in dark, subtle tones. Your aspirations and dreams. Your fears and triumphs. All without saying a word. The only requirement is simply to walk within it. 

So I wear the pin proudly, and encourage us all to do the same. Support those beautiful and glorious works of friendship. The art and heart of our living. I give thanks to them, for them, every day. 

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The power within.

After a vacation, I need to get unpacked immediately. I don’t like hovering “between two kingdoms.” With both suitcases emptied, something seemed to be missing — a small candle that I found at a bookstore. I looked through my purchase pile. Emptied the sacks. Nothing. Went back to the closet. Felt through each zippered pocket of the suitcases. Still nothing. 

I went to bed that evening, still hoping my jet-lagged brain would kick in the next day. Sleep came quickly, and left with the same speed. Just after 2am my eyes blinked open with the knowledge — “It’s in your shoe!” Smiling, I went back to sleep. It was always with me.

After breakfast the next morning, I checked the inside of my New Balance tennis shoe. And there it was. My beautiful little candle. And bonus, also the tiny Native American vase I forgot about. Both safe and sound. 

Going for a walk, the French path seemed brand new. I saw the blooming trees, again, for the first time. My feet steadied the way as my head circled from bird to bird, branch to branch, curve through curve. Years ago I wrote, “I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.” I still believe. They still do. Short of clicking my no-heeled shoes together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I returned home, understanding that I still, and always, have the power within me.

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Before we’re asked to grow.

He was a few years younger than us. Not that many if you counted them now, but  in high school a couple of years made a big difference. And it was those few years that made us call him Pauly, not Paul. Just one little letter, a y, to differentiate.

He was my best friend’s brother. I had already learned that bad things could happen. Not just little things like a poor grade or a sack lunch you didn’t like, but gut-wrenching things, life altering things. But they hadn’t yet. So it was not only the news that shook them, but the surprise of it all. 

And Hemingway had warned us in our English prep class. Told us how we expected to be sad in the fall, but not in summer. I could hear the change in her voice. How this brilliant sun-filled day had broken them, along with Pauly’s spine. He chose to dive and not fall off the shallow dock. And with that one impulse changed the course of everything. Changed the “y” to “why?”…and just like that Pauly became Paul.

We don’t always get to be ready before we’re asked to grow. Rarely, I suppose. But we will be asked. All. And we won’t be given the answers to the questions. But we will be given the chance. The spring.

I saw the blooming trees on my walk yesterday. And I thought of him. How far he had come from the endless days at the hospital. And I smiled because the why had returned to a y, and he was Pauly again. I touched the pink surprise of the bloom, and kept walking.

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Pillowed to the new.

Wide awake in the middle of the night, contemplating why jet lag is so very real, it occurred to me that perhaps the real issue is the lie to the body. I had convinced it that the time was real, only to get on a plane and tell it, no, this is the real time now.

And I suppose that’s with any change. The body, mostly the heart, gets used to the routine. And while I would never call love routine, there is a familiarity to it, usually in the form of a response — a return of a call, a hug. An awareness of feeling. 

Traveling often, I have found the best way to combat the time change is not to lie. Resting in the unfamiliar zone, I tell myself, “Yes, it’s different, this time, but not you. Your heart will keep beating. Find its step. Its new pace.” I smile softly, pillowed to the new.

There is another zone I’m living in — this world without the call of my mother. It would be a lie to say that it isn’t different. So I don’t. But the love remains. Beats strongly in this heart of mine. That will never change. So I don’t fight it. I feel it. I feel it all. And pillow to the love.

I mention it only because I’ve seen you out there — between the zones of heart, road and time. And maybe you need to hear it from someone who’s been there, rest assured that nothing will be the same, but everything is going to be ok, more than that even, beautiful. 

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I’m with the banned.

I remember going to the new church with my mother. She wanted a fresh start. After the divorce, she just wanted to fold her hands without anyone judging her ring finger. The choices seemed plentiful enough. But after being turned away from communion in one, and altogether in another, it was all a little too “no room in the inn.” The second one offered for me to stay and go to Sunday School. I declined and chose to stay with the banned.

I mention it only because I saw the sign at the airport bookstore — “I’m with the banned.” I smiled for all the books and, too, for all the readers who have found themselves turned away from one door or another. All the stories will be told. Will find a way out. Will find a way in. And this is what will save us.

There will always be churches that won’t ask you to belong. Clubs you can’t get into. Groups who will snicker and turn their backs. This is not your story, only theirs. You get to chose your own faith. Your own path. Your own journey. You can step to your own beat. Create your own soundtrack. And if someone dares to claim, “I don’t recognize that song,” you simply tell them, “Well, I’m with the banned.“

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One more twirl.

Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport. 

We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk. 

We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped. 

Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is! 

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Beyond the Oval Room.

Living in France, I hear it all the time, “Oh, that doesn’t translate…” Knowing how that makes me feel, I try not to use anything similar, for example – “If you know, you know…” 

When she handed me the Dayton’s bag, I was knee-buckling happy. Dominique looked confused when I asked him to take my photo with it. “I need to send it to my friends!”  “Will they know what Daytons is?” I laughed out loud. Of course they would know. IYKYK! But I couldn’t leave it with that. I can’t leave it with that. Dayton’s deserves the translation. 

I’m reminded of the song, To Sir with Love, as she sang, “How do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume? It isn’t easy, but I’ll try.” And I did grow up there. Right beside my mom. And not just “up.” I grew in confidence. In wonder. In joy. And so did she. We applied the make-up at the counter and found our smiles. We dressed in curtain flung rooms and felt worthy of life beyond the three-way mirror. We Cinderella-ed our feet in the shoe department, and stood tall. We received the compliments easily, and bounced them onward. 

We knew the workers by name. Pauline was the first to take us into the Oval Room, like we belonged. We believed her. And so we did. 

Dayton’s saw us through broken hearts. Broken bones. Birthdays. Holidays. Wounded egos. Proms and weddings. Job interviews and first dates. Frozen Sunday afternoons. And sweltering suns. Always constant. Always bright. So how do you thank someone for that? The only way I know is to tell the story. Keep it alive. Translate the words, and feelings, again and again.

I placed the bag on my heart-wearing sleeve, and stepped out into the sun. The feeling was pure joy – OHIHYK! (Oh, how I hope you know!)


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My heart’s pastels.

Long before I knew the months and numbers of the year, I could tell the changing of time by color. At the arrival of pastels, I knew my birthday was soon to follow. With each wink of pink and pop of yellow, I got more excited. Sure, I knew about Easter. I knew it was for everyone. But there was a little part of me, with each jellybean siting, each baby chick and colored egg that graced the storefronts, that took it as a sign, just for me. 

I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was learning there is a grand difference between selfishness and self care. 

Whether my birthday came before or after Easter, my mom always gave me a little plush duck. I named the first one Selma, and each one after. With baskets of candy all around, I held her yellow in my chubby hands and asked, “Is she just for me?” Yes, my mother said. And every year, I always asked, and I even when I had come to know the answer, believe the answer, it was still nice to hear the yes.

We are not alone. We have the privilege and the responsibility to care for others. But there is nothing wrong, with each sun that rises, to reach up your hands and hold a little bit of the day’s yellow, just for you. I carry the pocket of pastels in my heart, and it always answers yes. 

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