Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: June 2024


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The power of a wow.

I recently bought a new desk pad. I like it very much. They sent an email asking for a review. I didn’t erase it. I thought maybe I could get around to it. I scrolled past it for a couple of days. And then my publisher posted a recent review from my website. The “wow” and the “amazing” filled my heart and directed me immediately to the place where I bought my desk pad. I used the same words that I was given. It matters — the things we do and say.

It would be so easy to let the moments slip by. We often feel, “well, it goes without saying…” And maybe that’s true, but does it have to? It doesn’t cost us anything. And it takes almost no time at all. Really no effort. So what makes us hesitate? What makes us hold on to the compliment when we see her looking beautiful in that dress? When we see him going beyond a normal effort? I want to be the one who says — “That’s a great color on you!” and “Bravo, monsieur!” I want to be free and easy with my praise. I have felt the power of a wow – and I want you to feel the same. Everyone should feel this.

My pockets are usually only filled with dreams. Along with a little joy. Neither take up any space at all. So today I will throw in an extra “amazing!” and a few “wow!”s and be eager to give them away at a moment’s notice. No scrolling. No I’ll get to it later. Just a pocketful at the ready.

Have an amazing day today, my friends. A wow is just within reach.

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Honored.

Certainly we never wanted to fall, but when it happened, we did wear our Band-Aids like badges of honor. And the opportunities were plentiful. Bikes, gravel roads, monkey bars, all guaranteed that someone in a nearby Washington Elementary desk would be honored. 

From time to time, the scraped knee or elbow was replaced by the broken bone, which meant the wearing of a plaster cast. I took my place on this coveted throne the day after our Valentine’s day party at Noonan’s Park Ice rink. At the end of the string of students “Cracking the whip”, I was thrown hard against the frozen pond, breaking my left arm. As the doctor wrapped the warm plaster around my limb, he said I was so brave. I wasn’t brave, I was excited — excited to enter the fifth grade team room to the guaranteed oooohs and aaaahs of the other students. I handed out my Sharpie markers the next morning and all the class lined up to sign my cast. It was confirmation, almost a pledge really, that we were in this battle together. 

I can’t tell you when it started, when honor was replaced by embarrassment. When did it become shameful to have a misstep, a fall? It seems today, when tripping over a crack, the first thing that occurs is the look around. Did anybody see? Not like when we were young — oh, we did the look around then too, but not for the same reason. Then it was, “Did you see what I made it through?” “Look, look what I survived!”

Maybe it’s impossible to take that all back, but maybe we can give it sometimes, give the recognition to each other. Really see people – what they go through. And take the time to acknowledge it. Offer up the most deserved ooohs and aaahs. Pledging, once again, that we are all in this together. 

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Pinky swear.

It took so little to show that we really meant it when we were young. Just a simple reaching out of a pinky finger to wrap around another’s. We swore it to be true, and our curled pinkies confirmed it. 

I suppose it was fitting that our weakest of links, these tiny little fingers exposed like this, showed our biggest strength — a vulnerability, a trust. It was never with clenched fists or raised arms. Just our hearts exchanging beats. Pinky to Pinky.

I don’t know when we stopped doing it. Who was it that suggested a shaking fist deserved more attention? When did we start exchanging “vulnerable” for “sure”? Why did we think all that certainty would connect us? 

The truth is, I’m rarely sure. I think I lean more on curious. To what if. To what could be. I have garnered more there — not necessarily the answers, but I have found challenge and creativity, fulfillment and reward, friendship, even love.   

So take these daily words as my pinky promise, my reaching out, my hope for connection. I will give to you, not always “the best,” but it will ever be “my best.” This, I swear. 

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The field trip.

The excitement began the minute she passed out the permission slips. Holding it in my hand, I knew that just the looping of my mother’s “I” into the ending “s” of our last name, would be the ticket releasing me from desk to bus to destination. I placed it in my pocket carefully like Willy Wonka gold, and it sizzled there until my mom returned from work. Even though the trip was a week away, I could smell the freedom fumes of the bus with each letter she wrote.

My mom liked a big box calendar. She could easily write and read appointments. For me, each date was the space for a large “X”, counting down the days until the field trip. Each morning my eyes darted from behind cereal box to the calendar, willing time to go faster.

The day of the field trip, it was only a moment between the bus ride of “I wonder what it will be,” to the return trip of “wasn’t that something!” In the familiar of our Washington Elementary desks, we spoke of it for days. And it made all that sameness brand new. Pencils and paper buzzed with energy. Had they always felt this way?

We returned home yesterday from our trip to the handmade palace. Our conversation continues. The marvel remains. “What this one man did!” “What can I do?” The taste of toast and jam. The strong sips of coffee brewed. Was breakfast always this special?

I’m handing it to you now. Passing it back to your desk. This slip of freedom. The letters have been looped. The bus is running by the curb. Take it. Give yourself the permission. Go on a field trip. See something around you. Live! Because what you willed from behind cereal boxes is all coming true — it’s going so fast! Go see something! Go be something! Even for just a moment. The fumes of freedom are wafting.

May your heart be well traveled.

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Stone by stone.

Each year before the plant, my grandfather had to walk the fields and pick the rocks. A painstaking, back breaking task. I only walked along once. Dirty and exhausted, the streaks down my face could have been tears or sweat, most likely both. I marveled not only at the work, but how he did it, without complaint. “It has to be done,” was his only explanation.  I wiped my face and knew something would grow from all of this, and it would be me. 

Yesterday we visited du Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval. In 1879, this 43 year old mailman, stumbled on a stone and it changed his life forever. It awakened the dream inside him, and he would devote the next 33 years of his life to building his palace, alone, stone by stone.

The details are breathtaking. Amazing. Poetry carved within. Inspired by the postcards and magazines he carried, he built this world, each day after his route. 10,000 Days, 93,000 Hours, 33 years of trials, he pushed his wheelbarrow full of stones and built a dream we still walk through today. 

I’ve spent several years writing this blog. I used to keep track of the days. I suppose my face has even changed with the tear tracks and ones of laughter. Perhaps these words are my stones. But nothing feels heavy when lifted with joy. The sun rises and my heart and I wheelbarrow in the day. I don’t know what your dream is, but I do know this, to really live, it has to be done.


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Corralled in all that I love.

Besides fields of grain, my grandfather had cows. And while he taught me many life lessons, the actual day to day farming, how the cows got from one field to the next, into the barn, I really have no idea. But it’s possible the instincts were not lost on me, as I have the continuous desire to corral my make-up, shower products, and various items on the coffee table. 

It’s hard to explain the satisfaction if you are not of like mind. But if you are straightening your mouse pad as you read this, cornering your books, gathering pens in a holder, then you know. Some might argue that it’s a “control thing.” Maybe, but I think, for me, it’s more of a coming together, a calmness, a peace. No competition of chaos and clutter.

When I walk into our library, my joyful heart exhales. The details of art, books, music and plants, down to the Paris Review on the footstool I made from a stump in our garden — they make me, I want to say happy, but that’s not exactly right. It’s more than that. I am corralled in all that I love. It is a calm and safe place where my heart can rest, and my mind can wander. I suppose that’s home, isn’t it?

I love to roam the fields. Walk. Run. Fly even, in the yet to be traveled. In the unknown. And maybe that’s only possible because of the safety (disguised as love) that I was given first from an earth-roughened heart, on a farm just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota — one that rests me still in the south of France. 

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The thread that holds.

It was my grandma Elsie who made quilts. We have them scattered throughout our home. Each one a hug waiting to be entered. (None of them wait long.) 

My mother loved to sew. But she was more about fashion. Because it came as a surprise, (and also upon my bed in our Jefferson Street apartment), I remember exactly the time she decided to try her hand at making a quilt. I didn’t ask why. I knew pretty early on that life was a series of attempts to connect. So I joyfully slept on the side of my high school bed that was not covered in squares, resting under the watchful hands of both my mother and grandmother.

I have that quilt as well, here in France. It may be smaller in size, but it retains an equal amount of magic — this ability to draw me in, hold me, comfortably. But perhaps even more magically, it sets me free to try the things that aren’t necessarily in my skill set. To keep reaching out when connections fail. To keep believing this might be the thread that holds. 

That’s a lot to expect, you might say, of a heart’s thread, but as I step from inside a quilt’s embrace, I know, it’s not too much to ask. 

We are as strong as our connections. 

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A little fun.

I have yet to be surprised by the amount of times I use it, as the Algebra teacher once promised. To be honest, I’m not sure I was even “using” it then. Don’t get me wrong, I loved school. And I think one of the greatest things it taught us was simply the art of learning. What I AM surprised by are some of the unconventional places where I was taught things that, in fact, I am still using today — like the ballpark behind the Dairy Queen in Alexandria, Minnesota.

Our summer girls’ softball league was loosely supervised by a semi-reluctant 19 year old who was either complying with his mother’s wish to get out the house and get a job, or perhaps fulfilling some mandatory community service. Either way, he didn’t seem thrilled to be spending his summer with over zealous pre-teens who could recite the DQ menu, yet didn’t understand the simple infield fly rule. Other than calling balls and strikes, he rarely inserted himself into the game. Sunglassed and uninterested, he neither coached nor encouraged. Except for one day. Of course we all went to the plate wanting a hit. We swung at anything really. After the two previous girls struck out, I was up to the plate. The pitcher continued her wild throws over my head. Nearing the dugout. I looked confused. It was then he looked at me, and said the only words I can remember from that summer, “You know, a walk is as good as a hit.” I let the next two balls sail past and took my base.

There are some days when I clean with vigor, using the proper vacuum attachments to get in and under. But there are many days, like yesterday, when covering the broad open spaces with a quick push around, I think, that’s pretty good…and “I take my base” — (which is often the pool.)

Not every victory is a home-run. And surprise! — not every lesson has to be so difficult. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing when to let go, when to give yourself a break and maybe even go have a little bit of fun! Enjoy!

What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
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Adorable whispers.

It’s only Tuesday morning and I have already underestimated two significant projects this week. This unknowing plays a significant part in me actually getting things done. 

I worked for nearly the whole day on our “catch-all’ closet, releasing a majority of the things that really didn’t need to be caught. I arranged plastic folders and papers. I went through all the Christmas decorations, taking out such items as broken ornaments, the BB gun targets, the grip strength tool and the sombrero. (I never would have imagined that the one thing my French husband and my Minnesota grandma had in common was the inability to throw out the closet sombrero.) I broke down and recycled the random boxes that seemed so useful while opening the gifts. I rearranged and dusted and vacuumed. Several hours and two full garbage bins later, the closet was clean. Voilà, as we say.

Fueled by the momentum, and a head full of “how hard could that be?”, I decided to paint my bathroom yesterday. By the time I finished cleaning, scrubbing and dusting, I was already tired, but there was no turning back. Were the ceilings always this high? With a ladder and extension rollers, and a brush I taped to some sort of pole I found next to the pool cue and hockey stick collection in the garage, I stretched and reached and sweated my way through coat one. Muscled my way through thoughts of, ironically, “what was I thinking!” Then struggled my way through coat two. 

I love the results of both projects. I mention it only to remind myself of the real lesson here. I have been guilty through the years of praying for answers. Oh, how desperately we want to know the answers. When really, the thing that so often gets me through is just this blind, adorable, audacious hope. So I remind myself, again, and for the first time, this “unknowing” that you’re so afraid of, let it go…look around and begin…my heart whispering in both ears, “How hard could it be?”

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Shadow a pear.

She was so popular. We used that word a lot in high school. I guess you can add it to the list of things we said and did without any real knowledge or permission. Even typing it now, I question the meaning. We said it like it was a good thing. Something to be desired. But why really? I looked up the definition. It gave a little of the what, but not much in the form of why or explanation. 

I’m questioning it because I recently found out how little she thought she fit in. How could it be? She even wore the official uniform of fitting in each Friday night as she led the team in cheers. 

I suppose we never really know. We can get so consumed with thinking of ourselves as the lone pear in a gathering of apples, that we forget we are in a constant rotation in position and place. And it’s funny, because it’s actually quite appealing. I can honestly say I like her so much more because of it, this one time pear. It’s what brings us together. 

These differences that we’re so afraid of, so determined to hide or shake, they really are what connect us after all. Maybe if we just spent a little more time being grateful for even having a place at this glorious table, this life, we could all be a little more gentle with each other, even ourselves. 

Just a thought, as I shadow a pear on the wall. 

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