Jodi Hills

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


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On her way.

“Quand on voyage dans ce livre-ci, le plaisir d’apprendre fait ricochet”

(“When we travel in this book, the pleasure of learning ricochets.”)

Each week in the fifth grade team room of Washington Elementary, we took a Spelling Trip. Without our knowledge or permission, we were learning — spelling, geography, grammar, even math — as we created stories of voyages around the world. There was an excitement to the learning, not seemingly present in our other lessons. Even before Miss Green asked who wanted to read their story first, hands shot up across the room — one arm lifted by the other, as if the height indicated the actual height of enthusiasm, not to be outdone by the verbal ooooohs and aaaahs that did indeed ricochet throughout the room.

I suppose the best teachers do this — create a lifelong voyage of learning — with a ticket that never expires.

Tucked securely in my pocket, I would take this ticket to my first meeting with a publisher. I didn’t have a manuscript for a book, or even a plan really, but I had a meeting, and a ticket. He wanted to hear something that I had written. I read to him, “a door in the forest.” When I finished, he raised his hands in the air and said, “You just took me on a trip!” I smiled and thanked Miss Green in silent cheers. He published my first book that year, “I am Amazed.”

I’m reminded of it all this morning, reading the quote on the back of a VanGogh book. From Washington Elementary, to the south of France, it is all a voyage of learning. A series of ricocheting ooohs and aaahs. I pat the still-pocketed ticket and begin today’s journey. I’m on my way.


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The “having more.”

It was the best marzipan candy I ever had. There was a little bit left and she said we could take it home. We ate two in the car driving alongside the Mediterranean. Somehow we managed to save the remaining couple and finished them off that evening. I scoured the small empty box for a brand or anything that would lead me to having more, but there was nothing. Holding it in my hand on the way to the garbage, I felt it. It was just like a small panel. I took it to the studio to paint. 

It seemed so obvious that I needed to paint a bird, a friend for the bird I had made the day before. I sanded and gessoed. I feathered and branched. Taking everything that was sweet, and giving it wings. 

The thing is, we don’t always get to reciprocate, or repay the same kindness we are given. But we can keep giving, in so many different ways. And by doing so, it truly offers the “having more” we wanted all along. So I pass it to you — this joy, this delicious joy carried on wings — knowing you will find a way to do the same. Isn’t life sweet?!!!!


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…by any other name.

I was pretty sure that I misheard her the first time, but it was clear upon returning to the vineyard that the woman behind the counter thinks my name is Goat. 

I can’t see what is listed on the computer, but she always asks for my email to pull up our account, an uncomfortable pause follows, and then she  says, “aaaaaaah, Goat…” I try to smile while I repeat “Jodi,” both pretending now that we’re saying the same thing. Yet the transaction continues and we go home with the most delicious wine in our area. Is it the “Greatest Of All Time”? — I don’t know, but apparently, I am. 

It used to upset me. People rarely get my non-French name here. But I think it says more about me than them. I was on unsure ground, so easily rattled. The years haven’t really changed them, but I find myself stronger every day. And isn’t it the way with all belief? With strength? Possibly even greatness? It has to come from within.

Maybe everything is about timing. Watching Simone Biles displaying her gold medals, explaining how she wears her goat necklace proudly, I smile and think, me too, and pour another glass of wine. 


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Every sublime thing.

“Only then (nearly out the door, so to speak) did I realize how unspeakably beautiful all of this was, how precisely engineered for our pleasure, and saw that I was on the brink of squandering a wondrous gift, the gift of being allowed, every day, to wander this vast sensual paradise, this grand marketplace lovingly stocked with every sublime thing.” ― George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo

I don’t have any videos of my grandparents. None of my mother. I barely remember having a camera, but for the one I ordered from Bazooka Joe. It was plastic and I ran over it with my bicycle only a week after receiving it in the mail. And maybe this is why I remember everything. It was only my heart recording. (And I don’t say everything here, as if mine the only truth, but rather that it was, is, my everything. What else could it be?) I suppose I knew, that we all knew, running (chasing really), barefoot in summer’s grass, that we were indeed forever on this “brink,” so close to missing out on the daily gift. 

It was just the other day that I told Dominique about how I never see birds on my morning walk. Flocks fill the trees in our garden, but when I get to the gravel path, they all seem to disappear. The valley that I wind around each morning is filled with green. With trees and bushes. But not birds. I don’t know why. And just a day after this “other day”, I was walking the same path, listening to a podcast with George Saunders, and there it was, birding about my stride, a lovely, fluttering gift of sublime. My path was stocked.Even on this graveled path, socked and shoed, I could feel my youthful toes wiggle in summer’s youth, still joyfully chasing this beautiful earth, this beautiful day, this beautiful moment. Having need 

to stop it in photo or video, not even if I could… 
I’m nearly out the door now. Just a few more words to type before I step into the sublime…


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Dinger!

I would have missed out on the joy of many summers, had it been about winning. Each game started in our basement laundry room. I would dig through the baskets of clean clothes for my t-shirt that designated this year’s team. Baskets, similar to those of the Easter Bunny — somehow you knew in your heart that your mother filled them, but there was still a hint of magic. I pulled through my pony-tailed head, ran my fingers over the iron-on letters and raced up the stairs to the garage. Grabbed my yellow aluminum bat — the bat that truly made a dinging sound against the ball — so fitting that on the occasion it hit a home run, we did indeed call it a dinger! I balanced the bat in the flowered basket of my banana seat bike and rode to the park of the day. We high-fived before any play was actually made. Because hadn’t we already won? We were outside. Bathed in the summer sun. Set free with all the girls once contained in the brick walls of elementary school. Reigns loosened. Dust flying. Hearts pounding. Someone kept score with a pad and pencil in the dugout, but I’m not sure anyone cared, never enough to diminish the joy anyway. Returning home, I put my shirt in the magic basket, knowing it would be washed by a mother who stood knee deep in the laundry room and still managed to smile at the replay of my day. It turns out I had won, in the best of ways!

I haven’t started my next large canvas. It takes some thought. Paint is expensive. My brain knows this, but often forgets to tell my heart, my heart that just wants to play. It pleads the case of “not everything is for the museum,” and “not everything is for sale.” I grab a small scrap of wood. The brush handles clink against the glass. It is the sound of play. The bird comes to life. It is made with only joy. I lean it up to view, step back and think, “Now that’s a dinger!”


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Heart-first.

There is a painting that walks ahead of me on the trail. Normally I would be eager to pass these aging men, but my anxious feet are overruled and I slow to take it all in. Maybe it’s the hats. Or the synchronized position of hands clasped behind their backs, heading them “heart-first.” 

When I’m close enough for them to hear my graveled steps, I pick up the pace. We exchange smiling bonjours, and the day will continue down different roads. I won’t learn their names, these hatted men. Having been in their path is enough. 

Maybe it was a different time, but my grandfather wore a hat. There was something trustworthy about it. Elegant, even in overalls. I trusted it — him. I suppose that’s why I trust it still. Because what’s taught is what’s known. And maybe that’s what empathy is, what humanity is, walking in the path of others, heart-first. 


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The knowing smile.

My mother had two Uncle Wallys, two Aunt Lavinas, two Aunt Christines, a sister Kay and a sister-in-law Kay, a brother Tom and a son Tom. I was able to navigate this from the age of five during summer reunions on my grandparents’ farm, so I’m not sure why it came as such a shock to find two other girls named Jodi (well, neither spelled their name correctly) in my entering class at Washington Elementary.

When I shared the news with my mother, books dropped to the floor, hands raised, voice raised, completely aghast, I couldn’t believe that she didn’t share my full bodied frustration. She knelt down to become face to face. She smoothed her hands from my shoulders down to my wrists, relaxing my arms once again to their sides. I matched her slow breathing. Her lips began to turn up at the corners, just ever so slightly. She had perfected and taught me this the first time I fell from my training-wheeled bike — the art of the slow smile. Cheeks creased and teeth exposed, she said only one thing, my name, “Jodi…”  

I returned to class. Through each grade, each classroom, each teacher, I never mistook the calling of the two other girls. They didn’t, couldn’t, share my name. There was a sound to it, that was only mine. I suppose that is all I will ever hear, all I ever need to hear, when someone calls my name — the sound of my mother’s voice. 

I recently got two new plants to replace the ailing fern in our library (who was named Fern). I named them Cousin Fern, and Little Baby Cousin Fern. Watering them slowly this morning, I could feel my lip corners rising, not because I’m certain they know who they are, but because I’m certain of who I am. My mother saw to that. 


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She was the front.

I loved school before it even began. On Saturday mornings when my mother looked at patterns in the back of Woolworth’s, she let me wander over to the book section. I was allowed one study book each week. Even though I hadn’t started Kindergarten, I got to choose from the first grade section. Sunday afternoons she helped me with my numbers, my letters, and I was saved.

Even in all this comfort, I found a way to worry. Maybe not in the normal sense. I wasn’t afraid of the approaching school date, no, it all just meant so much. I knew it was important. I could feel it from my baretted bangs down to my bumper tennis shoes. Where should I sit on the first bus ride? Will the desks be assigned? Where will I put my books? I asked the questions over and over again to anyone who would listen. My “anyones” at the time happened to be my mother and my grandfather. I knew that he had once given her the same advice, because her answer was the same as his — “When given the chance, or even when you have to just take it, go to the front.”

I repeated it in my head as I waited by the mailboxes for the big yellow ride to school. “Go to the front. Go to the front.” The air brakes whistled. He opened the door. I hopped the stairs and sat in the first seat. I had full view as we picked up all the other students. Some eager. Some angry. Some ready. Some being dragged. I was first off at Washington Elementary. I walked up the stairs to large doors. Turned to the right. Down the stairs. The morning sun lit up the desks. I sat in the front row, and I was saved.

I suppose she heard the same words going over and over in her head, even on her lowest days, as she forced herself to the front desk of the Superintendent’s office. People still tell me she was the first person to greet them as they came to teach. To learn. To work at Independent School District 206. She didn’t just go to the front — she WAS the front!

It’s not lost on me. I use it still. Placing my books on the shelf. My art on the walls. Not out of arrogance, but from a sense of belonging. It everything to be raised in love, not fear. That doesn’t mean I was never, am never, afraid. Of course I am. There is no bravery without being afraid. But I take my chances, even when they aren’t so obvious, and I put myself in the front row (my anyones beside me). Not always safe, but forever saved.


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My one day is every day.

We stood among the empty boxes in our first apartment. A mere quarter of our possessions from the house on Van Dyke Road easily filled the space. Standing silent, exhausted, knee deep in abandoned cardboard, it seemed as if the moment was calling us to either laugh or cry. I looked up to catch my mother’s eye, to find her lead. Packing tape still stuck to one elbow, she Vanna White-ed her arms across the brown mess and said, “One day, this will all be yours…” We burst into laughter.

And it was true! Is true! This ability to find joy in the moment, this knowledge that one way or another, we’re going to have to let it all go, emotionally, physically, spiritually… this is what she gave to me.

It was a special week for me. I sold a painting and I gave one away. Joy requires no measurement. Both were different experiences, but completely filled my heart!

She’s still the first person I want to call, my mom, amid the joy. But somehow I believe she knows. She’s standing by as I pack the painting to be shipped. She’s holding my vulnerable heart as I spin the other for the big reveal. The gift that was given to me so long ago, bubbles to the surface, and all I can do is laugh.

I am loved. My one day is every day. I do have it all.

“Would it be easier for you if I went with you?”


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From bowl to oven.

I can no longer say that I always make a test cookie. I did, until yesterday.

It still makes sense. And I will, when I can, test out the dough with one cookie before baking the whole batch. But yesterday’s recipe required a little faith, and a little Elsieing. I googled the French delicacies. There were so many variations to these crackling little almond cookies, both in French and in English, so I Elsied my best guess, and made a little combination.

One thing they all agreed upon was the speed that the dough must go from creation to oven. Containing no flour, the few ingredients, like the egg-whites and sugar, would separate if you hesitated. Having to bake for 20 minutes, there was no time for a test cookie. Having thrown myself into stronger French winds than this and survived, I plopped the wet dough onto the baking sheets and believed, or at least hoped.

We ate them nearly as fast as it took to get from bowl to oven. Delicious. I knew if they turned out that Dominique would like them, but I was surprised at how much that I did! I loved them. It turns out, faith is a tremendous ingredient!

I mention it only because when I recall my greatest pleasures, they have all been accompanied with risk. Becoming an artist. Sharing my stories. Daring the markets of New York. Falling in love, big love. Moving to France. Creating a family. None of these allowed for a test cookie — straight from bowl to oven!

Are there trips and failures along the way – of course, but they aren’t the taste that lingers — that, my friends, is nothing but sweet.

Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life.