Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: November 2024


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Graveling well.

When I look at the people in one of my sketchbooks, they all look like they belong. The paper becomes part of them. I suppose it’s the same in real life.

If you would have put the first grade class of Washington Elementary in a lineup, I think it would have been rather easy to tell who was growing up on a gravel road. Skinned knees and elbows. Dusty shoes, worn on the heels from braking our bicycles. Eyes in half squint. Just a hint of feral. It was only a mile from town, the gravel of Van Dyke road, but it was different on the north side of Big Ole. I imagined we cursed the gravel while rolling up windows. Kicked the ground that so often tripped us. And perhaps I didn’t see it then, how it formed me, formed us. But I do now.  Proudly. And even a country away, I wear it still. 

We are being formed constantly by our surroundings. There are regulars on the path that I walk each morning. I don’t know them by name, but how they walk on the gravel. It’s only recently that I’ve seen two of them out in the “real” world. One at a green grocery. One at an electronics store. And I had the same feeling for both. It was quite strange, but I noticed how they both looked smaller in this new context. And I can only think that on the gravel path, in this untamed world that we inhabit together, we walk a little taller. We stand strong. We stand out. Without words we take pride in our collective journey. And it makes me smile. 

We can be proud of the paths we walk. Each stone that we have traveled over. Each rock pulled from shoe. They are victories. Don’t hide your journey. Shoulders back. Head high. Walk in it. Stand tall. Wear your gravel well.

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Saving Provence.

I always rationed out my Halloween Candy. Counting each day. Indulging in a piece or two. Doing the math. The goal was to make it last until Thanksgiving. I imagined that each piece was a link in the joy chain. Even on the days when I limped along with my least favorite candy, like a circus peanut or a Jolly Rancher, I was keeping the sweetness alive. 

Most of you celebrated your Thanksgiving yesterday. Here in France, of course, it is not a holiday. No days off. So the tradition that I dragged along with me won’t be celebrated until Saturday. As I read the posts of you already walking off your gratitude, I could let it get me down, but I choose to think of it as the luxury of keeping my chain alive. I give thanks again, and check the turkey parts thawing in the refrigerator.

I suppose it’s what I’m doing with everything, trying to keep the chain alive, with a painting of a niece, a grandma, a brother-in-law, a cousin. What if somehow we could all connect? In this most unlikely of scenarios, (and aren’t they all) we could come together and find the joy. 

Of course I have my days, my moments, limping through the “circus peanuts” of life. But even the worst days connect me to a chance of something better. So I give thanks. And wait. Today is going to be delicious.

Saving Provence.
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North-ending.

It was Mrs. Erickson who began to give us the language that matched our feelings. Up until then it had been mostly function. But here in the third grade classroom of Washington Elementary, every day new territories were explored. New emotions. She took us from fear to empathy without ever leaving our chairs. We sailed into the Bermuda Triangle, without getting wet. What a journey we had begun! 

I suppose it was this new knowledge that gave me the courage to further explore our neighborhood’s own “Bermuda Triangle” — the elusive and alluring North End of Van Dyke Road.

To prove I went there, into this great unknown, I would gather sticks or blades of grass. Certainly they were not different from what was growing 200 yards away, but I brought them back as proof of my journey, never to be questioned. A coveted score would be a fluffing cattail, or an abandoned feather — treasures of the braved passage — proof to any curious neighbor kid that I was in fact not only living, but alive! And most importantly, it did the same for my heart. 

I suppose I’m still doing it — nesting. I have “north-ended” my way across many countries. Sometimes trudging. Sometimes skipping. Alone, or hand in hand. Welcomed into hearts and neighborhoods that I could have never imagined. So I paint and I write. These are now the sticks that I gather. Each memory twigged and placed gently into my heart’s nest. My way of giving thanks. Today and every day. 

Thank you, for being a part of my journey. Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving!
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Rumpled and ready.

Being brand new to the workforce, it all seemed a bit unusual, but it didn’t take long for me to recognize that Ron Miller was definitely something special. His voice rang across the office frequently throughout the day as he used the intercom for his personal phone. “Eddy,” he would call, “See Ron. Eddy, see Ron. We have a unique opportunity.” He never called them problems. Or situations. They were always opportunities. Once I understood the code, I grew to love him. His own operating system was not without error. I helped clean up the wall splattered in coffee, when an “opportunity” distracted him. He left the machine on all afternoon, until it finally blew up to get his attention — which led to another opportunity. He didn’t always return from lunch, which left a void in the speaker system. His clothes and hair were often rumpled in opportunity. And I saw him as a work in progress. A work of art. 

I haven’t seen him for so long. But his wife, sends me a Christmas card each year here in France. I barely know her, but she is the glorious link that keeps us connected. 

I watch the news from home and my heart hurts for the divisions. Two sides so broken. Only seeing the problems. Where is our Ron Miller? Who is telling us to look for the opportunity. In all of this disarray. In all of this confusion, there remains the opportunities, if we choose to take them. There is art to be made. Tables to be set. Lessons to be learned. Letters to be written. And sent. Links to somehow reach over the divide and keep us connected. Yes, the walls we have put up and forgotten, are covered in mistakes, but we can correct this. Will we? 

I hear the voice overhead. It calls to me and I smile. I will keep trying. Rumpled and ready, I step into the opportunity of today.

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Love’s west.

Truth be told, we only went to Bozeman, Montana because my mother heard that Sam Elliot lived on a ranch near the town, and could often be seen wandering the local mercantile. Still reeling high on romance and possibility after both reading The Bridges of Madison County, we set off in the direction of love’s west, knowing full well we would indeed pull open that door handle if given the chance. (If you read the book, or watched the movie screaming for Meryl Streep to open the door, then you know.)

My mother already knew how she could break the ice with Sam Elliot if given the opportunity. She would tell him that while reading the book, he was the only one she pictured, and certainly would have chosen him over Clinton Eastwood any day. We both agreed and grew more and more confident with each passing mile.

It was hard to tell when exactly we entered the town. It did not appear that different from the approaching landscape. I assessed the situation quickly. The Main Street passed quickly, so I turned around and drove it again. There wasn’t Google at the time, so no research had been done. And would we have come had we known? Probably not. I pulled over. Parking was ample. I could feel the excitement slipping from my mother’s face. Something had to be done quickly. We went into the only store that wasn’t hardware related. There was a small rack of dresses. I pulled each one out, like a jester dancing for the queen. And then, I held one that was actually beautiful. I hangered it under my chin. She was smiling, so I went behind the curtained closet and put it on. Black with sublte off white flowers. An empire waist. It fit perfectly. It was no longer us “missing out,” but “they” who had overlooked this beautiful dress.

We found a place to sleep for the night. The next morning we decided (mostly me) to climb the big hill to reach the white rocks that spelled out the name of the town. We got about half way. She stopped, looked around and said, “I can’t even see a mall from here.” We were laughing too hard to finish the climb. We decided if we left immediately, we could be home by bedtime, and be at Ridgedale Mall when it opened the next morning. We could get coffee, while browsing the books at Barnes and Noble. She could look for a new dress. She said the only nature she needed was that of The Banana Republic. Tears of laughter watered the new dream, and we were off again — blooming.

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An open trail.

I suppose an actual clubhouse would have warranted some sort of code, or password. But I built mostly forts, often just old blankets draped over the red wagon and the neighbor’s wheelbarrow, both housing my sea of stuffed animals and baby dolls, collecting rust from the very structure that held them, never thinking or even wanting to keep anyone out. No, on the contrary, corners of blankets were clothes-pinned up to create easy access to my imaginary world. Grandma Dynda, an unrelated matriarch of VanDyke Road, was the only adult almost short enough to enter without bending over. Not yet understanding the limitations of age, I asked her to sit cross-legged with me on the grass. She declined, but left a sack of cookies, enough to feed all of my fortmates, and fuel a conversation for hours. 

My mother never had to wonder where I was. I always left a significant trail. My abandoned banana seat bike. A wagon. A blanket. A dropped elephant. Clothes pins. A koala bear, each lining the vacant lot between our green house and Dynda’s. Perhaps it was purposeful, this trail, this connection between my brave journey and my mother’s hand. One might say I’m still doing it. With each story. Each painting. Just a little connection for her to know where I am. For me to remember where I came from. 

I’m reminded of it daily, when I’m asked for my password. It still seems so unnatural. We even have a password for the grocery store. To receive our plate of free macarons, our reward for fidelity, I will have to present the code. I can hear the laughter of Grandma Dynda behind her swinging screen door. I gather the clothes pins. All lines, doors and hearts, remain wide open. 

The trail.
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Meaning.

We toss around the word so easily — this passion. “You have to find your passion. Follow your passion.” Like everything would be solved if you only did this — as if all joy would be received in your passion. When actually, when you discover, or simply admit, to the things you truly love, that’s when the real work begins.
And I suppose we’d know this, if we looked at the word itself. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫. (Far from the mouth’s of today’s influencers using it to describe the latest storage options from IKEA that they are obsessed with and so very passionate about.)  But don’t be afraid, we’ve basically altered the meaning for suffer as well. The word suffer comes from the Greek word pathos, which usually means to experience or undergo. And it’s this pathos or suffering, that refers to an element in an experience, like a work of art for example, that makes us feel compassion.

I mention it only because I have to learn it as well. Daily. I can easily confuse the feelings in my heart for pain. For suffering in its modern definition. But what it really is, is love. And this is meant to be endured. To be felt and passed on. To move from my heart to page, to canvas. To be offered in the most compassionate of ways. 

So yes, I will be, am, passionate! Images surround me — experiences of heart and mind. I sit across from the painting at the breakfast table, excited to do the work of the day — to experience it all. Knowing, if I do, love will endure. Love will ever endure. 

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Big and certain.

It rests quietly on my desk, undisturbed by papers it was designed to hold secure. I guess I didn’t buy the Georgia O’Keeffe paperweight to keep actual papers from scattering. I don’t really have any paperwork. But it does hold the memory of our visit to this museum. The memory of how we arrived late, and they let us in for free. How the welcome continued as we wandered through her life on canvas. Such glorious simplicity. This beauty that hung the ordinary into spectacular — that made big and certain and quite unforgettable the significance of a leaf. A flower. A skull. 

And so it sits as a reminder on my desk and in my heart. All the memories that flutter. The fragile scraps that could easily fly out the windows of time passing. Each story I write, each painting that I paint, gives weight to the meaning of all that I have seen. All that I live. And isn’t it important! Isn’t it worth the saving! Yes! 

I showed young Margaux the painting of my Grandma Elsie. She said, “Oh, I love her.” Another page secured.

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C’mon!

I have to turn the heat up while reading this book. It takes place on Lake Superior, and the icy winds jump from the page and go straight into my bones. This is the power of words extraordinarily placed, for sure, but it’s also the release into those pages — the allowing of yourself to go there — an agreement between author and reader that says I will take you on a trip, if you trust me. And what a ride, if you do!

Maybe it’s easier for me because I’ve been making that same deal with my heart for most of my life. As it authors my journey, I choose to follow. It has never promised a clear path, quite the contrary. But it has guaranteed an experience. Paths that I never would have imagined. It waves me in. (It’s hard to refuse the heart’s “c’mon!” — so I follow.) But it never leaves me stranded. Within the adventures of the unknown, the uncertain, the even frightening at times, it throws out lines of “brave” and “hope” and always the ol’ show stopper — “love.”

This new book is entitled, “I Cheerfully Refuse,” by Leif Enger. As I snuggle under a Grandma Elsie quilt, I take the rain to the face and follow where it leads.

There is a voice in all of us, I suppose, that says “you know you can just quit.” I have heard it a million times. And it can be intoxicating, but it’s not my author, so I refuse, cheerfully, and make my way with courage, hope and love. And the key word here is make. Perhaps we were taught that we would magically “find” our way, when the truth is, it has to be made. Step by step. Word by word. Day by day. Trip by trip. Typing it now, I have to smile, because it tells you right in the name, this journey — this “trip” — that there will be stumbles, just as advertised. This is not for fear, but comfort.

The sun is coming up, I can’t hear the sound of the negative voice over the yell of my heart’s c’mon! I begin to make my way.

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Waisted in wonder.

I was only a few strokes in when I began to see her face. I had to wipe away the tears because suddenly I was transported from my easel in the south of France to the Charles de Gaulle airport, holding the sign above my head that read Grandma Elsie. Of course she wasn’t yet a grandma, and possibly not even a mother, but I knew her. And oh, how she was dressed for Paris. That hat! That fur collared coat. And a waist — a waist I had never seen before. But that grin I knew. That grin was all Elsie.

I have been waiting for over 10 years, wondering if she would come. Wondering if she knew where I was. She had visited in a dream once, but I still wasn’t sure. I wasn’t certain until I held the paintbrush in my hand, and watched her come to life. On the panel, she is much younger than I am now. But maybe that’s the way it has to be. Maybe we have to get old enough to realize how young they once were. To see them as women of this world, our grandmas, our mothers. Running on legs of fawn, carrying hopes and dreams, cinched in at the waist, as to never let them go.

Of course I was happy for myself, to see her, but it was so much more than that. I was happy for her. I AM happy for her. To see what came before the apron. Before the ever-wringing of hands in front of the sink. This young and vibrant Elsie. Not jet lagged or weary. Ever hopeful. Ever possible. It all makes so much sense now — her daughter Ivy.

I have two belts that belonged to my mother. Today I will cinch one in tight. And carry them both with me. Waisted in wonder!

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