Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: November 2024


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Bouncing between.

I was never one for magic — I mean the “magician” kind. I guess I was always afraid of disappearing.

I didn’t have the words for it then. I’m not even sure I was aware of what I was doing when I began to write and paint at five years old. But I knew how it felt. This creating something. An extension of myself on the paper, through words and images. When I would present it with two hands to my mother, just outside of my bedroom door, she would stop whatever she was doing. Whatever occupied her hands at the moment, be it dishrag or mascara, she put it down, and gave me her full attention. And never was I more seen. My heart. My being. On full display. In full acceptance. The warmth that bounced between us seemed to light up this hallway stage, and I thought this was the only magic I ever needed. 

When my father left, and my mother felt sad, I could feel that light begin to dim. I wasn’t going to let her disappear. I began writing about her. Poems, prayers and promises. On sheets of paper. On pieces of wood. And the stage changed from house to apartment, to apartment again. But the magic remained. 

Maybe it’s the way with all artists. We begin to create to prove that we exist, and then continue to show the others that they do too. 

I was only a few strokes in yesterday when I began to cry. It’s my first painting of Grandma Elsie. I wasn’t sad. Nor nervous. I hadn’t even yet called on the magic before it dropped in. She is coming to life in my studio. 

I guess it’s the same with real life — the more we see others, the more we connect, the more we feel alive. Now that doesn’t mean you have to paint. Or write. But you do have to connect, however it may be, to keep that light shining, bouncing between. There are a million different forms it can come in, but I suppose it’s always love — love is the only magic that keeps us from disappearing. Ever seen. Ever alive.

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On bloom. 

I expect to have roses in the summer. And they are beautiful for sure, but the late autumn roses…the ones that come out of nowhere, welcoming me into the crisp mornings, when all others have let go, succumbed to the force of the fall, these, well these are something spectacular. 

We’re not all green when we’re asked to grow. I was fortunate to see my mother bloom. Long after, I suppose, her peers and townspeople expected. Some might think I brought her to shows, to galleries, to book-signings because I was kind. While I always want to be kind, I wanted her next to me because she was blooming in full sight. She was a long-stemmed rose in my booth. Attracting all who had grown weary of the expected vine. Her delight in this crisp and open new world, was infectious. And I knew, we knew, we were lucky to bouquet around her.

Maybe one never gets over an autumn bloom. I’m hoping that’s the case. I can’t imagine it any other way. How can you look at it and not feel spectacular? I have to imagine, we are given the responsibility — to bear witness. What a privilege it is to keep sharing the story, her story. 

In recent years, we have all heard the saying, “if you see something, say something.” Why we reserve that for the bad things, I’ll never know. This should be something we live by, for all the good things around us — the spectacular blooms we are privileged to walk within and beside. 

It’s a daily choice we’re given, to trample, or bouquet. May we ever choose to bouquet.

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The tender fields

I only had to hear it once for it to stick. “There are no stupid questions,” Mrs. Strand said, addressing the thirty strained-necked five year olds looking up from their cross legged positions at Washington Elementary. So the questioning began.

Behind our house on VanDyke Road, there was a field of grain. Hugo’s field. Lined from green to gold every summer. My grandpa had the same, but he also had a field for the cows. Unlike the fields of grain, it was fenced and trampled — “But still a field?” I asked my grandpa. “Yes, he said. “But what will grow?” “The cows,” he said. I shook my head in agreement.

I was surprised the first time my mother dropped me off at the field to play softball. This was a field too? This sanded and based lot. The teenage boy who we loosely called coach said he would teach of the basics – hitting and fielding. Fielding? No one else raised their hands. Why wasn’t anyone else questioning all these forms of field. I put down my hand and began to play.

It wasn’t lost on me that when you were asked to choose your line of work, it was your field. And when you became good at your chosen profession, you were “outstanding in your field.” The first time I heard this, probably because of Mrs. Strand, Hugo, because of Grandpa, because of the teenage boy, I heard, “out standing in your field.” I still think of it that way. Because this is where I go to create, to the tender fields that led me here. And they were tender. Even through every cracked bit of earth, with every run and trample, I learned. When yields were low. I learned. Each season, I grew. Never with a guarantee, but always a promise of hope. It is with this welcoming of wonder, I wander today’s field.

Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.

Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.


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The audacity of plaid.

By the time I met her, she had already full on grandma-ed into her Elsieness, (the aproned belly, the Thom Mcann shoes) so to catch glimpses of her just being Elsie is such a delightful and necessary surprise.  

We’re all guilty of it I suppose, seeing people from a single vantage point. But the full story is never really just the single page we plop ourselves into. These softened grandmas that we rest our youthful heads against were once sharp and angled women of the world. 

I look at the few photos that I have. There is a girlish mischief from the start. So young and beautiful, with side-eye glances that said she probably knew, but didn’t feel the need to actually come out and say it — no, that was reserved for her smile. And then in middle age, already rounding, she still had the wide eyed willingness, the joyful audacity, to wear plaid. Head to toe. Vested and pantsed in full-on, still daring, still hopeful, youth-angled plaid. 

I mention it because I want to paint her soon. And I want to capture it all. She was so much more than the woman in front of the sink. In front of the stove. And I have to laugh, because looking beyond the keyboard where I type these words, I see my plaid pants. And I can honestly say, it only just occurred to me, that this is what she gave to me, the “audacity of hope.”  The little angles that say, she is relevant still — I am relevant still. Isn’t it what we all want? To be seen? To still be possible, with all of our softened edges?

So I offer you this — be bold in your choices, bold in your love for others and yourself — with all the certainty of today’s angles, dare the plaid!

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A sliver of light.

I usually had ten to fifteen minutes to spare. I held the back of the green leather seat and jumped up the minute the bus driver braked and pulled out the stop sign along with door. First off of the school bus, I ran around the corner to the back door. I flung my coat into the locker that I never actually locked and ran to the gym. No windows, it was as dark as night. I put a notebook between the doors, cracking a sliver of light that led me to the utility closet. It wasn’t always there, on the doorknob, the plastic jump rope I purposely hung after gym class. Most days, the gym teacher put it away and locked the door, but from time to time, as I felt my way along the wall the next morning, I would feel it before I saw it, and my day began with a heart jump of excitement. 

Of course I had jump ropes at home. I managed to sneak them in our cart quite often at Ben Franklin. They weren’t expensive. But the jump ropes at Washington Elementary were nothing short of gorgeous. Worthy of being locked up. They had a weight to them. The plastic blue and white segments would snap against the gymnasium floor with each turn. Maybe it was the darkness that heightened the sound, but the hard plastic cracking against the floor sounded like power. And I twirled myself into confidence. 

When the bell rang, I hung the rope back on the knob with a silent thank-you. I picked up my notebook and smiled sweatily into my desk for the day. Ready to face the light of day. The light of learning. 

It’s different for everyone. It’s even different for ourselves as we continue to change. But we always need to find a way to begin. To boost our confidence. To give ourselves a head start (a jump start). I know what works for me. My hope today is that these words are the tiny crack in the door, the small sliver of light, that leads you to finding yours. Your confidence. Your power. Your beginning. 

Good morning!

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Beside the flame.

He would call me up at work to tell me things like “You can’t waste time before you’re 35.” Doing nothing on a Wednesday afternoon, but for reading this article, he thought it was important to let me know. Both of us in our early twenties, we gave ourselves the permission for things like that — contemplating and justifying our youthful actions, never imagining that time would actually pass, and pass at lightning speed.

His current days were slow, in between freelance jobs, and mine were slow, endlessly working on the catalog.

Just out of college, I did layout and design. It sounds more glamorous than it was. My current project was to create a plumbing and heating catalog. Hundreds of pages. Thousands of parts. Number after number. All under an impossible deadline. Because prices had a lifespan, they could change before I finished one section. And to complete this monstrosity and get it to print before all the pricing would actually change, well it just seemed impossible. So when my best friend would call with important news like he thought he might resemble Tristan (Brad Pitt) from the Legends of the Fall movie, and should he buy a horse, and what about parking, could you park a horse? — to this, even though I knew I could and had fallen legendary, I had to reply, “I’m working on the catalog…”

After months of getting this response he decided that when complete, we would burn this catalog. True to his word, he arrived in our parking lot the day the printer dropped off the cartons. When everyone had left for the day, we took a garbage barrel and rolled it to the center of the parking lot. Of course we said a few words, we were dramatic like that, and set fire to the pages that separated our unwastable time for all these months. I suppose we could have emptied the barrel. But we didn’t. Soon the flame rose higher than our youthful hopes, and became far too obvious for those driving by on Hopkins Crossroad. I couldn’t see if he was praying, but I knew I was — praying in slight fear that the flames would get away from us, but really more in gratitude that I had such a champion. A champion who marked the moments. Who recognized my time.

Sitting in the studio yesterday, painting in my sketchbook that no one will see, listening to Oprah and Brene Brown talk about being seen, being heard, being valued…I thought, “I just need a champion.” And it’s not about vanity, or ego, it is simply having someone stand beside the flames and knowing together this was time well spent.

I sent my sketch to Margaux — sweet, little Margaux, who is so free with her wows! She sent the hearts and the open mouth smiley, and said it was beautiful. And my time was not wasted. Each tiny stroke in this sketchbook brought to me my champion. And I gave thanks beside the flame.

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Not Without Thanksgiving.

Yesterday we began the search for turkey parts and red berries. Of course France does not celebrate Thanksgiving. The grocery store took down the one orange end cap, their small attempt at Halloween, and jumped straight into Christmas.  There are no napkins of thanks (not even a merci). No aisles of stuffing and cranberries. Not even a turkey leg in the freezer section. It is still a day that I try to piece together a semblance of an old tradition while creating a new one with my French family. Because it matters, this giving thanks. I suppose that’s what my mother taught me, not to have Thanksgiving, but to be thankful. 

My mom called me to announce her big decision to make a turkey. This was worthy of an announcement indeed, after spending years together eating bagels, Chinese food, or something from the coffee shop — the only stores open on pre-Black Friday.  I was definitely surprised, but perfectly willing to join in the celebration. She said she took the heavy, big brown sack out the freezer and it was defrosting on the cupboard. A few hours later she called with an update. “There won’t be a turkey dinner,” she said. “Isn’t it already defrosting?” I asked. “It turned out to be just a big bag of ice,” she said. We both laughed. “Do you remember buying a turkey?” I asked. “I don’t remember buying the bag of ice…” she said. We laughed about it for years. Mostly over coffee on the Thursday before the biggest shopping day of the year. I will be ever grateful for the endless laughter we shared. It is my favorite Thanksgiving memory. 

So we will push my empty cart through the grocery store in the south of France and keep searching — but not for gratitude — this I already have. Then and now. Always.

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The wren, the wren.

Some say it is the king of birds — claiming that it rode on the eagle’s back and then when the eagle could go no further, it came out of hiding and rose above. Other cultures think that it carries messages from the spirits. Some say it is able to soar high while staying on the ground — this version, being most like me, is the one I flutter to. 

Maybe it’s what we all strive for, (I hope it is, but I’m not sure), this rising above. It’s easy, I suppose, to be low, given these feet. These feet so often stuck in each furrow, keep us looking downward. But the wren. The wren. What if we were still able to soar without leaving the ground. I want to believe it. I have to. 

So I paint the bird with stroke and flutter, in hopes that I will remember, to keep looking up. To remember that rising is only a myth if we don’t believe we can. I believe we can. I urge myself and you, to look up from the ground, (which is possibly just your phone) and see someone. Really see someone. And maybe they will see you, seeing them, seeing you ask, “the wren?”, seeing them reply with heart, “the wren.”

Up we go.

I am not afraid of the storm.
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Now.

I don’t know how she knew. There were no influencers. No self help books. And even if there were, she wouldn’t have had time to read them. She would have laughed at the thought of someone telling her to stay “in the now.” “Where else would I be?” She would have said. 

It was a Saturday evening. Grandma Elsie’s “now” was filled with some pots brewing, others soaking. She shooed me away from the stove into the wafting of Grandpa’s pipe. I followed it into the living room. I didn’t ask, I simply followed the pinstripe of his overalls onto his lap. He perched the pipe away from the top of my blonde head. “You smell like today, “ I said. He raised his eyebrows. It was a combination of sun, and breeze, and hay and earth, topped with just a hint of tobacco. I squeezed the pouch in his pocket, still wanting to touch the end of his pipe, but remembering the heat from the first and last time I touched it. I pulled at the corners of his pierced lips to form a smile. He was still so new. I wanted to know everything. I didn’t have the words for it then, but he, being already formed, I wondered if I could be a part of it. I sculpted his face and flannel like clay, wanting to be somehow connected. I put a thumb on each of his eyebrows and pulled upward. “That means surprise,” I said. He smiled on his own this time, without my pulling, and I knew that we were connected. 

The pans clanked in the kitchen. The coo-coo of the clock stayed silent. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. And we were in it. I’m sure he had thoughts of tomorrow’s farm, but he didn’t stray. He tapped his pipe in the tray beside the lounger. And we gathered in the scented remains of the day.

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Be brave.

I have always written straight from my heart, ever since Mrs. Bergstrom first began scattering the letters to us in my first grade classroom of Washington Elementary. I looked around at the others hunched over in their desks. Didn’t they see it? The gift that she was giving us??? I just couldn’t imagine my good fortune. She wasn’t just giving me a language, she was giving me my voice. 

I began writing poems for my mother. Poems for baby dolls. I penciled them in my Big Chief notebook. I painted them on scraps of material. On my pants. As the need arose to go deeper, I found my brother’s wood burning kit hidden in the back of the garage. I plugged it in by the open door. The dust that had gathered began to smoke. I watched the trail of it go down the driveway, then I burned the words slowly into the plywood. I traced the words that said go deeper, still.

All of my suspicions were confirmed when I went to college. In my first creative writing class, I hinted at my heart. Did I dare? The paper came back with a response — “You can never be too personal.” All gates and garage doors to my heart were open wide. 

I’m not saying that it’s always easy. Sometimes it’s terrifying to expose your heart. But that’s what courage means. The actual root comes from the Latin word meaning heart. To have courage meant to share the stories of your heart. The act of being vulnerable. This, by definition, is what it means to have courage. Somewhere along the line it got mixed up with wielding weapons, or soaring great heights. It became entangled with go higher, go faster, go further…when all it meant to say was go deeper. 

I suppose it’s much bigger now, this classroom I wander, but still, I look around, wondering, “Do you see it? The gifts we have been given?”

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