Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: December 2024


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Possibly Tulips.

There are the usual suspects — tulips, tulip bulbs, chocolates — but sitting in the Amsterdam airport, all I really want to find is a bit of my Grandma Elsie. 

She could fall asleep anywhere. Anytime. She could take a nap mid-bake, and never burn the cookies. She could fall asleep while you were taking your turn at the card game or dice game on her kitchen table. Dreaming of becoming a UPS driver, or a girlish romance behind the Alexandria motel, while you strategized, only to wake up and beat you every time. In a chair. On a bus. In a car, (even once while driving us home from Jerry’s Jack and Jill, just after the sugar rush of toasted marshmallows) she could easily fall into complete slumber. While the coffee brewed. After drinking the coffee. During the commercials of Days of Our Lives. She slept. She had perfected the Power Nap before it was even called as such. 

I always envied this ability to let go. This is something I don’t possess. To fall asleep on a plane, in an airport, seems unimaginable. But I am not in discomfort. I am not without rest. I am gathered in. I imagine the flowers on her apron. Were they tulips? Possibly. As I rest in the memory of her welcoming aproned belly, they are tulips. I smile. I have taken my Grandma to Amsterdam, not all dreams require sleep. 

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In the light of the moment.

I had nothing more of less from the day before, but for the green light signifying that my iPad was charging, and I was extraordinarily happy. 

It turned out only to be an exchange of the power adapter, a simple fix, but in those 14 hours, as I was losing unreplaceable power, I had conjured up a scenario where not only my iPad would have to be replaced, but generally every electronic item in the house. 

I made her (the young woman at the Apple Store) check it three times, but I wasn’t completely convinced until I plugged it in at home. Only then, as the light shown beside my bed, did I allow myself the celebration, as if I had made it across the deep water that separated me from the Gatsby mansion. 

Everything seemed special. Not just my iPad. My phone, my earbuds, the new spring in my step. The path that I walked on, listening to a repeat podcast — all brand new. And I suppose the funniest part was when Joni Mitchell, on this podcast, sang her song from decades past, with a meaning relevant to my very second, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” 

Climbing the Montaiguet, I made the same promise to myself (that I have made and broken a hundred times) not to make the same mistake again. Sure this time, that my gratitude would last. Maybe it will. At least a few steps longer up the hill. And I can see the victory in that. So I keep on singing. I keep on climbing. In this moment, I know what I have, and I give thanks for this beautiful day.

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With all good nests. 

I can’t unseen it now, how she became the nest from which I flew.

I have slept in them. Written about them. Longed for them. Been coddled in them. But this was the first year that I painted a nest. And it’s not lost on me that it was only after I painted my Grandma Elsie. And it wasn’t planned — who can plan magic? — and it wasn’t contrived, they both came at exactly the right time. 

I suppose with all good nests, it takes a lot of gathering. Story by story, twig by twig, but I see it now, what (who) gave me the security to fly. I hadn’t noticed the palette similarity until I placed the bird beside her. It is undeniable. Not everyone can teach you how to fly. Maybe my mother did that. Some have the specific role of building the nest. And without it, nothing else is really possible. No daring, without a safe place to land. No risk, without the blending of the heart’s colors. 

I can say my “thank yous” daily, and I do, but I imagine the only true way to show my gratitude to this wide eyed giver of the nest, is simply to fly.

I’ll see you up there. 

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The shape of love.

I made it in the seventh grade at Central Junior High. Made is probably a stretch. We polished the rocks and glued them into the settings. Still, I was proud. Much more so than when I brought the slice of apple pie to my mother that I made in Mrs. Pfefferly’s home-ec class. Much more so than when I brought home the wooden shelf made in shop, or the soap dish in plastics. I suppose it was because she loved jewelry. And I loved her.  So to present this gift, from my hands to her heart was something extraordinary. Not even our multi-course teachers could have known. The skills they were offering were not just in the making, but in the giving. 

My mother went immediately to her jewelry box and found it – the black leather with the golden clasp to hang it around her neck. She wore it for years. I have it still. A country and a lifetime away from Central Junior High, I’m still learning about giving. It seemed silly at the time. When would I need to know how to make a toolbox out of sheet metal? Or a stuffed dog from scrap material and a one speed sewing machine? I can’t say I ever used the drafting skills they taught us, but I do remember who I sat beside at the table — Brian Hoppe. He married my cousin. I suppose that’s what it was all about. Exposure to the other. Things we never would have tried. People we never would have met. We were given the tools to connect. 

Maybe you still have your wooden shelf. Or metal box. Something that connected you with the ones you love. I hope so. Would I be writing daily without these lessons learned? Would I try new paints? Dare to make the wooden panels? The frames? Brave the new French recipes? Would I have dared to offer my gifts, all of my love? Maybe. But I’m eternally grateful that I will never have to know. I was given the gifs. I was exposed to the art of simply trying. 

I hold the ever polished stone in my hand, Smoothing my thumb across the lessons I continue to learn, across the love that keeps on giving.

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Let’s ride.

Some days more than anything I want my old bike back. 

Was it the banana seat? The gripped handlebars? I can’t be sure. But when I became one with this bicycle, when the brightly colored flowers on the seat fueled my thighs — flowers like Goldie Hawn would have worn dressed for the opening of Laugh-In — I was pretty sure I was invincible. Nothing could stop me. Not the gravel of Van Dyke Road. Not even the blare of a tornado siren. They were probably only tests, but that would mean I knew it was a Wednesday, and to be honest, under the summer sun, one day did not differentiate from the other. So when it blared, I double knotted my bumper tennis shoes and pedaled with all my might towards our green house, and I was saved.

My heart shook its head at my legs, saying, “Maybe you’ve outgrown it, but I haven’t. It’s funny how our legs don’t often give our heart a choice. I mounted my new full size, black, three-speed bicycle from Sears. I was faster for sure, but not more confident. 

Three-speeds moved to ten. I listened for warnings now. I knew Wednesdays. Lessons had been learned. 

I opened the Christmas present yesterday. Socks covered in flowers. Goldie Hawn flowers. Filled with youth. Each one a Time Machine. I mount the day and feel the wind in my hair. My heart leading with certainty — just the way I like it! Let’s ride!

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The adventure begins.

Most of us cried when we lost the last game of season. I can’t say what all the tears were for — but I know for me it wasn’t about winning or losing. It was the ending. Every day for three months I sat in front row of Mrs. McCarty’s English class, watching the last few ticks of the clock that hung just above the door. My toe tapping in time with the second hand. My arms clutched around my books just before the bell rang — the bell that released us into the after school special that no one would film. 

I raced down the hall. Past the locker that I never used. Down the stairs. Past the front doors. Waved at my mom at her front desk in the Superintendent’s office. Down another half flight of stairs. A quick drink at the fountain. Into the girls’ locker room. Changed into my shorts and t-shirt. Hiked up the knee pads. Joining Mrs. Anderson and all of my teammates for volleyball practice. 

This is why I cried that last game. In slow motion, the last ball hit the floor on our side, and with that one splat, I had nowhere to go. No clock to watch. No hall to race. Nothing. 

Not to be all dramatic…of course it wasn’t true. I still had the books to read from the English class that I adored. I had a mother who loved me. All the friends I had from the day before. And a permanent gym locker that Mrs. Anderson let me use throughout the school year. We sang on the bus ride home from the game. Everything was beginning.

Each year for a minute on the 26th of December, I can feel that “ending.” That hollow. And then I go through my list. I smile.  I have everything I need. And just enough to wish for. No tears. I’m ready to get on that bus! To take the next ride! Let the adventure begin!

The adventure begins!
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Led to believe.

Before I knew how to tell it. Before I owned a watch. Before Mrs. Bergstrom held up the big wooden face and moved the handles as we shouted out “before” and “after” numbers. Before all of this, there was only the sound of my mother’s voice, calling to the empty lot between Dynda’s house and ours. Where we chased the setting sun, and with only a handful of Norton girls, the lot was never in fact, empty. Bats and balls and bikes. Shoes and sweatshirts making bases. And depending on the season, flattened tracks of grass, flattened tracks of snow. Paths that only led us to believe, there would always be time. 

I don’t know where I learned it. It seemed we all just knew to ask for it — five more minutes. Vowing to make the most of each. In those five minutes we would gather all the fun. All of joy of youth stuffed neatly in our pockets. We wouldn’t waste it. No. Please, please, five minutes more. After which, we would ask again. And we kept asking until the sound of all the porch mothers on Van Dyke Road lowered their voices and we knew it was, in fact, time.

Each year, I try to slow it down. The untangling of lights. The raising of ornaments. The wrapping of gifts. I read the poems slowly and sing the songs loudly. Promising with all my intention that I will indeed value each moment. I really promise. Just let it pass slowly. And in that blink, as I run all the bases of December, I can hear the voice of Christmas morning saying, “It’s time.” 

Timeless.
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Stockings full.

“It’s full,” she said, as I squeezed the bottom of the Christmas stocking with my chubby, youthful hand. “I don’t feel anything,” I replied. “You will,” she said, “It’s packed with everything that I wish for you.” And just like that, my hands and heart were complete. 

As an adult, the week before Christmas was reserved for my mother. We did everything we loved. Coffee in the morning. Shopping. Fashion shows from the bathroom mirror to the bedroom closet. Wine and stories. And laughter and tears of tenderness. Poems read and books exchanged. Sharing chocolate dark and rich — having to brush our teeth twice as we revisited the box. Giggling on pillows. Emptying slowly our stockings full of wishes that we had for the new day, the new year, for each other. 

I have them throughout the house here in France. The two stockings that were my mother’s are lying on the sofa — too full of love to possibly hang. 

It’s easy to get more lonesome this time of year. So many lessons learned can take away the magic. My hands can get weighted with doubt, until I shake them off, gather the stockings in, and know that all the love is still there. My hands and heart full. I am complete. 

Give today a big squeeze – it’s packed with everything that I wish for you!  Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!


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Ping!

I must have knocked it out when putting on my scarf. I began my walk and noticed my earbud was missing. I retraced my steps in the driveway. Nothing. In the entry. Not there. I looked in the closet. Nothing. I decided to go on my walk and search again when I got home. Off balance for an hour, I returned to search. My phone said it was nearby. It asked me, would I like to ping it. Sure. Ping, ping, ping. I could hear a faint sound, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It led me into the closet. Still nothing on the floor. But it kept pinging. There was a duffle bag sitting there. Surely it hadn’t found its way into the tiniest of slits for the pocket. I picked it up. It kept pinging. I opened each pocket. Rifled my hand through each crease. Shook it. And there it was. What an invention. This pinging! Simply marvelous, my brain shouted. My heart only nodded, smiling, thinking, I already knew. 

I feel it each morning. The first thing I see is the painting of my mother dancing. Ping! My grandfather leaning in. Ping! Grandma smiling. Ping! The grandkids at the beach – Ping! Ping! Each leading me to the desired destination. Each leading me home. 

They say follow your heart. I believe it’s true. I used to go only by feel, but now I hear it as well! The marvelous ping of my heart!

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Covered in the welcoming.

Walking into the entry of my grandparents’ home, I could feel my shoulders relax. Dropping down with the ease of the coats hooked on the wall. Nothing left to brace. No cold. No pretense. My first glimpse into the rumor of home. 

Of course I didn’t have any of those words yet, as I danced beneath the dangling sleeves. Cuffs that smelled like tobacco and earth, brushed across my face. My mother had already made it into the kitchen. But I lingered. Stretching my unmittened hands up and into the damp sleeves. With boots still on, I could slide my feet into my grandpa’s shoes. Almost completely covered in the welcoming. Nearly finished with her first cup of egg coffee, my mother waved me in. 

I suppose I’ve always been one to linger. Wanting the moment to last. It’s the 22nd and I want it all to slow down. I’m not ready to jump to the Christmas Day. I want to play the music. Loudly. Softly. I want to finger the wrapping. Nibble at the cookies. Drape myself in the entry of all the magic to come. I can see my mother’s feet in grandma’s kitchen. There’s no need to hurry. I know I am home.

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