Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: January 2025


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Into the Sweet Ivy.

(The boomerang that returns.)

I waited two years for it to come back. And yesterday, without my knowledge or permission. Without my asking or pleading. She placed it in my hand.

I chose the Starbuck’s at Barnes and Noble in the Galleria because I could walk to it within minutes. We had planned to have coffee, to visit of course. No chairs were available. (Which I can see now was clearly by design.) She said we could walk around a little. My feet, already on yes, were darting out into the mall. Climbing the stairs to the main floor, she said they had just acquired a new sponsor for their podcast. (I had done their podcast about a year ago. That’s how we met.) Somehow I knew which store it would be. She asked if I had ever been to “Sweet Ivy.” I smiled. (You’re probably smiling too.) That was my mom’s name, I said. She knew how much my mom meant to me from our interview. We started walking toward the store.

No, I said, I hadn’t been inside the store. I couldn’t. It first opened just as my mom passed away. Waiting for the next flight back to France, I walked the Galleria Mall. I saw the name of the new store. This “Sweet Ivy.” The tears flowed. I couldn’t go in. It was all too fresh. My mom loved fashion. We shared that. Deeply. We walked that mall a million times. Took the pictures. Gave the compliments. Shared the laughs. Hung packages on wrists. This love, this friendship, ever en vogue.

But yesterday, it was time. It was more than easy. My hesitation was carried by my new friend, and we went, nearly skipped like school girls, into the Sweet Ivy. I shared my story again. Gave out my business cards. Explained paintings. Laughed. Sipped the coffee. From mother to store, the Ivy connected. The woman behind the counter reached over to a rack of gorgeous, and pulled out a blouse, a blouse that couldn’t have Ivy-ed more — she said it’s a small, put it on, and from what I can only imagine was my mother’s hand, she placed it in mine. The boomerang had returned.

Of course it fit. Everything fits. In its time. In its place. I suppose we throw them daily, these boomerangs. Never knowing which one will return. Nor when. I guess you just have to be ready. Open. And grab on with all your might when they do.

So I hike up the cuffed sleeves of this beautiful silk, and tell you the story, giving it a mighty fling, knowing love will always return.

*** https://www.theviewinyourmirror.com/ (podcast)

*** https://www.galleriaedina.com/directory-04/sweetivy

*** https://shopsweetivy.com/

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Of book and bird.

She could only read a page a day, the bird at the bookstore. Perhaps had she been able to turn the pages, she could have read more. She came every day and landed, not on, but near the book. She fluffed her feathers as bold as the words she imagined.

The exact day the store owner noticed her, she couldn’t be sure. She had no watch, no phone, no calendar. Just the angle of the sun. It glinted off the sidewalk’s tree, at the same time each morning and lit the way to the unlocking door of the bookstore. She watched him wheel his stack just under the shade. And she rested eager, smiling on the blue cover. He smiled back at her that one day. She was surprised he could see her turned beak, but he had, and he opened the book. Page one.

She returned each day to a new page. Pecked the words. Then nested them home. A month of words. A summer of chapters. They belonged to each other now.

Of course he had known loss. Everyone does. Perhaps that was the main reason he opened the bookstore. To connect.

In those sunny months of bird and book, a young girl was learning to read. She sat at the foot of the store owner. He read the words out loud, slowly, carefully. She followed along, raising her hand. Asking the questions. Eager for story. She noticed everything. Even the bird on the book.

“Is she reading?” She asked. “I think so,” he said. “Did you teach her?” “Not exactly…” he said, “some things we have to learn on our own.” “Then what did you do?” She asked. “Sometimes, you just have to help turn the page.” She smiled. They were all learning.

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A feathered yes.

It is certainly too big and too heavy for my suitcase, but there was no way that I wasn’t going to bring it from France. 

They watched eagerly as I opened the Christmas present. A beautiful sketchbook. Watching my face react, certain they had gotten it right, sure that they knew me, they asked if I would bring it with me to the US. When you are offered love, the only answer is yes. 

I don’t expect to see her in France, my mom. She was never there. But here, in all of our sacred spaces, from mall to museum, coffee shops to cuisine, I look around every corner of Minneapolis. I touch the blouse that she would have tried on. Pick up the candle in our shared signature fragrance. Think to double the coffee order. And a smile weighs at my heart. Is it heavy? Indeed. But it is not a burden. It is the weight of love. A joyful weight. One that I will carry forever. Without question. 

I begin to fill it. I start by sketching a weightless bird with the French pencil I bought at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Each feather answers yes and I proudly carry it with me, all of this love.

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Coiffed and caffeined.

Getting to know each other, she asked me what books I had written. It was my publisher who had referred me to this hair stylist. As I listed them off, she said, twice, “Oh, I have that book!” Both delighted, we began to wander freely in each other’s story. I knew my hair was safe in her hands. 

At any book event that my mom attended, people would say, “Oh, this is so me,” or “You must have written this about me,” or “It’s me!!!” — to which my mom would reply, “Actually it’s about me!” We would all laugh, knowing that everyone was actually right. 

We all want to be seen. We need it to survive. There is the ineffective shortcut of shock, that so many want to rush into, but this is not sustainable, nor fulfilling. No, we need to be seen joyfully, gently, heartfully. With empathy and wonder. Kindness. Slowly.

I saw them on display as I made the coffee this morning at my friend’s house. My cups. My story. Resting next to the Lefse recipe of her mother — her story. I suppose that’s what friendship is, the combining of our stories. Newly coiffed and caffeined, I smile out the window, ready to write a new page. Will you join me?

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The art of living.

I suppose we all hope for it — a little of the magic to rub off. The plaque on the outside wall says the author lived here. I stand in sturdy on the sidewalk, ready to catch any discarded words from a hundred years ago. Words left hanging in the cement’s cracking, perhaps ready, in this moment of my standing, to release themselves. I open my pockets and umbrella my shirt. 

I go to museums and restaurants. Vowing to paint this. To make this. I will turn the kitchen table into the coffee shop, and sip slowly, slip gently into the romance of it all. And isn’t that what we’re here for, after all. To enjoy the art of being alive, but also to leave a touch of the magic behind for others to climb upon, to rest upon, to become. 

I was lucky. I saw it early. I sat at my grandparents’ kitchen table, and held. The wood had already absorbed them. These Hvezdas. Scents of kolaches and pipe tobacco. Imprints of elbows calculating and cards slapped down in victory. Dice shook. Recipes tweaked. Books of crops and yields gone over and over again. Radio vibrations of Paul Harvey and rain forecasts. Over it hands shook. On it hands folded. And underneath, four angular legs that stuck out too far for a racing toddler, but held strong, this sturdy table, this gathering of life. 

I take it with me everywhere. I’m sprinkling it now on this kitchen table where I type the morning words. Reach out your hands, your heart, the magic is falling.

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Of heart, thought and time.

I have been guilty of it for sure. Waving things off. “It’s not that important.” Certain that another chance, another opportunity, another life bus, another Tuesday — all will be just around the corner. And I’ll get that chance. And I won’t miss the next opportunity, I promise myself. And I’ll be slower to anger. More quick to act. Love deeper. I’ll give it the attention, the weight it all deserves… won’t I?

I suppose just being aware of it is a start. But I like to give myself reminders. I bought a wax sealer earlier this year. It made me more excited about the hand written letter. Not that I will write the treasures that I have been given. Not that the recipients will save them. Not like I have saved the envelopes written from my mother and grandmother. But maybe they’ll know, in the moment, in that one moment, that I did take the time. To write slowly. In ink. Without word prompt, or spell check or “undo” — I thought of them. I heated the wax and sealed the letter and walked it to the post office. None of that weighs more than an international stamp will carry, but I think it has weight. Weight of heart and thought and time. What more do we really have to give?

I saw it yesterday in the Antique Mall. A small scale. A huge reminder. One like I had never seen before. A little brass device to weigh letters, and to hold the stamps. Small enough to fit in my suitcase. It will sit on my desk. Telling me, on this day, give it all the weight it deserves.

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Doing better.

I have purchased them, found them, painted them even — these bookmarks. This way to signify where I’ve been, where I’m headed. This perfect way to keep moving forward. If only I, we, had the same way to mark our every day lives. 

I think of how many times I have learned lessons again and again. Going back in chapter to retain the information. Oh, yes, I think, I’ve learned this for the last time, and yet…here I am thumbing backwards. Worrying the same old worries. Replaying the words someone said. Until my heart finally says, as loud as it can, over the words written on brain, “Move on. Read on. There’s so much more!” And it’s always sweeter. Life. My story. When I do. When I take the mark from the page, lay it beside me, just out of reach, and continue the story. 

I’ve said it before, it’s good to rest. To place the bookmark gently. Breathe. Sleep. Smile. Dream even. But we must never give up. There’s so much more to learn. To see. To love. To share. So much of the story awaits. 

I painted this bookmark of Maya Angelou. She says, “When you know better, do better.” Yes, I smile, and turn the page.

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And the peace. Smiled.

My favorite underpants are proudly tagged with the notion that if you buy three pairs you will save a significant amount of money. I have yet to find three in my size, in one location at the same time, but I love them, so I buy them one at a time, ever hopeful. 

Maybe it’s because I love the smooth fit. Or the way they stay on while wearing a summer dress (like if you suddenly have to burst into a run at an airport — if you know you know). Or the undeniable comfort it gives me, just after a wash, having a full drawer of clean underpants. Whatever the reason, I find myself patient with my underpants. And whether or not they can give it to me in a batch of three, I will love them. Would that I were so patient with everything and everyone, even myself.

I know that patience is a virtue. I also know the furious speed at which I have tried to get through things. I suppose there are a million ways to learn it. And I’ve tried close that many. And as unconventional as it may be, today I’m going to try the underpants method. Surely, if I can travel from Target to Target, bundle, head down, bracing the cold, the wind, find a clerk, ask for the brand, thumb through countless pairs, sliding the wrongly placed items along the rack, with little success, then yes, certainly I could be a little more patient with myself. With others. And if nothing else, it does make me smile. Laugh even. And in “a moment of grin” is always a good place to catch yourself.

Enjoy a laugh today. And check for panty lines.


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Shades of blue.

My mother always said that she wasn’t an artist, but I think we both knew that wasn’t true. With the courage and audacity of a Rothko, she stood in front of the mirror and created the perfect shade of blue, bringing out eyes, strengthening shoulders, softening lines. Somewhere between a Mediterranean Sea and an open sky, she, without spelling it out for me, let me know that joy arrives in every shade of blue. 

Some may say the sea is blue. It makes me laugh. As much as when people say, they want to be happy. The color of the water depends on the depth, the sun, the wind, the beholder. There is no one color. There is no one happiness. I’m not sure I could even define happiness. For all the striving, I think it is fleeting. What is lasting, in my humble opinion, is joy. This feeling of peace and hope, a turquoise of glee, even when the skies take upon a gray, or the waves rock in with extra white, it is there. Arms waving. Arms contemplating. Arms holding. Or hopeful. It is there.

And I want to see it all. I was made for this — to not turn away — but to face. I hope you can feel. Walk toward it. Welcome it. Joy is arriving.

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Sleeved.


When you’re the last one in line, the hand-me-downs have to go back up. 


I bought the black leather vest in New Mexico while traveling with my mother many years ago. I wore it proudly, then passed it up to her. She looked fabulous in it. Black pants. A popped white crisp collared blouse underneath. Scarved for a little color. (Scarf is the new black, she would say.)


I have it back again. That black leather vest. When I get compliments, I always say it was my mother’s. Because that’s the most important part of the story for me. They don’t need to know the whole “Sisterhood of the traveling pants” version. That beats quietly beneath the zipped leather. 


I like that we shared the clothes before it was, pardon my pun, in fashion. Long before vintage was cool. Truth be told we didn’t even use the word vintage — we only had hand-me-downs, and hand-me-ups. But we weren’t looking to be on trend, we wanted to be connected. For that same reason, my mom handed down clothes to her sister Karolynn. To be connected. 


Just last week my cousin Kalee wore my mother’s coat to our cousin’s funeral. The coat that my mother handed to her sister, that she handed to her daughter. The coat I would wear on winter visits when I didn’t bring one of my own. I like to think that love is sleeved. Each time we slip through, we pass on the hugs, we pass on the love. And it gets handed off, up and down and all around. 


I guess what I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to end. We can all stay connected. Once we allow the passing through, it, we, can always be passed along. Held in the arms of love. 

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