Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: February 2025


by Leave a comment

My Golden Gate.

I don’t remember the assignment. Were we studying California? I can’t be sure. But the speed at which I raced home from Washington Elementary, (well, the bus went at it’s normal lumbering yellow pace, but my mind was feverishly blurring) to build a replica of the Golden Gate Bridge, reflected the certainty of my need to cross over. 

The size was already established. I found only one piece of plywood in the shed that divided our lot and Dynda’s empty one. Did I ask for permission to use it? I hope I did. Anything found on Van Dyke Road seemed like community property, so I put it in my rusted wagon and went back to our basement. Since the Tech School renters had moved out, I used the downstairs kitchen for making things – anything. I wasn’t allowed to use a saw, this would have to be the size. I went upstairs. Put a chair in front of the cupboard where my mom “hid” the chocolate chips. Passed them over. There was art to be made. I opened the thin cupboard beside and pulled out the off-brand roll of tin foil. It was probably only minutes, but it seemed a lifetime, with feet dangling over the kitchen floor, that I worked to release the foil from its own jagged grip. Once freed, I ran back downstairs and covered the entire sheet of plywood. Crinkled it like waves. With neither a mask nor a drop cloth, I spray painted it blue (also found in the shed). There was nothing left to do but plan my argument on how my mother should drive me back to town after just driving home from work. I had already made a list. Popsicle sticks. Glue. Wire. Red paint. I watched the second hand on the clock. 

Once released from her nylons and having heard my plea, my mom drove us back to Ben Franklin and purchased the goods. It took me an entire week to finish. It was too big for the bus, nearly three feet in length, and almost as high, so my mother once again had to drive me to school. Nyloned or not, I never heard her complain. 

I suppose we received grades, but that’s the thing about art, the real joy comes in the doing. It was my first bridge. I have been building them ever since. Word by word. Heart by heart. Day by day. Seeing it yesterday, The Golden Gate, I was reminded, the only reason I am here today, is my willingness, my eagerness, to cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.


It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Those Pacific Coast Cows!

I guess somewhere between Washington Elementary and my grandparents’ farm I must have learned it. It does sound like something my grandpa would have said, between sparring cousins or in front of an unyielding field  — that life simply wasn’t fair. But I suppose it was the luxury of being loved enough that allowed me not to think about it that much. I knew what I had, what I have, and it was more than enough. 

I mention it only because I saw them yesterday, the cows at the beach. The most gorgeous views in front of them. 77 degrees and sunny. It made me laugh, wondering if my grandpa’s cows ever knew, ever gave them a thought, shook a hoof in the air and thought, “those Pacific coast cows….!!!!!” As ridiculous as it sounds, we humans do that every day. Fisted hooves! Shaking. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the answer seems to still be  — love.  If you are loved enough — and I mean both giving and receiving it — then maybe someone’s extra five minutes taken at lunch time won’t really matter to you. Maybe someone’s good fortune could be celebrated instead of envied. Someone’s win wouldn’t be your loss. I don’t know. I suppose you could say, well, it isn’t fair, your mother loved you… and that would be true. I am still heart-deep in that luxury. When it comes to my husband, my family, my friends, I am wandering in a grassy field beside the ocean. I know this. All I can do is give thanks and return the love. 

The view from gratitude is pretty spectacular.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

In the word.

We went in search of seals along the coastline of Monterey, California, but instead I found myself back at the kitchen table of our house on Van Dyke Road. 

I was just a tween when I read it, John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I loved to read. I had been reading for years. First just moving my eyes along with my mother’s words. Then sounding them out by myself by lamp light. (I never had to hide under covers, my mother encouraged me to read.) But this was the first book, my first adult feeling book, my first read that made me climb the stairs from my bedroom, taking them two at a time because of the urgency to discuss this marvelous book with my mother. She smiled as she wiped the orange countertop with a dishrag. She knew the feeling. She was a voracious reader herself. She let me go on and on, not unlike Lenny I suppose, about each word. Each page. Each rabbit. My life has never been the same.

That conversation remained throughout her life. We would call each other after every book. From city to city. Country to country. The words kept us connected. She wrote notes on sticky pads. I wrote thoughts on my iPad. We gathered in between. 

We didn’t see the seals yesterday, but the romance of this coastline went deep. John Steinbeck helped for sure, but it was my mother that aided most in the authoring of my soul. 

We are given what we need, I suppose, when we need it. In the absence of seals, I visited my home.

You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Otter to otter.

Maybe everyone who saw the otters that morning went home and played Wordle and thought that it was made just for them, but it still made me feel special. Imagine that, a little word like “otter” could make me feel a part of this big, magical world! It made my heart spin just like the seemingly Disney characters right there in the water.

The thing is, we never know what will connect us. I wrote it so long ago, but it holds true, and I try to remind myself daily — “If I’m not happy in this time, in this place, I’m not paying attention.” And when you start to see things, it becomes, well, easier to see things. Easier to point them out. I had a teacher tell me once, it can be as simple as changing the article. From “the” to “a”. Here’s an example: If I were to say, “I was wandering down the road,” – that sounds pretty ordinary, “the” road makes it sound like I travel it every day. Now, if I were to change that to “I was wandering down a road,” — oh, the mystery that arises! Which road is this? What could happen next?!

And isn’t that just like life? It’s always the small changes, I suppose — the little observations, the different perspectives, that can give us a whole new view. I suppose the cynic would call my otter to otter experience, simply a random force of nature. I’m sure they could evaluate the statistics. Show me the graph. I don’t care. For me, it was magic. I will always choose the joyful splash of magic!

It’s a new day! I’m going to wander down a road!!!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Little things

It’s not a work of art, this scrap of paper, but it is the picture of kindness.  We were going to Pismo Beach. When we got close to shore, we saw that we would have to pay. We didn’t have a lot of time, so sitting in neutral, thought about just going on (the luxury of beaches in California). On his way out, an elderly man drove up next to us, signaling me to roll down my window. I did. He gave me his pass. “Just tape it to your windshield,” he said. The thank you’s rolled out of my smile. It wasn’t about the money. We could have paid, of course. But the thing is, he didn’t know that. And he gave us his pass. I taped my restored faith in humanity to the windshield, and we saw the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen, because it was lit with kindness.

We are in a period of time where hatred seems to be front and center. You can’t tell me that it’s normal. How? When, did this become OK???? It’s all around. It’s shouted through social media, on t-shirts, and face to face. We have to be better than this. We have to be the knock on the random window that passes along kindness. Please let me be that hand. May we all be that hand.

The tape will fade. The note will drop from the window. But the kindness will last. It is glued to my heart.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Wiggle room.

They say you never forget your first love. I suppose that’s why in Santa Barbara yesterday, I thought of Cocoa Beach.

My ninth grade was full of firsts. My first plane ride. My first time in Florida. My first time seeing the ocean. My grandparents had rented a condo on Cocoa Beach. It is fitting that I experienced it with them — they had given me a sea of golden grain before that —and now an ocean of blue. Perhaps they were, and are still, the horizon to my every view. 

Maybe it’s always about the people. I know it is for us. As we travel the country, the world, the memories we make come down to the people we connect with — some for the first time, some again and again. And maybe it’s because I saw my grandfather’s bare feet for the first time — this midwest farmer who fit so perfectly shoed and working in the dirt — was toe-wiggling in the the open sands of Cocoa Beach — and I thought at that moment, we, I, could go anywhere. 

And if I believe it for myself, allow it for myself, I have to do the same for others. We should all be given that opportunity, that privilege, that chance to be open, to be free, to give a little wiggle. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Radical Hospitality.

I am no more or less related to Sara, the co-owner of Pascal’s Patisserie than I am to Dominique’s cousin, Bruno, who completes the “co”. I knew the croissants would be good. He’s French, of course. But I was not prepared for Sara – this force of nature that was so welcoming, I was full before we even started to taste.

When you meet your people, you just know. I was reminded of it watching a repeat of Sex in the City while on the treadmill that very morning. It was Charlotte who asked the other girls, “What if we could be each other’s soulmates…” Walking into the bakery yesterday, not two steps into the kitchen, I knew I had found one of mine. Between directing the workers and leading us through the heavenly scents, it felt like I was home.

First she brought us the Dubai croissant — a pistachio filled croissant that made my eyes roll into the back of my head, where I was able to see the part of my brain that said, “pay attention to this woman.” And I did. We double-dutched through a conversation of delight and I blurted out “I need to paint you!” (As I often do when delighted — to which I am mostly met with a backing up so extreme that you can almost hear the beeps.) Not with Sara. She said YES! Even before I asked to take her photo, she was in mid pose! OH, how I love those that lead with yes! She continued to load our plates and our hearts.

I didn’t have the words for it until later that afternoon. We went north to the Mission in Santa Barbara. I looked under the “about” of it, and the first and only sentence was “Old Mission Santa Barbara believes in radical hospitality.” Is it ironic that I would experience both on such a glorious day, or just my good fortune?

And shouldn’t this be our mission? Wouldn’t life be extra delicious. I eat this morning’s croissant that we were so radically and joyfully gifted, and I lead with YES!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

To dare the sand.

I have a rock in my shoe almost daily. Are my shoes too wide? My socks too low? Am I walking too fast? It makes more sense when I’m on the gravel path at home, but even when I’m going to the fitness room in the hotel? I have to laugh about it now, because it’s simply part of my routine, to shake out each sock, to give each shoe a couple extra bumps. 

Near the beach in Santa Monica yesterday, it made sense that I would pick up a little sand in my slip on mules. (Certainly not beachwear, but perfect for the restaurant on the pier.) (Sand is really only small rocks with a good reputation.) So, as I always do with sand, I gave my feet a little brush and allowed myself to travel back in time. Back to the first day at the beach each summer (spring really) in Minnesota. Oh, how we longed for summer. And wasn’t it wonderful to ache for it? To dare the sand just a little too early. To let it wriggle between our winter white toes and dare us towards the water. It seemed to be an exfoliant of all our winter woes, our schoolyard scuffles. It was the opposite of bundling — a release into the warmth of possibility! 

I suppose it’s all about perspective. When I think about where sand can take me, why would I ever worry about a pebble?

I am laced and ready for whatever the day may bring.

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Up there.

I credit my grandma for my love of climbing. I suppose it was her apple trees that first took me up. Low branches provided an easy first step. Of course it was no problem then to bring my knee to my chin and hoist myself up. My bumper tennis shoes slid up the bark and after arriving on my first branch, one so easily reached by my mother’s long arms, it was still my proudest moment to hand her that beautiful green apple prize. 

Each year I could go higher. Even higher than grandma’s basket on a stick that she used to pull down the apples on the tippy-top. And it was a thrill to say, “I’ve got it, Grandma,” — to show her that I could do it, I could go higher. To show her that even though she had rescued me so many times, from dark nights of sleep-overs, from the fear of grandpa’s snoring, from the dark closets of the upstairs bedrooms, from the unwanted covered dishes at the potluck, from the hidden aisles of Jerry’s Jack and Jill, and all the unknowns of Petermeier’s Funeral Home, I could climb higher. 

I could fill the paper sacks with apples. I could write Ivy in magic marker on my mother’s and give to her her favorites, the tiny sour ones from the tree near between the electric fence and the road. 

The ones who really love you will do that — help you reach higher. Maybe the only way to thank them is to keep climbing. And to help other’s do the same. 

I smiled when climbing the rocks at the Joshua Tree National Park. Not because I was getting closer to them, but because they are still lifting me. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Ivy and Vera.

It wasn’t just a scarf, it was a Time Machine.

We went into the colorful gallery. Scarves everywhere. Paintings on the wall in the same images. I recognized immediately the signature on the scarves. Vera. The same name I had pulled out of my mother’s bottom dresser drawer for years.

I wasn’t allowed to “play” with them. But I could touch. Admire. She even showed me how to tie around my chubby, youthful neck — a neck that would one day grow into its own curiousity and self-esteem. It felt smooth and empowering. She tied the loop and the name Vera hung proudly. “Who is Vera?” I asked. “She’s one of us,” she said. That’s all I needed to know.

I had no idea of money at the time. It wasn’t about that. Yesterday in the gallery, the curator explained that Vera wanted all women to feel beautiful, to have the chance to accessorize themselves into something more, and so she created her line to be sold from Bergdorf’s to Herberger’s. Scarved and strong, my mother, in my eyes, surpassed both.

I wear them all the time. In different names. Different colors. Purchased in France, or at Goodwill, it doesn’t really matter. Because to be grouped with the grace (which means for me, not ease, but beauty and strength amidst all of life’s adversity) — to be called by grace itself, her gently saying, “She’s one of us.”

Shop Now!