Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: April 2025


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Open call.

I see them from time to time on social media. I experience them daily, out my front door.

They are seeking new talent, these establishments with their “open calls.” Looking for dancers and artists, comedians, performers of all kinds. It is an opportunity for so-called unknowns to have a chance. A chance to become. Be something. Someone! 

I suppose, in something of this very chance, I was scrolling by one this morning on Instagram. It was an open call to be an artist in residence in the south of France. Be inspired, they said, by all this beautiful country had to offer. The history of artists before. The museums. The opportunity was priceless. I had to laugh as I saw the location. There was no need to audition. I was already here. 

As humans, we are quick to play the “if only” game. If only I were here, if only I had this, or was able to do this, or given something, or offered that… When actually the real opportunity lies just outside the opening of our front door. For years, in my mind and heart, I have labeled it my open call — the birds singing in the trees as I begin my walk each morning. Maybe that’s why I love to draw them, to paint them. They remind me to not wait for happiness, but open myself to it, daily. The birds in Aix en provence, and all around the world, are not auditioning, they simply sing. Who am I not to join in? 

As I fill my new sketchbook page I don’t listen for the cheer of the audience, I’m already called within, wrapped in the opportunity of the bird song.

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A dance to keep.

I saw a fox on the road. He scurried off to the woods, and I back home to tell Dominique. I wonder if he was in a hurry to tell his furry family that he saw me? 

I think about it all. Do the butterflies regard me as a sign from a loved one, as they dance along my shoulders? Do the birds try to recreate my song? Have the flowers been waiting eagerly to bloom? To brush a dewy hello on my spring leg? Do the leaved trees enjoy the glint of my green ring as I swing my arms? 

I don’t mean any of this as vanity. Truly. I don’t assume the world is thinking just about me. I guess what I mean is, we all have an impact. The steps we take each day. The paths we cross. The lives we touch. And if we thought about it in this way, wouldn’t our steps be a little lighter? Wouldn’t we move with a little more grace and a little less trample? If I am love to the butterflies, just as they are to me, now, wouldn’t that be some kind of dance?! And couldn’t it continue from butterfly to neighbor? To persons across the globe? 

I guess the song said it best, “you may say I’m a dreamer…but I’m not the only one.” I see it in you. When you join me in Rueben’s field. In Elsie’s kitchen. In Ivy’s shoes. For aren’t they but the fox, the flower and the butterfly? They are for me. And if you’ll excuse me, I have a dance to keep. 

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Being lovely.

In grade school, it was common practice to say, “I wasn’t finished,” which every teacher knew was code for — you probably hadn’t started. It could be true for homework, cleaning your area, drinking your milk, or saying something nice to your classmate. Somehow we knew, even in our worst behavior, if we just kept going, we could get there. 

And the thing is, we knew, even then, the difference between right and wrong, and the lengths we had to travel in between. I wonder, do we still know? Did we forget? The things that pass for normal now… it would appear that we think we are finished. We are finished being kind. Finished learning. Growing. Evolving. 

But I’m not ready to hand in that empty paper. I think I can do better. We can do better. 

I was maybe six when I got the look from my mother. She had asked me to clean my room. I’d like to think I had started, but I’m not sure that’s true. Distracted by baby dolls and stuffed animals, and coloring books, it was hours later, and it seemed the mess had grown. She stood in my doorway. Even as the words came out of my mouth, the same words Mrs. Strand didn’t even believe at Washington Elementary, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t even finish say, “I wasn’t finished.” I began cleaning.

An hour later she returned to my smooth bed. My empty floor. My babies tucked in. My animals in a row. “It’s lovely,” she said. 

I’ve never wanted anything else since. In my actions. In my work. In my loving and living. Through all of my stumbles and errors, I have to stop and ask myself, was it lovely? And keep going, keep trying, until I see her, smiling in my heart’s doorway, telling me, “Thanks for being lovely.”

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In the after.

In the last three weeks I have finished two commissions. What a ride! And as I sit in the after, I go through each step. The building of the panel. The seemingly endless sanding. Gessoing. The background. The images. Coming to life. Stroke after stroke. Pure joy. And without my knowledge or permission, the pieces come to an end. As I knew they would. Still, it’s a surprise. And I have to ship. Build a box strong enough to house all that joy. And then let go. Give it over to the man in the white van. The same man who will push the wrong button, or no button, and I will get the message that “We came by to pick up your package, but you weren’t home, so you’ll have to deliver it.” And I will read it again and again, without my package, certain that both paintings were lost forever. I will spare you the 12 hours of panic…they did get back in the tracking system, and are now across the sea in their new homes. 

I suppose these aren’t lessons to be learned. Not this loving. This living. If we did, learn the lessons, we probably wouldn’t do anything. Love anyone. We can know, but still, we must simply go through it all. As I sit in the after, the portraits of my mother, my grandparents, I would do it all again and again. Love them with every color of my heart, every stroke of my being. 

And it will bring me to the next canvas. And I will begin and end and begin again. And give thanks for it all. From joy to panic to joy again. Click.

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We must spring!

I received my banana seat bike for my birthday the end of March in my sixth year on Van Dyke Road. Minnesota’s winter had yet to let go. Yet I bundled and booted and climbed aboard. I had trained for this all last summer and fall. The baby bike that I had learned on, with its stabilizing wheels, hung from a carpenter nail in the back of the garage, waiting to be passed along to neighbor or cousin. The slush of snow, salt and gravel spit from the back wheel, leaving a streak up my down jacket. But perched on the flowers of the vinyl seat, and led by the same pink, blue, green and yellow florals of the basket, it never felt more like spring. 

I never gave a thought to the weather, nor the whether… everything was yes! I suppose it has to be. How else would we get back on that bike with skinless knees and elbows? This is what I try to hang on to. Hang on to the slippery handlebars of youth. With no grasp of maybe. Not waiting for spring, but tethering it to my waist and dragging it in. 

The countless training wheels have been passed on again and again. There is no turning back. Only forward. I look out the morning window, and know I, we, must spring!

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Like butter.

I couldn’t believe the ease of use. Within seconds the wood was smooth. Almost buttery. It’s not like I don’t know how a sander works. But I had limped along with the old one for so long, I suppose I had just gotten used to the lack of function. 

I don’t mind it so much with tools. But what it really has me wondering is, in what other areas am I just getting by? In life, relationships, work, how long do I struggle with the dust blowing in my face? The repetition of movement to get only a mediocre outcome? When is good enough not good enough? When is it just enough already. 

And I know, we’re always supposed to keep trying. It’s biblical even. The old 7 x 70… But when I think about it, I’m not sure it meant keep doing it in the same way, over and over. Sometimes you need a new strategy. Because I’m sure you already know the definition of insanity…perhaps we can just shorten it by saying it’s using the same old tool. 

I’m not trying so much to teach you, but learn myself. The answers are usually right in front of me, in hand as it were. So I pass them along. “Run your hand and heart across this,” I say, “it feels just like butter.”  

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The journey.

We were never big on souvenirs. I’m still not. It was and always will be about the experience. 

Whenever we’d visit a new place in Chicago, or New York or somewhere in between, my mom would say, “I can’t wait to read about this later.”  What she meant was the excitement of having been somewhere, knowing the place, and having it mentioned unexpectedly in the next book, feeling the connection…being able to nod one’s head and heart in full agreement of “I’ve been there.” 

And isn’t it the same with living? We look to those who have survived what we’re going through. As a comfort, a connection. Or for that boost of encouragement, a proof of what can be done.  We are the stories. The words on a page. Meant to be shared. We are the souvenirs. The precious gifts to remember. To pass along.

The morning sun turns the page…and so it begins.

What if I believed in the journey? Enjoyed it even…


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Two women and a department store.

If I miss Carol from Herberger’s, imagine how much I miss my mother. 

The store has been closed for years in Alexandria, but I can’t forget them. Her. Carol, in the shipping department used to save boxes that my mother would pick up at the back door and bring to me in Minneapolis. The recycling was nice. The money I saved was greatly appreciated. The extra bonds with my mom and hometown, priceless. 

I was making a box yesterday to ship two paintings. I’ve gathered the cardboard from goods received, and from local stores. We are a country away here in France. Certainly they’ve never handled the boxes, but there is no doubt in my mind (or most likely my heart) that they have been touched by both of these women. 

With each painting, I’m including the palette they were created from. It is a history of how the paint was applied. But there is so much more. I hope they can feel it, as they open the box (and believe me, there will be time — I really pack them!). Because I am there. Six years old, handing my mother the crayoned sheet of paper with all of my feelings of the day. My mother is inside, driving her little red Focus, straight from the hands of Herberger’s Carol, packed to the roof, barely seeing out the rear view, smiling in the direction of Minneapolis. Inside the tape and bubble are all the laughter and tears in between. Across the USA. Across the sea. And surprisingly, it all fits inside that box. 

I have to laugh when filling out the international forms. They want a description of what’s inside, but they never allow enough space. How could they imagine, besides the paintings, are two women and a department store?  And yet, they add no weight. I suppose nothing is lighter than joy.

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Yellow tulips. 

They have always been my favorite. My mother’s too. “They’re hovering,” she said, between dandelion and rose.” And I suppose she was as well, finding the joy of what was in reach, and what was just beyond, celebrating the beauty in between. 

My hostess gift for Easter was a bouquet of tulips. Beautiful. All the joy of yellow, and its promise of sunny days ahead. But it was more. It is more. It wasn’t a random guess. They know my favorite now, which is to say they know me, which is to say they know my mother. This is what makes us a family. Connects us. Not blood or permission, just love. What could be more yellow than that?

The number reaches higher on my gratitude clicker. Higher still, I think, when you tell me that maybe yellow is your favorite color too. Maybe tulips bring you joy. That maybe we’re all connected in this promise of sunny days to come. And just like that, we shine a little brighter. We hope a little higher. And keep on clicking. 

All is as it should be.
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Egg salad and lemonade.

Sometimes I worry about things changing. Of course it can be difficult. But we’re always given the tools. So when I’m in the throws of it, I just try to remember egg salad.

My first years in France, I searched for white eggs. We just don’t have them. But the Easter eggs?  How will I dye them? That problem was solved, because I couldn’t find the dye either. It took me awhile, but the answers were at hand. With combinations of water colors and non-toxic paint (and I’ve eaten enough of it through the years to know, just by licking my paint brush) I have found a way to make, what I think, are beautiful Easter eggs. 

It takes me hours to paint them. Many joyful hours. Today I will have to crack them. Throw the shells away. But that doesn’t take away the joy, it only brings on new. I like egg salad a lot. 

I wrote it before, and I’ll say it again, “I believe perfection knows no time constraints, because the time spent with you has been perfect.” 

Life continues to change. We are asked to make lemonade and sometimes egg salad. And through it all, we find, we learn, again and again, life can be so delicious!

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