Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: April 2025


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Dishwater warm.

It seems I always needed a little extra assurance, and she was more than willing to give it to me. I was still at the picking up and putting down phase. Old enough to walk, or at least waddle, but the need to have my grandma near was stronger than any urge to wander off, so when she placed me somewhere near her kitchen chores I stayed. I held her gaze as if with ropes. “I’m not going to leave you,” she said. I smiled. And I believed her. I’m not going to say that I didn’t test it from time to time — the speed at which she could apron wipe her hands and grab the sharp object from my grasp. I think we both knew I was too much of a rule follower to do anything drastic, but it was always worth the feeling of her dishwater warm hands around me. 

I sat in the doctor’s office yesterday, hovering somewhere between translation and nerves. Oh, it was to be the smallest of procedures. Nothing really, but yet, I needed a little of that sweet assurance. The French words jumped from his mouth to the tablet and my eyes darted around his desk, landing on nothing short of two warm hands around me. It was a small sack, probably filled with samples from the pharmacie, most certainly labeled by angels, “Elsie sante.” In the decade plus that I’ve been here, I’ve never seen this brand before. But it wasn’t really a surprise. Hadn’t she promised?  I’m smiling. She hasn’t left yet. 


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Just in reach.

It’s easy to want to rush it. (But I’ve yet to meet a virtue that came without a little patience.) Each step is a pulling of the reins. The making of the palette. Then the panel. Placing the paint. Daring coverage of the large space, not with the speed of a roller, but the time consuming interest of a palette knife. My brain racing to want to get to the real subjects of the painting, all the while my heart telling me to pay attention to the foundation. 

You can see it with children. How they try to draw in the sky after the house has been made. How they add the grass after the family members and the dog. It’s almost impossible to bring in the background after you’ve invited in the subjects. Those lessons, I suppose, are in the gifts of time. 

And harder still, more difficult than canvas or panel, are the lessons of living. Of connection. Relationships. Love. How can we bring anyone in, if we haven’t worked on ourselves? Layed the background. Healed the setting. I, we, are ever having to learn those lessons. We want, with the exuberance of youth, to get to the good stuff. And certainly I don’t want to lose that. So I let it ride, just within the reach of the palette knife. I give it a wink with each stroke. “I see you,” I say, “and won’t it be grand to ride together!” And I delight in the joy of joy just in reach.

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Butter lover.

I knew people didn’t particularly like dandelions. And yet, but for Mrs. Muzik’s lawn (she was an extraordinary gardener), they roamed up and down Van Dyke Road, tickling toes freed from the confines of winter, gathered in fists of little Norton girls bursting to profess one sort of love or another, mowed over by exhausted Dyndas, and thrusted by angry Shulz boys into unsuspecting summer dreamers.

I guess I was one of those dreamers. He rubbed the dandelion on my face and under my chin. I couldn’t see the yellow that he claimed was all over my face, but I couldn’t see the feel it, along with the pink that cheeked my embarrassment. “That means you like butter!” He laughed, almost accusatorially. I didn’t understand. I did like butter, and he laughed even louder when I told him so. Confused, I rode off on my banana seat bike. The yellow remained, I suppose, until the after dinner bath.

I only thought of it yesterday when I saw the sea of yellow at a distance. How pretty, I thought. I do love the color yellow. As I climbed the hill, they became more clear. Dandelions. I have to admit, there was a brief second where I thought, oh, just dandelions, and then I caught myself. They were beautiful. And as long as we’re mentioning it, I do love butter! And especially French butter!

The thing is, we get to decide. It’s easy to go along with the crowd. To hop on the lawnmower when we’re tired. Send the nasty message. Begin to hate even, for no reason other than a color. Maybe it gets harder as the crowds get bigger, the voices get louder, the weapons more fierce, so we have to be strong. Stronger. And if we like “yellow,” we must wear it with pride. All day long, with hair blowing in the breeze.

There are so many things I don’t understand in this world. But I still know the difference between right and wrong. And I do love butter.

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Exploration.

Maybe the difference is that one is looking to be entertained, and the other is trying to be a part of the experience. It’s not a judgement, but for me, I choose the latter. I want to be an explorer of my life, not a tourist. 

It’s so easy to slip into the same routines. So I make even the smallest of changes. I walk a different path. Climb a different hill. Choose a new sugar cookie recipe. Read a book in a different room of the house.

I was just a young girl on a long winter Sunday afternoon when she said it. There weren’t many options in our small apartment. But there was still room for dreaming. My mother said, “If I had a big house, I would use every room. I’d take my book from nook to nook and let the words out.” Oh, yes, I thought! Such luxury. We wiggled our stockinged feet, as if to make the wish. I can’t say it’s why I have that luxury now, but I can’t say that it isn’t. So I tuck my book under my arm and rest in the sewing room. Exploring these new words in this new room, and I am a part of it all. I am alive.

Sometimes I falter, and wonder what the day will bring. But then I catch myself and think, “What will I bring to the day?” I wiggle my toes, and walk out the morning door. 

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Wooing.

As with any relationship, it takes a little effort. I imagine it wants to be wooed. Who doesn’t like that? After being gone, I want our home to know how much I appreciate it. I’m not just going to dump out my suitcases and expect it to take care of me, of us.

So Dominique plays the music. And I light the candles. I bake the bread that wafts gently through each nook. I don’t just make the bed, but crawl inside the duvet to get the comforters just right. We pick up the pine cones and Dominique gently trims the trees. We open windows and vacuum. I talk to the paintings. And clear the dust of winter’s close. Pick the greenery and offer it to our entry. Because we both love a welcome. Knowing to receive one, one must also be given. 

Maybe it’s silly, but I need to fall in love with my home, to fall more in love with my life. And then, I truly have something to give. Isn’t it romantic? I think I’ll do the same with spring. Woo!

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Gravel weeds.

Returning to France, our driveway was full of them. At first glance, I may have thought – ugh — but I had to remind myself, that for so many years, growing up on Van Dyke Road, I was one of them, joyfully one of them — these gravel weeds. 

We blossomed wild on this dusty road. As strong as the earth below our kicking and pedaling feet. As free as the cloud that tried to keep up behind our tracks. And maybe we found such joy in our status because anchoring us all was the tallest of the Van Dyke Road weeds, Jim Norton. Lanky and strong, ever, he gave us, me, a reason to believe that we were something special. That we had a place here. A purpose. Almost willing us, daring us, to stand tall. 

Certainly all of his girls did. All five of them that popped up at the end of this gravel road. I thought they were beautiful. I thought nothing could stop these glorious flowering weeds. Nor me. So we all kept growing. 

It’s not even gravel anymore. But it lives on, in my heart. In my daily direction. And so will he. I’m proud of where I came from. And I’m grateful for those who gave me a reason to be. Thank you, Jim Norton. Heaven joyfully just kicked up a little dust!

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Ingrained.

“Would anyone know?” If I were to buy a plastic, mass produced, artist palette from China to hold the paint that I applied to my next painting, would it make a significant difference to the outcome? 

I suppose it was my grandfather who first taught me that I must be that anyone. Riding on his tractored lap, I asked if it mattered if the rows were straight? Yes, he said. To who? I asked. To me, he said, it matters to me. And so it was on the farm. For everything. To act like it mattered, like it all mattered, even when you were the only one in the field, under the apple tree, or resting on the front stoop. 

So I take the time, and not the chance. I make a template on my computer. I cut the wood to fit my hand. I sand, and sand again. Because I am the one. It is my soul, that transfers from heart to thumb to wood to brush to canvas. I am the anyone that cares. And this is not a burden, but a gift. For this and every question of the day that begins with, “Who is going to…” — (I look to the gentle wood that reminds me) — Let it be me!

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Wild Asparagus.

It’s not just the taste, which is delicious, but it’s the hunt, the picking, presenting it to my husband, seeing it still a little wild on the table, then making it into an omelette, mixing the vibrant green with the yellow and adding a little hot sauce on top — this is the pure enjoyment of asparagus season. And it makes me feel special, to walk on the path with so many of the empty-handed, while mine are filled with green. 

It doesn’t last that long, but it doesn’t have to. Perfection knows no time constraints. As with all good things, it will come to an end with a bit of a surprise, but I have no thoughts of that now, as I’m putting on my shoes. And it occurs to me, I hope with everything, everyone, I can live like that, love like that. Cherish the season, for however long it lasts. Feel special for the time given. And just enjoy it for what it is. 

Soon my new shoes will be dampened with dew. And I will bend over with delight at each tiny stalk. And I will forget the promises I made on paper to life and love and just be in nature’s joy, with hands that are full. And in all that cherished season, I will forget to take the photos of asparagus on table, and I will simply enjoy, and that will be good too! 

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By the handful.

I can’t say that I knew exactly what I was going to use it for, but I knew I had to have it, because it carries me through every day, lifts me, gives me hope and joy, sustainability — this recognition of the things that I count on.

At first I thought maybe I would click it each time I thought of her, my mother. Every time of the day that I smile or laugh because of her. Click on the hand-held counter each time I clutched my imaginary pearls in a warm memory. Because I imagine that’s what it’s for actually, this petite counter, adding up the repetitions that make you stronger. Then I thought, well, I could actually add my grandparents to that, my friends…all this love that I count on.

And then it occurred to me, this morning, at home, in our new time zone, how much I fall in love with on a daily basis. This good night sleep in my own bed. Click. Breakfast with homemade bread, and lavender honey across from my husband, smiling back. Click, click, click. This strong, fueling coffee. Click. These French and American flags that wave outside our morning window. Click. Click. The studio that waits for me patiently. Click. I guess it all adds up to gratitude. Thanks. Love. Click. Click. Click.

Maybe when the jet lag wears off, I will forget it. Which would be click worthy also. Maybe days will go by without a click, being lost in fun, or creativity. Or maybe when I need it most, just seeing it, sitting on a desk, it will remind me of all that I have, that I love…all the things and people that lift me on a daily basis. And maybe then I will give thanks for the reminder itself. Click. 

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Without sleep or tulip.

The first 7 hour time change means, for me, two blogs in twenty four hours. Arriving in Amsterdam, on no sleep, and one double espresso, it seems like a lot to ask of my brain, but as always, my heart starts typing. 

Even the tulip stands are not  open, so inspiration must come from within. (But then, doesn’t it always.) People have asked me through the years, “What inspires you?” There is always a pause because I’m laughing at the answer I want to say, knowing it isn’t the answer they want to hear – nothing and everything. I’m reminded of when I was gifted a fancy mixer. As I was unboxing it, my husband asked, “What does it make?” “It doesn’t make anything,” I replied, knowing that by itself, it really does nothing, but with it, I can make bread and cookies and cakes, everything! Nothing and everything. Just like with art. Just like with writing. Just like with life. We have to, not find the inspiration, but be it!

And so I type, without sleep or tulip, and the story arrives. Right on time. Waiting for the next flight home, I have everything. 

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