Jodi Hills

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


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Morning’s yes.

I saw it when they were next to each other — my friend in her kayak and the robin in flight — both arriving in the same palette, so gently in the colors of yes. 

And I had to smile because it occurred to me, isn’t that every morning? We are welcomed into the positive of each day, if we choose to see it that is… And I know some days are easier than others — oh, so much easier — but each possible still. 

I was a teenager when it was in fashion, knowing your color palette. I was at Herberger’s with my mother, waiting excitedly outside her dressing room curtain. When the attendant came in to check on her, I had to suppress a laugh — there wasn’t a clerk who knew better than my mom did. But I tightened my lip as she asked how it was going. Is it your season? She asked. Apparently we were all supposed to be either a spring, summer, autumn or winter, though I hadn’t heard about it yet. And why would I need to? I had eyes. And I had my mother! My mother asked for a minute, as she tucked and accessorized. The clerk looked at me and asked, “and what are you?” I looked confused. “What’s your color palette?” She continued. Having no idea about the seasons, I gave it some thought, and joyfully, clearly, said, “I’m a morning.”  Before the clerk could finish saying that’s not a thing, my mother popped her head out of the curtain and said, “We both are!” Yes, I smiled. And it was settled. 

There will always be a they to tell you something different. To tell you no. But you get to decide. Every day. Every day that morning will break gently, that morning bird will arrive, and each day will whisper so many things, but listen, listen to the arrival of every color, because it always begins with yes. 


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Without uniform.

Maybe it’s easier to see when we’re younger. Or maybe they do the work for us. Giving us uniforms. Gathering us together on buses and in classrooms. Cross-legged on floors in circles, whispering and giggling. They give us mascots and rally songs. And we are a part of something. 

And then they send us off into the world. Hoping it was enough. Hoping they gave us the skills to recognize those around us. To connect without uniform. 

And you know it when you do. As certain as if the rally song was playing behind you. Those friends, old and new, that know you as you become and become. As you change and grow. Those that walk beside you. In moments of pure joy. In the tenderness of sorrow. Through the uncertainties of success and loss. Always. All ways. Beside. Without hesitation, they join in the laughter, they answer each doubt, each question the same, “…because we’re friends.”

It was enough. It is enough. I see you. 

…because we’re friends.


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Gentle teacher.

It was at my 5th birthday party that I first learned it. This idea of others. We had set up the basement of our green house on Van Dyke Road two days before the party. It didn’t take long for me to be accomplished at each game. I could drop the clothespins in the glass with great accuracy. As well as pin the tail on the donkey taped to the wall. I could blow up a balloon and pop it between my knees at lightning speed. And my reflexes for Gnip Gnop were catlike, surpassed only by my ability to straddle any color on the plastic Twister sheet. 

My mother laid the prizes beside each game station. We picked them out at the Ben Franklin the weekend before. “You’re excited for your birthday, aren’t you?” She asked as I kept honing my skills. “Oh, yes,” I said, as the wooden clothes pin clinked in the bottom of the glass jar. “You know you’ll be getting lots of presents from your friends…” she said. I couldn’t stop smiling. “But you want them to have fun too…” “Sure!” I said. “Ok,” she said. I was fairly certain she was teaching me something, but I was too excited to ask what.

One by one they arrived. Wrapped gifts in hand. Off brand tape pealing from the edges. My legs jimbly with anticipation. I had heard Mrs. Strand, our kindergarten teacher once say, as David Holte poured his entire bottle of milk on the floor, that she was “hopping mad!” I assumed I was hopping excited!  When the gifts were neatly stacked and all my Washington Elementary friends had arrived, it was time to play the games. Wendy Shoeneck was leading at the pin drop. I was next in line. I kneeled on the chair and aimed my pin. I saw Wendy gazing at the prize. I saw my mother in half smile. And I felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have a basement filled with love. I know my mom wouldn’t have said anything, either way. She was a gentle teacher. I moved my hand slightly off center and dropped the pin to the floor. Wendy jumped — she was hopping happy — and clung the prize to her chest. 

I don’t presume to tell you what to do. My mother taught me that. I half smile in your direction. You already know. 


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The comfort of shore.

Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock. 

Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe. 

I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did. 

Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth. 

I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore. 

The comfort of shore.


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No sharp edges.

For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within. 

I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)

I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other.  A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.


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The depths of yes.

We didn’t have words like self care or journaling when she gave me the Nothing Book for my birthday. It was just as described, a hard covered book with blank pages inside. I carried it each day to my locker on the first floor of Central Junior High School. When she got off her bus, she would run to me and ask, straight from the words on the cover, “Did you make something of it?” It made us laugh every time, and every time the answer was yes. I’d show her my newest poem and we would revel in our insight. What time we were wasting, we thought, with social studies and geometry, when we understood at such depths, the poetry of this world. 

I still have this book. I still have this friend. And isn’t that, I suppose, the most beautiful poem of all. 

And it’s a question I still ask of myself daily, “Did you make something of it?” Referring to the day, the time given, the loves around me. And it’s not pressure, but more acccountability, as I see her opening the large middle doors of the junior high. I smell the bus fumes and cling my “something” to my eager chest. Ready to offer to her, to this world, what I have made. Knowing, that if I’m not giggling with the depths of yes, then I have to do more. Be more. She’s getting closer now, and I open to today’s page, smiling. Yes!


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Return to gravel.

It’s not to say that we took our wounds seriously, but my mother never purchased designer Band-Aids. There were no cartoon characters or Disney royalty. In fact, I’m pretty sure they weren’t even the Band-Aid brand.  Possibly Curad. Or simply flexible adhesive bandages. And often times, just a Kleenex (which was really only a facial tissue) and a piece of Scotch tape (most likely just tape). 

No matter what she used, she did accomplish the main goal, which was just to return us to the gravel road, be it on bike or foot, skinned knees and all, as quickly as possible. No time for worry, or to go over the latest spill. Nor was there time to take pride in the survival. Who hadn’t fallen on Van Dyke Road? Her goal, I see now, was to keep me at play. Sometimes I would look up from the tattered tissue barely hanging on, as if to ask, “Really?” She would answer, “You think Phyllis Norton can do better? Go get in line.” We would laugh. And for this I will be ever grateful. 

Injuries change from year to year. Some wounds go unseen. But the goal is to always keep pedaling. Keep walking. Keep living. Because it is where we were wounded that we will continue to find the joy. 

A country and a lifetime away, I race out the morning door with a bit of Van Dyke Road still on my shoes. 


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Higher still.

I have no recollection of it, but my mother often reminded me, when I was a toddler I had very wide feet. She special ordered “little tiny boxes” for my chubby feet from Iverson’s shoes. She mentioned it as we browsed the Dayton’s shoe department many years later, looking for the long and narrow, as we both balanced out that way. 

Who would have thought you could have two completely different situations with the same feet? It’s with all of living, I suppose, you just have to keep learning. 

The truth is, I don’t even remember what I was trying to get through when I painted the “Nothing here I can’t rise above” woman. I’m sure it felt unsurpassable at the time, and yet… here I am, giving her (me) the new responsibility of rising above, again. 

We never finish. And I guess you could look at that as a problem, or the gift that it is — another chance to rise up. Another chance to stand tall, on the once wide, now narrow feet that carry me strong. They remind me again and again, with each step that says, “What haven’t you gotten through?” 

Years from now, I will look back and wonder why I wrote this today. Smiling. Higher still. 

Nothing here I can’t rise above.


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Go ahead and sing!

The most fun was not when we got it right, but when we got it wrong. Maybe it was the hum of the wheels, or just the fact that we were together, but there was definitely something about being on the bus that made us all want to sing. 

We had to rely on each other. We had no cell phones. No radios. Just the memory of the last song we heard on KDWB-63. And I don’t know where the confidence came from. Maybe it was youth. The comfort of open windows. Or just being on a bus with no judgement. That’s not to say there wasn’t laughter. Mid song, someone would always stop between gasps of giggles to say, “You think it’s what?????” 

“I’ll never be your beast of burden,” was easily mistaken for “I’ve never seen a pizza burning.” Or when we “heard it in a love song,” — someone sang the ending of “can’t be wrong” — as “ten feet tall.” And we would laugh longer than the length of any song. 

And it’s this freedom that I miss the most. The freedom we gave each other. The freedom I gave myself, to make gigantic mistakes. And not be concerned about how it looked, how it sounded — to just have fun! 

You know we can still do that. Be free. Free as the birds to just sing it out loud. Without knowledge or permission, we can have a little fun!  The buses are running. The skies are open. Will you join me?


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Twice.

Gloria sat at the reception desk. I was in the next cubical. I was young and impressionable — and also eager to make one. Of course that youth made me think that I could do anything, and I suppose that’s why I gravitated towards Gloria — she was also a believer. Some of it was a bit fantastical, like the aliens building the pyramids and ghosts stealing her underpants while she slept, but that didn’t deter me, because she also said things that made complete sense to me — like when I would come to her in near defeat, telling her that “they” told me a certain project couldn’t be done. Her reply was always this, “Well, then you’ll make two.” And I always did.

I mention it now because France doesn’t celebrate Mother’s Day on the same day as the United States. It’s a few weeks later — this Sunday to be exact. Of course Mother’s Day is hard for me. I miss my mom so much. And now, I not only have to get through one day, but two. Even saying it, I see Gloria’s smiling face, and I have to join her. Of course it’s hard, but we were built to do hard things. To live the unlivable, bear the unbearable, and believe ever in the unbelievable. And I do! 

So on this Thursday before, I change my mind and think, not that I have to, but that I get to! And if ever a mother deserved two holidays it would be mine. My heart may feel the squeeze of all that love, but I will celebrate. Twice.