Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: August 2025


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By name.

I didn’t really need a scientist to tell me, but the confirmation felt nice. I’ve been naming things for years. The trees in the garden. Favorite spoons. T-shirts. Cups. Not to mention people. My mother always had a special nickname. My grandma too. I suppose because as that person — the one I named — the one that when called from my lips, turned in the sea of Hvezdas or the girth of Herbergers, and existed only for me. 

I was listening to a podcast yesterday. It was this scientist, this expert on identifying species, that said it — “Nothing exists until we name it.” I repeated it over and over in my head, until I could hear the sound of my mother voice… the shortened version on the message, “Hi Jod…” The longer version when it was all heart. The lilt of it when I could feel her pride, telling someone about a painting, a book. I can hear every version still. I can name it. And the love exists. 

I was painting birds while listening to the podcast. A page full of pink. The pink made me think of Barbie. I found just the song to accompany the short video of the collection. In it, the singer says, “Hey, Barbie.” I knew I had to send it to my friend. I thought she would like it, get a smile, but what she heard was her own mother calling her. Maybe that’s not scientific proof, but it’s more than enough for me.

What are we here for, if not to make things personal? It’s all personal. And I want to feel everything. Listen. Look. Love. And call it all by name. 

Hey, Barbie.

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Lemon shoulders.

I imagine there are some people in this world who do the right thing and then build on it. And by right I don’t mean proper, but successful. That is to say they are victorious, and then victorious once again. I don’t know these people, and I’m certainly not one of them. 

Most of my successes (and joys for that matter) have come from standing, not on the shoulders of giants, but lemons. And while a lemon won’t hold you steady, it will teach you the true meaning of balance with every wobble. Every victory will be earned. Maybe not the first time, nor even the second. But oh, how it will let you shine in that glow of the yellow. The yellow of bloom and blossom. Of sunlight and growth. Of evening lamp lit long into the study. Of the morning that comes again and again, whispering try, just try. The yellow that keeps the farmer planting. The grandmother washing dishes. The single mother walking to the office for little wage. The daughter studying for a school they can’t afford to pay, one she can’t afford to miss. Beautiful, and glorious lemons.

I paint them again and again, as the heroes of my story. The bright and shiny yellows of my life, my love. 

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Just from the asking.

Up until college we mostly operated from question to answer. Oh, sure, we had the lengthy math period in which we were obligated to “show our work,” but getting to the answer was still required. However, at the University of Minnesota, we began to discuss. It took a minute to get into the rhythm with the rest of the freshman class, all of us with our hands raised in the air, trying to keep in time with our imagined elementary jump ropes, waiting for our turn to Double-Dutch our way into the conversation. But how thrilling it was to ask questions without fear. To raise points. The true meanings resting in the questions themselves. Our colors revealed just from the asking. 

I’m reminded of it whenever I pass my mother-in-law’s portrait. In her winding down years, memory failing, the frequency of her question toward me, — “Who is that movie star you look like?” — increased in the rotation. Joyfully increased in the rotation! Because frustration was always at bay, rearing its ugly head, when she would make the same points again and again. Or ask the same question after two minutes. But this question — the one I never got an answer for — never needed an answer for — kept the pondering alive. Kept the glorious memories alive that maybe she thought I was beautiful. Still. Maybe I could feel it, even for only the length of a question, ever. What a gift to have never been squashed by an answer.

The thing is, we think we need to know everything. That we need to be right. All we really need is to love. To be loved. I walk past her portrait and smile. Floating in the beauty of all that is unknown, but held for sure.

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The music never ends.

They signed up for the choir like everyone else at Central Junior High, but for three years, Gail Kiltie and David Alstead held the added responsibility of accompanying us on the piano. I never asked if they had wanted to. I hope at least our director, Mr. Lynch had, but I’m not sure. 

Maybe we all just came to expect it. We often do that in our daily lives, so busy singing we just assume others will take care of it — be the foundation. We all have our roles to play. And I suppose, I hope, that we gravitate towards them, want them, but I also think it’s important every once in a while to stop and ask. To be sure. To give thanks for the support given. To let those around us know that the gifts they give us are indeed the music that we sing. To acknowledge them for laying the notes we climb. Notes we scamper upon with such joy, under the premise “well, it goes without saying…” But does it? Or does it just go unsaid. I don’t want to take that chance. So I say to Gail and David, thank you! I say to you who read, who comment, who join me in the words I plunk on my own sort of keyboard, thank you! 

What a pleasure it is to share the music of this life. To take to heart that our pianos will not go unplayed. Our love will not go unsung. 

The notes are calling. I must scamper. 

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Junk mail.

I don’t like clutter. When I take something out, I put it away. So it surprises me how my online mailboxes get so out of hand. And once they get built up, I don’t go back to remove the “junk,” but simply look at the present day. Even after dropping the warnings from 99% full to 98%, I push off the cleaning for another day. 

The inevitable always arrives, and I have to clean them out. Hitting the select button until cramping. Trashing. Trashing. Trashing. All the while questioning, why didn’t I just deal with this in real time? But it does serve as a good reminder, for my own brain. 

My mother used to call them “old tapes” — a sign of her times, I suppose. Those thoughts that can plague you again and again. The now junk mail of my mind. Call them what you will, oh, how they can clutter. And I can feel it. As I think about the “being wronged,” as it plays over and over in my brain, and the warning signs come, 98%, 99%, and then the real warning, “you won’t be able to continue…” — and never have truer words been spoken. So I start dumping. Taking out the brain trash. Letting it go. And what a relief. Such freedom. My heart applauds. Even my steps feel lighter. I think we all know it will get filled up again. But I hope with each lesson learned I get a little better. A little faster at the letting go. Weeding through life’s junk to get to the promised land of only 90% cluttered. And as I laugh, my load lessons, and I walk, spring even, into the day.

My heart is well traveled.
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Putting myself together.

The thing about store-bought puzzles is they give you the right amount of pieces to make a whole. The thing about being human is, those pieces keep changing. I suppose I used to think this was the flaw, now I tend to see it as the gift. 

He asked me what I wanted to do. I said I didn’t know, because I didn’t. Sometimes uncertain can feel like unhappy. When the image to your puzzle just isn’t clear. So I washed. Creamed. Make-upped. Was it a voice? Outside? Inside? Something told me to put on some bigger earrings. Today needs a hoop. So I did. I even filled my usually empty second holes with a smaller pair. And a bracelet, I thought. All the pieces were coming together. I put on the ruffled blouse. The jeans. Lined my lips. Perfumed the back of my neck, and we were off. Coffee and conversation. Books and beloved. I was whole. 

We think we need to know everything. Sometimes it’s uncertainty itself that leads the way. I don’t know what today will bring, but I do know that I have everything I need, and just enough to wish for. I am an ever changing puzzle, but I am whole. 

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Liberty.

I had heard it often times around my grandma’s kitchen table, beneath the wrappings of an aunt’s or neighbor’s birthday. And it seemed to me the ones who said it — “Well, it’s the thought that counts,” — were the ones who sat empty handed. And I suppose it’s ironic, the thoughts of what it actually meant to be thoughtful cluttered my mind. Because I was thoughtful, meaning, I thought, always full of thoughts — I frequently paid too much attention to the situation at hand. 

Take library day at Washington Elementary. When asked if I loved to read, (perhaps by one of those aunts or neighbors who didn’t lie next to me each night clinging to the last words of the most recently checked out book like my mother did), I would roll my eyes like Beezus did when Ramona (the pest) asked her silly questions. And I would laugh to myself because my literary reference was the answer in itself. This, I suppose, could describe a person with an abundance (often too many) of thoughts. 

As abundances often do, the night before library day, those thoughts turned to worry. Would I find another book? Would it have meaning? Would I love it? Would someone else check out the one I wanted? Oh so many thoughts. My mother gave me a system. A solution in my pocket. I could browse, but I would always have a series to go to, Beverly Cleary, for example, the writer of all those Henry Huggins, Ramona the Pest, Beezus, Ribsy books that I loved so well. I didn’t have to think. I could give my mind the rest. Simply go to the shelf and pull out the next one in the series. Brilliant.

I suppose it’s what I do now, in my daily sketch book. I have dedicated this current book to birds. I can sketch anything, as long as it has a bird in it. I don’t have to think. I just do. For these moments each day, I am not burdened by excess of anything. The birds weigh nothing, not on my head, not on my heart, nor in my hands. The joy that this liberty brings each day is priceless. Ever. 

It’s just something for your pocket. To slip beside the dream I hope you carry (my mother taught me that as well).

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With you.

I suppose there was no way to learn it, other than going through it. But I can still feel the slip of innocence, into the wealth of love. 

My banana seat bike wasn’t just a vehicle for movement, but my best friend. Never was anything so certain. If I left it in the ditch on Van Dyke Road, it waited for me. If I needed to flee, it whistled like a get-a-way car. It not only welcomed, but carried my bedtime friends in its wicker basket. It was always there, cheerful in color, a banana seated smile. It didn’t simply agree that what I dreamed was possible, it said, “I’ll take you there.” And there were no conditions. Snow. Rain. Field or gravel, it went. It held me. So you can imagine my surprise the moment it happened. I heard a clank and my lead pedal dropped swiftly to the bottom. In panic, I circled the no longer connected pedals with cartoon speed, then dropped my feet to the road just before I fell over. I stood stunned. I had heard of this, the chain coming off. I put down the kick stand and bent over to look. It was if the chain was crying, all drooped to the ground. I touched it. Seeing my hand covered in slippery black tears, my initial disappointment turned to empathy. I would help my friend. Wasn’t it my turn, after all?

I limped it off the road into the nearest and safest spot, Kinkead Cemetery. I don’t know how long I was there. Time has a way of disappearing in such a place. With my left hand I guided the pedal. With my right I moved the chain. It clunked and I coddled, until finally, it was whole again. I was whole again. 

This was friendship, I thought. This taking turns. Carrying each other. Enjoying the ride. Together. 

Would it be easier for you if I went with you?


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Wonder.

I don’t know when I started paying attention to them, hanging cords and untied shoes. I used to carry any object with the cord dragging, dancing between my shoe laces. Never a thought to tripping down stairs or driveways. Those same laces dangling around hungry bicycle chains. And with equal ease, I played “I wonder if my hand could fit in there,” or “would my tongue stick to that.” 

I don’t suppose I ever stopped taking chances, but somewhere along the way, the risk of elbows and knees were transferred, and it was my heart and brain that I let dangle free in unchartered territory. 

Maybe age has given me too much vision, and sometimes I catch myself, as my heart’s shoelace bounces against the teeth of the moving chain, but joyfully, my childish unawareness takes over, wins out, and I only feel the breeze in my hair, and every part of me says, Let’s ride!!!!

As the day begins, my still tender lips whisper, “I wonder if….”

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Grounds from the bottom of the cup.

I barely remember the steps up the side of the mountain. I was so lost in the audible story I was listening to — my feet, as they so often do, went on autopilot and carried me to the top. I was actually surprised when the view had changed, but smiled and went back into the story. It was the voice, the farming vernacular, that drew me in. Although it was set in another country, the rhythm and economy of words were the same. How many times had I heard it at my grandparents’ kitchen table? “Won’t you stay for lunch,” “At least have a cup of coffee,” (which also meant kolaches, lunch sticks, or meat-stacked sandwiches.) The guests, neighbors usually, relatives, neighbors who thought they were relatives, always said, “oh, no, we couldn’t,” and yet somehow, they always did. I was certain I could hear the beeping, as they backed their way into a full afternoon, a card game, and eventually dinner. 

Just as in the story I was listening to, the purpose of the visit was never revealed at the start. Hours could go by. I would look at my grandfather, pipe in hand, never anxious. Wasn’t he curious? Why didn’t my grandma ask them? I would tug at overalls and apron, trying to speed it along, only to be met by a shoo-ing hand that said, patience. 

I had so many questions. I always wanted to know. Who, what, why. And they seemed so content to sip on egg coffee, brush the grounds from the bottom of the cup, and wait. 

Did it come from the land, I wondered. This settling of time. This faith in the season. My feet, ever on the speed of concrete, needed, craved answers, that so often never arrived, but disappeared into a blur of afternoon pastries, and welcomed unnecessary gatherings. 

I thought of it yesterday, pausing on the peaked view. Not recalling, or needing to, each step. I was here. I am here. Now. It doesn’t really require an explanation. Just being is good. I won’t ask what the day will bring. I’ll simply open the door, and see…

Sometimes, you have to let go of what was, stop worrying about what will be, and just see…
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