Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: September 2025


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Amid the lush.

I can’t tell you the amount of times I have visited the Sculpture Garden in Minneapolis. Marveled at the watery spoon. Delighted by the cherry. Making the joke of it “being on top,” — because wasn’t it? Each stroll, more of a floatful bounce, almost Wonka-ing around the garden. And how fitting for this joy to be in a garden, to be planted.

I suppose that is why we love the art we love, because the thought, the feeling, gets planted in our souls. Not from the book that you turn around because the spine clashes with your shelf, but the quote that never leaves you — like Cormac McCarthy in All the Pretty Horses, “Hell yes I can ride. I was ridin’ when I fell off.” Nor the picture that matches your sofa, but the painting of the two children you thought you’d never be allowed, rising joyfully at the beach that greets you each morning. If you don’t dare the garden, everything else is but sand on a slippery slope. 

When you find something that moves you, words or images (Love) that really get in deep, rooted in your very being, that is when the real magic happens. Those are the tendrils that will crack open your heart, and reach and gather, and push, and get through, (get through places you never imagined fitting) and defy the barrier of soiled skin, blooming, ever blooming into the garden. 

You don’t have to be an artist, to enjoy artful living. But then again, doesn’t that make us all artists? This planting of love.

So I stroll the garden, again. I paint in my sketchbook. I sit before the canvas. I arrange the words in today’s new order. Again. And still. And again. I don’t tire of feeling good. That doesn’t mean it’s all so easy, so simple. I, we, are challenged daily. The cracks get smaller. The chances dimmed by cloud and cover. And it takes me a minute sometimes, and then in mid-squeeze, the words come popping through, the images petal and plop, and amid the lush, I give thanks to be in the garden. 

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Never one to be contained.

We’re no longer allowed to do it at the airports — run to the gate with open arms to greet the new arrivals. But thankfully, there’s nothing to stop us in our daily lives. And why on earth would we want to reserve it for just random visits, when we could do it on a Thursday?!

Yesterday, I was gifted, twice, with such a greeting! Wondering how we would find him in the crowd, my thoughts were quickly erased by his run across the parking lot. Those few seconds of someone racing to get to you, of someone saying with the speed of their feet that “I just can’t wait a moment longer,” with arms open as wide as toothy smiles — these moments are timeless, priceless, and endless. And there was no need for the airport, we both knew of our journey, how lucky we were to begin together, and how lucky we were to begin again. 

Joy, never one to be contained, came running on the next footsteps, and I saw her racing across the parking lot straight into my embrace. 

Loaded with these weightless gifts, we went to our next destination. Her years wouldn’t allow the run, but I could feel her racing just the same, as I was running to her. All gifts are meant to be shared. 

I don’t want to live frantically, that’s not what I mean, but I never want to live timidly. I want to be bold in gesture. In living. In loving. Whether I’m racing toward or welcoming in, I want to be of open mind and open heart. Joy will lead the way. 

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Where the flowers were.

There is a gaping lack of yellow on the morning table. The gifted flowers reached their end and I had to let them go. But that doesn’t mean I stop seeing yellow. Or forget my friend who gave them to me. I see yellow, possibly even brighter than before. Knowing she loves yellow. Knowing I love yellow. And the sharing does nothing but illuminate. 

And isn’t that the same with love.

On my evening walk the other night, I was compelled to walk into Macy’s (which my heart still types as Dayton’s). Upon entering the second door, he smiled and asked if there was anything he could help me with. If he could turn back time, I thought. If he could tell me which dressing room my mother was in. If he could get me out of this gaping hole back into the pure joy of shopping with my mother…. “I’m just looking…” I smiled. Not for clothes or jewelry though, only the joyful time spent together. 

And I did find it. It was all still there in my jimbly heart. As it always will be. 

Yellow shines on. Love remains. 

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Dear Bob.

She would have felt badly today, hearing the news of Robert Redford’s passing. Truth be told, my mom and I loved him more for the Sundance catalog than any movie. It was an event, receiving it in the mail. We would go to the nearest Caribou, get extra-hot skim vanilla lattes and sit in the largest of lounging chairs. After the initial sips, one of us would open to the inside cover letter. The rules were simple. If you were the one holding the catalog, you read the letter, inserting a greeting to the other —“Dear Ivy,” — and of course closing the letter with “Love, Bob.” Our lattes rested between us as we clutched our imaginary pearls to contain the heart laughter. Each turn of the page would include complete discussions on who would wear what and when. How we could have styled that better. How we could create that outfit with our own closets. Must buys. Must haves marked with sticky notes — a catalog more filled than a freshman’s introductory guide to literature. Trips were planned to the store as if an RSVP to Bob himself. 

I mention it only because of the transformation. You see my mother wasn’t always that bold. For a long time, her only certainty was that she wasn’t worthy, even in our small town. Not even a letter from Robert Redford would have convinced her. But she grew into her confidence. Perhaps outfit by outfit. But they were really only the symbols of her inner strength. Her inner beauty. And being a first hand witness, my heart smiles can’t be contained. 

So in her ruffled blouse today, I write a new letter. “Dear Bob, say hello to the giggling beauty at the gate — that’s my mother!  Love, Jodi”

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Outside Martina’s Restaurant.

Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.

Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.

My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.

It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.

I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!

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These wee ideas.

“When a book expresses a human experience, or a new idea which gives it coherence and meaning, then it may be said to live – to have a personality – to be “something.” 

This excerpt from the typed letter glued to the inside cover is what brought me to purchase this book from the antique store. The name of the book, “The Art-Literature Readers” seemed to be a melding of my life. For me it has always been the combination of words and art. The copyright from 1907, offers hope, encouragement, that wee ideas from the besides of children, small collections of words and pictures handed from librarians’ desks to chubby hands, explanations written on blackboards in front of eager minds, these wee ideas can last. Can live. On and on. 

It is childish, I suppose, but who hopes better than youth? So I will continue as if there were no beginning, nor ending. Just a fluttering of words on wings. Carrying a smile, a dream, a hope, a belief that knowledge is freedom, that love is meaning, that life is something, really something!!!

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In the right tempo.

She was the first person I knew to wear a beret. She sang songs about Paris. When I say I knew her, well, we never actually met, but she, Joni Mitchell, was my babysitter. Alone (I suppose you could say “unfettered”) with a turntable my brother left behind, I played the Court and Spark album again and again. I had memorized the words to each song, long before I knew what a free man in Paris would look like, or where Paris even was on a map. 

She was always there, the two hours between my hop off the yellow school bus and my mom’s return from work. Music never lets you be alone. Nor poetry, or any of the arts. Maybe that’s why I love them all so. For me, all a form of grace — it sits with you, until you can walk in it again. 

Maybe you’ll think it strange, but one of the first things I purchased at the Galleria in Edina was a green beret, made in France. But I think it’s perfect. This spinning of my worlds together, round and round, like the very music of my soul. 

We outgrow our babysitters, but not our need for care. I try to give it to myself, still. I hope you can do the same. Find your grace. In the right tempo. Walk in it. And then one day, “unfettered and alive” you find yourself in the dance. 

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Skips and stumbles.

It made me laugh. Thinking of how I’m always trying to straddle two worlds. She was sitting at the outdoor cafe when I walked by. She was reading her English translation book, while eating Sushi and a bag of potato chips. 

I suppose we never leave behind one place to get to the next. We carry all of our experiences. Some as rocks in shoes. Others as perfectly worn tread. Both gifts. 

I’m reminded of the saying, “walk a mile in their shoes…”, but I wonder if that’s really necessary. Do we have to experience everything to be understanding? Isn’t it enough to know we’re all on a journey? Our victories and losses along the way will vary. But certainly, being human, we possess the wherewithal to know we’re all having them. Can’t we connect without “trading shoes”? (Because I don’t think we’d do it anyway.) What if we all just gathered in the skips and the stumbles? Shared the path…

I have been lost in translation too many times to count. In my own French way, I’ve ordered the “potato chips with the sushi” – just to try to fit in. Knowing how easily that door can close, I have to leave it open for others. 

I don’t know if my smile relayed all of that as I passed by, but I hope so. She smiled in return. A little always gets through. 

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Her easeled Mona Lisa.

I saw my first Mona Lisa, (some might say only), at the Louvre in Paris. It was not my second, nor even third siting yesterday, but there she was, at a restaurant in Stillwater, Minnesota. She made me smile, returning hers, coyly, knowingly, which may be the whole point after all. 

We’re very quick to evaluate each other’s experiences. I am not proud of it, but I’ve certainly done the same. Thinking how my travels are more real. My pain more devastating. My love deeper. And it’s just not true. I’m trying to get better. Not to judge, but simply acknowledge. There is no need to keep score. 

I was certain that no one could have loved their mother more. No one could feel the loss more deeply than I did. Than I do. But I saw her there. Entering the party. I gave her my smile, my slight turn of lip, my knowing what she was going through, and her return, drenched in tears, told me the truth. The loss of her mother — “her easeled Mona Lisa” was no less real than mine. 

The thing is, we think we know. We don’t know. The best we can do is to care. Keep caring.

I will go walking soon. Wearing my Mona Lisa sweatshirt from the Louvre. Not to tell you that “I’ve been THERE,” but more to say, “I’ve been there…”

We’re all in this together. 

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Stuff and junk.

I never thought of it as derogatory. Certainly my grandfather never was. And he ended almost every sentence, filled in any gap, with the phrase “and stuff and junk.” That could cover almost anything from his latest idea, to his shed full of tools — which were all incredibly important and useful. 

So I meant it in the best possible light as I typed in the word junk to Google one of our favorite stores here in Minneapolis. It’s called Ax-man. I houses everything vintage, used, retro — the epitome of stuff and junk. 

Never has forty-five cents purchased so much joy. It’s a little contraption to hold sticky notes. (And you know how my mother loved a yellow reminder.) So for less than half a dollar, it gathered in my Grandpa, my mother, and my love of art — the best “stuff” that I know. And it’s no accident that I found it. In this sea of junk, I was led straight to it. 

I’m still painting in my sketchbook daily. I’m never on vacation from myself. I’m on a joyful journey. Making trails. Heart paths. Finding reminders along the way — love directions. Getting closer every day. 

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