Jodi Hills

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


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To reach the lions.

What will they write about if it’s only Google? If there are no stairs to climb to get to the public library? Stairs that are just a little too big for five year knees to bend. Stairs that must be climbed with a mother’s hand not simply held, but used as a pulley. Stairs, that if said mother spent too much time checking her lipstick in the rear view mirror and locking the car door, could be traversed on all fours, like one of the lions cemented and perched next to the entry door. 

And if they only use AI, how will they know the smell of the card catalog? Stumble through the Dewey Decimal system? Feel the victory of when your thumb lands on the searched-for book on the shelf? For there was nothing “artificial” about claiming the knowledge, owning the responsibility. Name proudly written on the check out card. Book clutched to heart before putting in homemade book bag.

How do we keep it all tangible? These actions of brain and heart and study? What will be the stairs to climb? 

I begin a new small canvas. Not for sale or recognition, but simply to learn. Improve my craft. Pass along as a hand reaching down. A pulley to reach the lions. 


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With a whisper.

My mother and grandmother knew the difference. What most considered as shy they understood as being quiet. When the teachers would report, “She’s very shy, my mother would say, “She’s just not loud.” 

Maybe it was because there were so many of us at my grandma’s house. It didn’t seem possible to get on top of the noise, so I went under. With a whisper. And my grandmother responded, not with a voice, but a gentle thumb that slid across my rouge cheeks, and I was saved.

It was the same in my mother’s apartment. Worry was not met with a bang. A poem rang volumes over the din of trouble. And quietly we moved, tip-toed gently, into heart’s joyful noise. 

In our current world, where we exchange volume for truth, can we still hear the difference between right and wrong? Between hurt and kindness? I wonder what would happen if we just took the time to listen…


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Mid-air.

Sometimes my life seems so familiar, I could tell you the next word, sentence. And while that is comfortable, I remind myself, that is never my favorite book. But to train my real life heart and brain to have the same reaction — an exuberant “I never saw that coming” — this is the real trick, I suppose. I’m trying to get better. To see the hiccups and waywardness as, “Oh, this is a book I would read!”

I remember the first time I had a crush on the carry-out boy at Olson’s Super Market. His moves so certain and careful as he bagged our embarrassing groceries in the paper sacks. Him holding my boxed breakfast cereal, I felt exposed and vulnerable and wonderful all at once. Being brand new, as they say, I had no explanation as to what was happening.

It was only two days before that I was on the playground at Central Park. Too old for the spinning ducks, still young enough to succumb to the trepidation of the teeter totter. My friend, with later explanation of a bee hovering, jumped off their side when I was in mid air. Funny how everything slows at that point. Reaching to grab on to a cloud, my stomach rose into my throat, which was almost enjoyable for that millisecond, and then I crashed into the dirt.

Standing in the checkout line at Olson’s, my stomach began to rise.

At school the following day, there he was, racing up beside me on the stairs. He turned to smile at me — a glorious millisecond. And then grabbed the new girl’s hand. A puff of dirt smoked around my fall.

And would I have changed things if I knew? Probably not. Is it worth it? I would say yes. YES! Excuse me, a cloud is just within reach.


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Becoming.

She wrote to me, in French, that this portrait reminded her of her older sister who was no longer with them. She said she could see the sadness that she carried, (tristesse), but it also gave her hope (l’espoir). 

One thing does not disappear the other. We live in between. And maybe that’s where all the beauty lies, if we choose to see it, in the transitions. In the state of becoming. I often have to remind myself, as I’m hurrying to “get through.” As if the furious speed held the answers. 

There is no finishing. The woman wrote of her sister as “no longer with them,”…but yet, here we are, talking about her, in two languages. So isn’t she here, hovering between the sadness and hope, with just the slightest turn of head, turn of lip, her message ready to wing on, and on…

L’espoir.