Jodi Hills

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


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Forever three.

In the arts of love and endurance, gratitude, forgiveness, strength and pure joy, the heart is mighty, for sure! But it’s never been all that good at math.

Of the nine children my grandparents had, only two remain. This two of Rueben and Elsie changed its numbers so many times, and continues still. Only once, with the twins, did it jump by two. The eleven held, and grew even more rapidly, as the nine paired off and tested all of our addition skills. Children turned into grands and then greats, and just as we got used to all of the plus signs, the painful subtractions began. 

But the arithmetic of the heart is nothing like we learned at Washington Elementary. Here they taught us that the value changed when subtracting. But they didn’t warn us about the heart. Because for the heart, it never does. The numbers will forever change — it’s a guarantee that life will do that — but the value remains. Love cannot, will not, do the math.

I mention it today because my dear friends lost their beloved dog. She said she was missing her family of three. I, we, struggle to add comfort in times of loss. I don’t know if it helps, I hope it helps, it often does for me…this letting go of the math. Letting the heart decide what remains. True love does. So, I tell her, you ARE still three. Forever three. 


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Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life.

Only in the painting can it remain this way. In real life, left with only a bite, it will begin to brown, decay. So the only choice is to enjoy all of it. 

I suppose it’s the same with so many things. Especially from the heart. We think we’re safe or something if we use just a little. Just a bite. But it’s just not true. We’re meant to taste it all. To give it all. And trust that there will be more. And if you’re reading this, there has been, there is, and there will be…more. 

And sure, it may seem frightening. This never changing apple on the paper, you might find security in that. Nothing will change. But say it again slowly, “Nothing will change.” 

Love is always changing, and moving, visiting places I’ve never seen, and waiting…resting with patience, feeding with forgiveness, and holding, with an ever evolving shape. Sometimes my heart aches with missing someone, something, but I tell myself again, it’s only love, it’s only love. I am not stuck on the page. I am feeling and growing and changing and all the while love comes with me. So I smile at the anger — this anger that I can feel while love keeps changing shape. Because really, that may be love’s greatest gift of all. Ever changing. Ever more. 


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Ever green.

They all looked the same to me — these green apples. But for some reason, my grandma would pick them and put them in brown paper sacks and write their names in bold magic marker. “So these are named Ivy? Just like my mother?” She smiled back at me. “They’re for your mother. She likes the sour ones.” “How do you know which ones are sour?” I asked. “I go to the tree.” I shook my head yes and folded the paper sack three times, just like my mother would do with my sack lunch when I started school. She started making them for me after the first day of first grade. The school lunch lady tried to make me eat a pickle. I never ate a school lunch again. My mother knew me. I carried my sack. 

We’re all so different. At first glance, you don’t see it. Most unfortunately, don’t even bother to look. And I get it. It can be exhausting. We are bombarded daily with face after face of the so-called-truth. But standing in this sea of green, I hear her, so easily, so simply, “go to the tree.” The source. The truth is always there. Some will try to disguise it with repetition, but it’s there. 

My mother didn’t look at all like Grandma Elsie, no she was full-on Grandpa Rueben. My mother was like the purple irises that grow along the road of my morning walk. So straight and tall. Such purpose in the long stem, and green fitted leaves. Just up the hill, there are few chubby little yellow ones, still with a bit of dirt from where they struggled through the earth, that’s my Grandma Elsie. Equally lovely. I smile as I pass because I saw the truth about them. And it was beautiful. It is beautiful.

Paperclipped to one of my books, my mom left for me the poem that begins…”Do not stand by my grave, and weep. I am not there…” Oh, how I know this to be true. She walks with me daily. They both do. Appearing on canvas and page. Coloring the side of the road. Fluttering by the blooms of spring. Ruffled around my neck. Beating in my heart. Growing in the trees. I know them. Still. 


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The care of the varnish.

I had to google the expression, because it didn’t seem right to me. It still doesn’t. To “varnish over the truth,” is said to be a way to hide or deceive; while in painting, it’s just the opposite. After the paint is dry, applying a varnish not only protects the integrity of the painting, it actually brings all the colors together. The image is more vibrant. More clear. The colors are no longer individual. The painting becomes whole. Revealed.

The other day I applied the varnish to two paintings while working on a commissioned piece.  Just as they had months ago by my heart and hand, they came to life again. I can’t say that I remembered each stroke. Each movement, but the experience became alive again. So very real. 

When I tell you of my childhood — memories of family, of school days and summer suns — it feels like a varnishing. Not one of deception, but revelation. Making whole these images — these moments. Even the most simple of times (the tiniest of strokes) — a cow, a book, a walk, a promise, a bike, a hand — they become part of the picture. The story becomes whole. Even in the parts where it felt like a “taking away,” something was given. Maybe it takes time. Maybe it takes the care of the varnish…but the story is always revealed. And when I take the time to really look, I can see the beauty of it all.

I sit today in the comfort of the stories that live around and beside and within, knowing a bit will gather in this new creation, this new painting. Each moment is so precious and deserving of our care, even and long before the meaning is revealed, the beauty is there. 


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Verbing.


A few years ago we were traveling in New Mexico and stopped late at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. We didn’t notice that it was almost closing time. Prepared to buy our tickets, the woman at the front desk told us to just go through. Maybe it seems like a small gift, but we were thrilled. The museum was almost empty of people and we saw all of her glorious works that we love. Easily, and free!

Now, when visiting any museum or paid entry building, it’s always in the back of my mind, “Maybe we can just O’Keeffe it.”

Maybe we really only know someone when they become verbs.

If someone falls asleep in a chair, that’s pulling a Grandma Elsie. If I guess at the measuring for a recipe – a Grandma Elsie. If I take the time to write a letter, addressing it in a careful cursive – this too is a Grandma Elsie.

Maybe if we paid a little more attention to the verbs instead of the pronouns, we would all know each other a little better, treat each other a little more kindly. Maybe that’s just me being hopeful, looking for the best — pulling an Ivy.

The verbs of my grandmother and mother live on.




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…and then I see it from your side.

The assignment was on perspective. Maybe it was because it was my first time away from home at university. Maybe it was because my eyes were always filtered through my heart. Because I needed my world to get bigger, broader, more open, I saw the perspective in reverse and drew it. Instead of everything narrowing to a point, looking down the long hallway of the campus dorm, I was the point. Everything at the end of the hall got bigger. The other 18 year olds in class laughed as they displayed their drawings, one replicating the other. The teacher smiled. She gave me an “A.”

We were watching videos with friends last night, showing them tours of Aix en Provence. They were so excited. Ooohing and aaaahing over our ordinary. This is the street, next to the statue of the king, where I buy paint. The church where we laid Dominique’s mother to rest. Cezanne’s house. The place for the best pastries. Where I bought earrings. The fish market. The view of the Sainte Victoire. As their excitement grew, our ordinary felt spectacular again. Perspective.

It’s so easy to get stuck. To lose sight of the glorious things all around you. Trying to force everything to make sense — bring it all to a point. I learn the lesson again and again. To open my eyes. Open my heart. Change my view.

I guess that’s what real friends do — Oooh and aaah you into falling in love with your own life again. They are the point that opens all perspective.


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A stroke of Mrs. Bergstrom.

There is a reason we call it spelling. The magic of the letters, when put together to form words, can indeed cast a magical spell within and around us. 

She stood in front of the class of first graders. Mrs. Bergstrom. Tall and straight. Not with a robe, nor a hat, but she did have a wand. Some might remember it as just a teaching pointer. But not me. As she tapped it against each letter chalked perfectly on the blackboard, white dust — fairy dust I was sure — sprung into the air. We were spelling. And it was magic. 

That magic moved from the blackboard to our Big Chief notebooks. Then marched with us single file to the library down the terrazzo halls of Washington Elementary. With each book we moved into neighborhoods. Made friends with dogs. Rode horses with cowboys and bloomed into teenage girls, and boys with paper routes. Everything was possible in the words. 

I’d like to think it still is. As I type each morning, I take that magical journey. With each letter I make a path. Sprinkling it with a stroke of Mrs. Bergstrom. Because it’s all beautiful, even the hardest of days — when wanded into the words of “look what we survived,” and “look what we’ve become” — are nothing short of magical! I still believe it. I have to believe it. I hope we all can.

Because she didn’t just give us the happy words. She taught us how to spell. How to make our way through it all. Today, I too will stand straight and tall. And I promise, I will not waste the magic.


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Beside her.

My grandparents had apple trees. All variations of sweet, but for one. That tree produced sour apples. My mother loved them. During peak season, my grandma would pick sacks of apples. Ready for any visitor that came by. Reused brown paper sacks from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store filled with green. Only one was labeled. She wrote Ivy in bold, black magic marker. The sack with the sour.

I had only begun to put letters together to form words. I knew my name, of course, and I knew my mother’s name. I ran to it in delight. In this sea of ordinary brown paper, there was her name. “Are you famous?” I asked her. “Yes,” she nodded and smiled. My heart beamed. I knew it!

During my husband’s first visit to Alexandria, Minnesota, my mom took us to Herberger’s. We walked in the back door by shoes. Jessica looked up from her customer’s feet, “Oh, hi Ivy!” Sue from the bra department waved, “Hi, Ivy!” Dominique smiled. Claudia from the Clinque counter asked her how the new moisturizer was working. A man stopped, put his hand on my mother’s shoulder and said “It’s good to see you, Ivy.” “He’s the manager,” my mom offered. Dominique looked confused. “Is your mother the mayor?” he asked me. I smiled. “Of Herberger’s… yes.”

I suppose we all want to be seen…noticed for the bold markings of our own magic. But just as important, and rewarding, is to see others. What a privilege it is to be let in. To be trusted in someone’s truth. My mother gave me that gift. Let me walk beside her. I give thanks for this, every day.


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An apple a day…

The apple used to be a symbol of a job well done at Washington Elementary. It was all I thought about as I handed in my paper of work. Spelling. Math. Telling time. Passing it up through the row of desked children, I crossed fingers and toes hoping that Mrs. Strand would take out her ink pad, press the rubber stamp deeply into the red and rock it over the top of my paper, marking it forever with a beautiful apple. Seeing the apple in the upper right corner of my returned paper, the red moved from hand to heart to cheeks. (Maybe that’s why they call them apple cheeks.)

I lingered in the classroom one day as all the other five and six year olds went out for recess. I saw that she had our papers on her desk. Ink pad resting beside. My chubby fingers rested on the side of her wooden desk. My eyes peeking just above. “You like the apple, don’t you…” she smiled. I shook my head yes. “Do you want to try it?” she asked. I shook my head briskly. She handed me my paper. “Go ahead,” she said, “You deserve it.” I gripped the handle of the stamp, pressing it into the rouge stained sponge. Pulled it up slowly, then pressed it down onto my paper, slowly rocking it back and forth, as I had seen her do a million times. I pulled up the stamp, and there it was. I gasped. So beautiful!

My lips were much more shy than my heart when I was five. I didn’t have the words to ask for what I needed. But she must have seen the apple panic on my face. (I pray teachers still have the time and inclination to look.) “Do you want the others to have one?” I shook my head yes. “Go ahead then.” She refilled the pad with ink, and the rest was, as I remember, just a glorious red blur. Perhaps I remember this day so well, not only because of what she gave to me, but what she allowed me to give to everyone else. My first lesson in humanity.

Maybe it’s why I love to paint the apples now. I live in the land of Cezanne. He once proclaimed, “I will astonish Paris with an apple.” I have often thought this is why I paint them. And it’s probably true. Partially. But looking back, maybe it was Mrs. Strand who first astonished me. Who showed me the power of something so simple. Rosy-cheeked still, I sit before the canvas and paint another. Hoping you can feel the magic, and pass it on, through hand, heart and cheeks. An apple a day… go ahead, you deserve it.


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Place by place.

I was using it as bookmark, one of my apple paintings. Lying in the hammock, he stood over me and picked it up from my chest. “You did that,” he said. I smiled with eyes, mouth and heart. It felt like we both were “holding my place.”

From the age of six, I wrote poems for my mother. Burned the edges of the paper and decoupaged them to the panels of wood I had stained with a blowtorch. It was my humble attempt to make her feel better. To feel safe.

I suppose in my childish ways, I thought maybe life was like a lifeguard at the beach — that you only had to be saved once. But I learned that in love, in life, we would have to (get to) do it again and again. I kept writing. I kept painting.

And all those poems, those paintings, they weren’t just saving her, but me. And day to day, as we reflected smiles from heart to heart, face to face, we could look at each other and say, “You did that.”

Life’s pages keep turning. True love moves with you. Recognizes you. Holds you. Place to changing place.