Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: art, artist, stone, build, dream, begin, do the work


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All out loud.

I’m not sure when I learned it. Maybe on the school bus with wet hair, breathing so deeply. Holding blank, fresh notebooks tightly to my waist, to simulate the last hug from my mother at the garage door. “Be a big girl,” she said. Oh, I wanted to be. But then the Norton girls got on, all five of them, in all that comfort and bickering of a shared bathroom and last name. And I wanted some of that sameness, but I only felt more alone. I sucked in my lower lip, knowing that would be the first to go, to quiver. And I closed my eyes, willing the tech-school student bus driver to move, move… just get me to school and then I would be ok. I would find a friendly face in that circle as we sat on the cool floor. If I could just hold it in until, Cindy or Barbie, Wendy or Lori, or even Mrs. Strand, could smile at me and gather me in the warmth of “what did you do last night?” and “I’m so happy you’re here.”

I learned to hold it in. Mostly, I suppose, because I knew I had a place, a home, where I would never have to.  I don’t know if it was the first time, but it was a time, and I was struggling, bubbling, simmering from lips to eyelids, and my mother asked me, “Do you need to cry out loud?” I shook my head yes. She sat me down. Sat herself beside me. And I did. And it wasn’t for long. I suppose when you’re allowed to let it all go, it can go pretty quickly. And I was saved.

And it wasn’t just tears. She gave me the safest space to do it all out loud. To dream. To hope. To become. To laugh. To sing. To try. I didn’t have to hide or wonder, brace myself or worry.  I could just be — out loud, in living color. 

I can’t say I never stumble. Never quiver. I can find myself looking back for her shadow at the door. And there are places and times when I know I have to hold it in. But freedom is never far. 

We can do this for each other, you know. We can give one another the space to be who we are. We can join in the release of laughter, and tears — both out loud!  And either way, we can be the one who says, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

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Sometimes a dancer.

You think it’s an apron. And it is sometimes. The proof is the paint splatters that are beginning to gather. And it makes sense around my waist, as a quick brush off of excess water, or a change of color, but it doesn’t really explain the spots around my neck straps. Those are probably because of the dancing. 

While the music plays along with the strokes, there are some songs that just won’t take no for an answer, and soon I am dancing like no one but the portraits are watching. Partnered by the brush in hand, I will get pulled in, hence the paint on my collar. 

My neighbor continues to ask, though I’ve answered many times, “Are you a singer?” I’m sure she hears me on the way to my studio. I say, “Sometimes.” And I am a dancer sometimes. And sometimes a poet. Sometimes a baker. I suppose I used to give the answer no. Not anymore. Because I am sometimes all of these things. And more. And it’s not a judgement or declaration of things that I do extraordinarily well…but rather if I can say, “Well, I had a time!!!! Wasn’t that some time!” 

And the song will change on the player and I am a painter again, but I smile above my painted straps, tap my foot,  and know the truth of all that can be.  

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And other anthologies.

Receiving a letter in college was monumental. We shared a community phone for our floor, and had to pay for long distance, so it was rarely used. The mailboxes were the tie to the outside world. Located in the entrance of our fifth floor walk-up, what lay behind the gray square door was significantly tied to the speed at which I could climb the stairs. One small letter could erase the added weight of my backpack, loaded down with the likes of Shakespeare and other anthologies. Anticipation picked up each foot. Thumb trying to break the seal before opening the door. Books thrown on sofa, I cracked the remaining seal, and breathed in the connection. And I was saved. 

I could always count on the weekly letter from my mother. Sometimes my grandma. An occassional random boyfriend marked with a mascot of another school, or PFC. And I learned quite early on, to get a letter, you needed to send one. To be lifted, you had to do some lifting.

When I was painting her yesterday, the stories ran through my head. Up and down the staircase of my heart and brain. All those things I needed to say. All those things I needed to hear. And I wondered how you would see it. When you saw her. At first glance. Was she getting the letter? Or was she sending it? I suppose it depends on if you are needing to hear something, or if you have something that needs to be said. 

We’re always navigating through both. And I guess the key is to keep the chain open. To be lifted. To keep lifting. 

Life will weigh us with worry and “other anthologies,” but it will also give us what we need if we choose to participate. 

I live in the word. And I am lifted.  

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Before complete.

Forgiveness comes so easily as I allow the portrait to come to life. I actually enjoy the beauty of the becoming. I hope I can do the same in real life. With others. Possibly even me. 

It’s easy to get hung up on the timing of things. People often ask me, “How long does it take to make that painting?” “This painting?’ There is no answer. Or there is every answer. I know with repetition, some things come more quickly. A bird can appear readily, because I have ridden that wing so many times. I have fluttered and flapped. And still, not every time is the same. 

I smile because isn’t it the same when it comes time to “snap out of it” — the mood, the feeling, the getting over. I’d like to think it comes “more readily.” I think it does. But I’m learning it’s not just about the getting through, but the beauty of becoming. As messy and unfinished as it all can be, it can be beautiful before it is complete. Before forgiveness, before healing, before love, it is all still beautiful, within sight, within reach.

So I keep fluttering and flapping, from hand and heart, and with this morning sun, every answer awaits. And so I become. 

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Shouldered.

She asked me how I chose the bird for each portrait. “They simply fly in,” I said. 

I suppose I’ve always believed in the pure randomness of it all. That it could happen to anyone, at any time. Pain, happiness, confusion, even love. And there’s comfort in that. And if it does, simply fly in, I have to remember that one does not outweigh the other. If I can shoulder happiness, then I can do the same with the next challenge carried in. 

Sometimes I wonder, what if her kindergarten nap mat hadn’t been placed next to mine? What if she had transferred to Lincoln Elementary, from our beloved Washington? Would we still be friends? Would she still fly across the world to see me? And then we exchange emails on our current reads. Talk about the lemon boats at Roers’ bakery, our gym uniforms…and joy lands gently on my shoulder as wonder flings away. 

And isn’t it all barely more than air? Whatever the day may bring, this winged moment, all will be shouldered. Even, ever, love. 

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Big. Sometimes.

For five days I read the book. Eagerly returning. Thinking about the characters in between. On the last page, I flipped for another. That was it? The ending? Huh.  

It’s not the first time I’ve enjoyed a book without loving the ending. And still, I had to remind myself that time wasn’t wasted. Time was enjoyed, no matter how it ended, or didn’t.

How do we respond when there’s nothing at the end? It’s never promised. And it occurs almost daily. How do we react when the response is underwhelming? When the email goes unanswered. The post lacks response. Even worse the love.

We’ve all felt it, I suppose, the arms drop mid hug when you yourself are not finished. 

It’s then I have to think, why do I do what I do? I paint because I have to. Writing — the same. Loving, just as with both, it has to come out. And with it all, it is joyfully terrifying. 

And would I spend hours getting the reflection in her eyes, the soul that can’t remain ruffled in the dress…would I do each leaf, each flower, each stone, any differently if you cartwheeled or simply walked away? Singing as I paint, I’m reminded of the words of K.D. Lang, “I gave my love, didn’t I? And I gave it big sometimes!” 

So there’s my answer. I will reach for the words and the paint. Without knowing the length of hug, I offer these arms. 

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If I dare the turning.

Today I get the Paris Review. Each one a treasure. Words and pictures. Stories and poems. A world held in the palm of my hands. Often clutched to my chest, as if the turning of the pages could not insert deep enough. You could think that it was simply the couture of all things France, but I will tell you, that I felt the same in our unfinished basement on Van Dyke Road in Alexandria, Minnesota, chubby hands wrapped around the newest issue of the Reader’s Digest. 

Seeking relief from summer’s heat, I curled into the damp cool of the cement, and traveled my way slowly, armed with the directions given in the previous school years, from Mrs. Strand, Mrs. Bergstrom and Mrs. Erickson. I sounded out. Acted out. Laughed out loud to gather in the medicine the funny section claimed to offer. Lived out loud on every page.

And the thing is, it didn’t tell me my future. But it gave me the assurance that I would have one. Each letter a small taste of what was to come, if I dared the turning. 

I don’t know what this day will bring. It may be the Reader’s Digest version of something glorious to come, or simply the cool comfort of what is. Either way, I will be saved. 

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Underpainting.

The underpainting is not just the forgiving support of the image to come, but it is the voice of the story to be told. 

I ordered a book from the company Blurb. The easiest narrative to relay would be how the first book was damaged. How the carrier screwed up the delivery, twice. It practically writes itself with all the usual suspects of annoyance and waiting, and disbelief and angered conversation. A real yarn to spin. But is that my underpainting? The real story that I want to tell is the final outcome. The book is beautiful. Blurb was fantastic to work with. While that may not be as riveting, it rests well on my heart.

I don’t like the feeling of irritation. I don’t like carrying it. I’m as guilty as the next person, but I’m trying to do better. Of course to be a better person, but even just for my own sanity. 

When creating a new portrait, sometimes I like to stop before finishing, while the person is arriving and the underpainting still shows through. This is where I give thanks. This is where I see all that I have been given. Without my grandparents, my mother, my teachers and friends, (my forgiveness, my support) I would have no story to tell. They, you, are my underpainting. So I pause. Show you, so you know that I know. You rest well on my heart. 


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Getting in.

It’s my fingers that remember the three button sequence to activate the dishwasher. I count on muscle memory daily. Readying myself at the pool for the first time of the season, I knew if I just did the hard part, get in, that my arms and legs would take over. My head would turn to breathe. My brain would tell my chilly, but beating core, “oh you only have to do a few laps,” both knowing that when reaching that number, I would up it again, and again. Each muscle nodding to the one that always won out, the heart. I smile, certain that I will never finish loving you.

Walking by a photo or painting. Hearing the opening notes to a song. Breathing in the scent of flowered hope. The sequence is activated and I think of you. And it’s such a relief to know it. To count on it. To feel it to my beating core. This love.

When the new challenge seems difficult. When I think it perhaps too much to get through, I remind myself, I only have to get in. The heart will see me through. I smile, and go a little deeper. 

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All that she would sing.

Maybe it was to learn how to listen. To see. To love. She knew there would be singing again. The evidence perched ready on her shoulder. She knew that to raise her voice, her fists, would only scare that song away. She knew whatever she said about them would reveal more about her. So the heart gathered, not on sleeve, but on shoulder. Breathing in the words, the melody, the grace of all that she would sing. 

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