Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: art


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No ladders.

I told him I needed a ladder. No, my grandfather replied. “But I have to get it back into the tree,” I said without crying, but just barely. Not about to change his response, but curiosity getting the best of him, he asked what. “The nest,” I said. He just smiled and again shook his head no. “A bird’s nest,” I reiterated, as if he just didn’t understand and surely with the added description he would go get the ladder and help me. But he didn’t. “The babies…” I pleaded, having never actually seen them, only heard them from below. “They’re fine. They’re already gone,” he explained. “How did they know? Were they ready?” I asked, still assuming we were all afforded that luxury. “You find a way,” he said, both of us knowing we were no longer talking about the birds. Both of us knowing that it was my house, my nest, that I missed. It was a ladder back to when my father lived with us. When everything seemed certain. A ladder back to the nest of trust and security. There was no ladder. We both knew I would have to find a way. He put his finger on the sore part of my heart, “They will be ok,” he said without crying, but just barely. And I knew, with the certainty of tree and the absence of ladder, that I would be too. 

I can’t say that through the years I have not asked for the ladder. Thinking, just get me over this. But I eventually get there. Never over. Always through. And my heart moves from sore, to soar. And I am saved.

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The depths of yes.

We didn’t have words like self care or journaling when she gave me the Nothing Book for my birthday. It was just as described, a hard covered book with blank pages inside. I carried it each day to my locker on the first floor of Central Junior High School. When she got off her bus, she would run to me and ask, straight from the words on the cover, “Did you make something of it?” It made us laugh every time, and every time the answer was yes. I’d show her my newest poem and we would revel in our insight. What time we were wasting, we thought, with social studies and geometry, when we understood at such depths, the poetry of this world. 

I still have this book. I still have this friend. And isn’t that, I suppose, the most beautiful poem of all. 

And it’s a question I still ask of myself daily, “Did you make something of it?” Referring to the day, the time given, the loves around me. And it’s not pressure, but more acccountability, as I see her opening the large middle doors of the junior high. I smell the bus fumes and cling my “something” to my eager chest. Ready to offer to her, to this world, what I have made. Knowing, that if I’m not giggling with the depths of yes, then I have to do more. Be more. She’s getting closer now, and I open to today’s page, smiling. Yes!

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A chance at joy.

My mother hated the camera. Her smile that came so easily face to face, struggled in front of the lens. It wasn’t until I started painting her that, I watched that fear disappear. I’d like to think that’s trust. What she was giving to me was real. What I bounced back to her was admiration. 

First it was her birthday poem. . Then in the cards. The magnets. Her face. The one where she said, “I meant no, but it came out yes.” The woman at the phone who said, “There are no operators standing by…” And she saw herself. And we laughed. She was the woman behind, “I signed up for eternal bliss, I must have gotten in the wrong line,” and “Yesterday I was so tired I could barely think straight — thank God I was at work.” Because it wasn’t about a perfect reflection, it was pure joy. Even when the truths were difficult, like in the poem, “I saw the truth about you…” it was still joy. Joy to be seen. Joy to be heard, connected. Revealed, and still loved. Perhaps loved even more. 

When I painted her portrait she looked at it and said, “That women doesn’t look like she needs to be afraid of anything…maybe I don’t either.” It’s that portrait I see when I look in the mirror. Those words I say when I look into my heart.

There are a million things to be afraid of in this world, but our reflection shouldn’t be one of them. And if we can do that for each other, for ourselves, take away the fear of being, of being seen for who we truly are, then I think we have a real chance — a real chance at joy. 

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In the after.

In the last three weeks I have finished two commissions. What a ride! And as I sit in the after, I go through each step. The building of the panel. The seemingly endless sanding. Gessoing. The background. The images. Coming to life. Stroke after stroke. Pure joy. And without my knowledge or permission, the pieces come to an end. As I knew they would. Still, it’s a surprise. And I have to ship. Build a box strong enough to house all that joy. And then let go. Give it over to the man in the white van. The same man who will push the wrong button, or no button, and I will get the message that “We came by to pick up your package, but you weren’t home, so you’ll have to deliver it.” And I will read it again and again, without my package, certain that both paintings were lost forever. I will spare you the 12 hours of panic…they did get back in the tracking system, and are now across the sea in their new homes. 

I suppose these aren’t lessons to be learned. Not this loving. This living. If we did, learn the lessons, we probably wouldn’t do anything. Love anyone. We can know, but still, we must simply go through it all. As I sit in the after, the portraits of my mother, my grandparents, I would do it all again and again. Love them with every color of my heart, every stroke of my being. 

And it will bring me to the next canvas. And I will begin and end and begin again. And give thanks for it all. From joy to panic to joy again. Click.

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The journey.

We were never big on souvenirs. I’m still not. It was and always will be about the experience. 

Whenever we’d visit a new place in Chicago, or New York or somewhere in between, my mom would say, “I can’t wait to read about this later.”  What she meant was the excitement of having been somewhere, knowing the place, and having it mentioned unexpectedly in the next book, feeling the connection…being able to nod one’s head and heart in full agreement of “I’ve been there.” 

And isn’t it the same with living? We look to those who have survived what we’re going through. As a comfort, a connection. Or for that boost of encouragement, a proof of what can be done.  We are the stories. The words on a page. Meant to be shared. We are the souvenirs. The precious gifts to remember. To pass along.

The morning sun turns the page…and so it begins.

What if I believed in the journey? Enjoyed it even…


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Beyond the groan.

Barefoot and bare legged, as a young girl in summer’s Midwest, I can only imagine it was the closest thing we had to being shirtless. We didn’t give it a lot of thought then. Our roles were silently firm, and burning pink the outline of a tank top on our core was about as far as we went. But I don’t recall ever feeling trapped. No, it was perhaps as free as I’ve ever been. It all felt like a release. From school. From buses. Alarm clocks and timed lunches. Pony tails let loose in bicycle winds. Striped gym uniforms forgotten in lockers, replaced with mismatched shorts and our cleanest dirty shirts. Even daylight said take your time, wander. And we did. I did. Until we got the call.

It was all around the same time. Varied by a parent’s return from work. A dinner that stoved a little too long. A delayed brother or sister, feeling out their teens. A mother who just needed an extra minute for herself, at the edge of her bed, without heels or pantyhose. But eventually from each porch or front door came the call to come inside. You knew whose house was beckoning by the groans emitted. 

We all knew the sound of our call from home. We didn’t talk about it, but I know I wasn’t alone. I know I wasn’t the only one who was giving thanks behind the groan, that there was a light waiting for me. A cream for my pink shoulders. A table for my day’s story. A pillow to carry me to tomorrow’s. 

We toss around the word freedom, as if we didn’t have it. We’ve always had it. Blessed to run between the comfort of constraint and the flight of feral. Our shirtless souls free to wander, and be welcomed once again.

The days are getting longer. (Another click of gratitude.) What will we do with the time, but dare the sun, and stretch the wander… and giggle beyond the groan.

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Taking space.

We had a lesson early on in our college art class — drawing the negative space. It took a minute to get going. It was hard not to focus on simply the subject. But once in the habit, viewing the space all around, I could see how it not only shaped the subject, but was actually a subject in and of itself, and not just a void.

This is one of the lessons that I continue to learn. Or rather try. I keep trying to learn. And not surprisingly in the studio, but mostly in the mirror. The subject is often a feeling. And, OH, what strong subjects those feelings can be! Real show stoppers!!! When I can take a moment, a breath, a real look at it, I can see it. All that is surrounding me. Bending me this way and that way. Altering. Pushing even. It is then I have a decision to make. (We have a decision to make.) Do we let our surroundings envelop us, all this negative space — (and wow, isn’t that obvious) — or do we take up the space? Filling it with all that we know of ourselves. Of each other. The things we know for sure. The difference between right and wrong. 

I was reminded yesterday, working on my new piece. He has a smile, a smirk even, and it’s hard to get it right. I make the smallest adjustments. And when it comes to life, when he comes to life, it is because I find it from within him. You can maybe force a laugh, but a smirk, that’s all from inside. 

It’s where I find peace. In the studio. It’s my space. But it’s more than that. It’s how I take up that space. Within all this becoming, I can quiet the din of destruction in the news, in the world, and just be. As much as it tries to press against me, us, I hold strong. We hold strong. Taking up the space, with kindness. With love. With truth. With basic human goodness. 

We must hold strong.

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The grassy field.

I’m not sure we could have less in common. Our lives went in completely different directions. Literally and figuratively. Our mothers being sisters, even the name that first connected us has been changed multiple times. So what is it that connects us, keeps us cousining? I can only imagine that it all comes down to the planting of trees.

I worked at a fevered pace to finish the painting of my grandfather, so that my mother could gift it to my brother on the last of his birthdays that she would be here to celebrate. I sent her daily updates. And we were connected by the tears of tenderness that flowed between us. As his image came to life between the steady and the growth, between the rock and the trees, (where all life hovers in the grassy field) we were one. 

I finished in time. I suppose everything does. 

The first time my cousin saw the picture he said, “I remember the planting of those trees.” Of course, that must be it. Even though we grew so very far apart, we were planted. Together. We began with the steady of our grandfather, and the growth that we were all allowed. And that means something. Still. Ever. 

I remember my cousins birthday each year. Being the first of April, it’s not that hard. And when I do, I find myself wandering the grassy field in between, and I am home, ever beginning.

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Wild Asparagus.

It’s not just the taste, which is delicious, but it’s the hunt, the picking, presenting it to my husband, seeing it still a little wild on the table, then making it into an omelette, mixing the vibrant green with the yellow and adding a little hot sauce on top — this is the pure enjoyment of asparagus season. And it makes me feel special, to walk on the path with so many of the empty-handed, while mine are filled with green. 

It doesn’t last that long, but it doesn’t have to. Perfection knows no time constraints. As with all good things, it will come to an end with a bit of a surprise, but I have no thoughts of that now, as I’m putting on my shoes. And it occurs to me, I hope with everything, everyone, I can live like that, love like that. Cherish the season, for however long it lasts. Feel special for the time given. And just enjoy it for what it is. 

Soon my new shoes will be dampened with dew. And I will bend over with delight at each tiny stalk. And I will forget the promises I made on paper to life and love and just be in nature’s joy, with hands that are full. And in all that cherished season, I will forget to take the photos of asparagus on table, and I will simply enjoy, and that will be good too! 

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By the handful.

I can’t say that I knew exactly what I was going to use it for, but I knew I had to have it, because it carries me through every day, lifts me, gives me hope and joy, sustainability — this recognition of the things that I count on.

At first I thought maybe I would click it each time I thought of her, my mother. Every time of the day that I smile or laugh because of her. Click on the hand-held counter each time I clutched my imaginary pearls in a warm memory. Because I imagine that’s what it’s for actually, this petite counter, adding up the repetitions that make you stronger. Then I thought, well, I could actually add my grandparents to that, my friends…all this love that I count on.

And then it occurred to me, this morning, at home, in our new time zone, how much I fall in love with on a daily basis. This good night sleep in my own bed. Click. Breakfast with homemade bread, and lavender honey across from my husband, smiling back. Click, click, click. This strong, fueling coffee. Click. These French and American flags that wave outside our morning window. Click. Click. The studio that waits for me patiently. Click. I guess it all adds up to gratitude. Thanks. Love. Click. Click. Click.

Maybe when the jet lag wears off, I will forget it. Which would be click worthy also. Maybe days will go by without a click, being lost in fun, or creativity. Or maybe when I need it most, just seeing it, sitting on a desk, it will remind me of all that I have, that I love…all the things and people that lift me on a daily basis. And maybe then I will give thanks for the reminder itself. Click. 

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