Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: art


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The adventure begins.

Most of us cried when we lost the last game of season. I can’t say what all the tears were for — but I know for me it wasn’t about winning or losing. It was the ending. Every day for three months I sat in front row of Mrs. McCarty’s English class, watching the last few ticks of the clock that hung just above the door. My toe tapping in time with the second hand. My arms clutched around my books just before the bell rang — the bell that released us into the after school special that no one would film. 

I raced down the hall. Past the locker that I never used. Down the stairs. Past the front doors. Waved at my mom at her front desk in the Superintendent’s office. Down another half flight of stairs. A quick drink at the fountain. Into the girls’ locker room. Changed into my shorts and t-shirt. Hiked up the knee pads. Joining Mrs. Anderson and all of my teammates for volleyball practice. 

This is why I cried that last game. In slow motion, the last ball hit the floor on our side, and with that one splat, I had nowhere to go. No clock to watch. No hall to race. Nothing. 

Not to be all dramatic…of course it wasn’t true. I still had the books to read from the English class that I adored. I had a mother who loved me. All the friends I had from the day before. And a permanent gym locker that Mrs. Anderson let me use throughout the school year. We sang on the bus ride home from the game. Everything was beginning.

Each year for a minute on the 26th of December, I can feel that “ending.” That hollow. And then I go through my list. I smile.  I have everything I need. And just enough to wish for. No tears. I’m ready to get on that bus! To take the next ride! Let the adventure begin!

The adventure begins!
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Graveling well.

When I look at the people in one of my sketchbooks, they all look like they belong. The paper becomes part of them. I suppose it’s the same in real life.

If you would have put the first grade class of Washington Elementary in a lineup, I think it would have been rather easy to tell who was growing up on a gravel road. Skinned knees and elbows. Dusty shoes, worn on the heels from braking our bicycles. Eyes in half squint. Just a hint of feral. It was only a mile from town, the gravel of Van Dyke road, but it was different on the north side of Big Ole. I imagined we cursed the gravel while rolling up windows. Kicked the ground that so often tripped us. And perhaps I didn’t see it then, how it formed me, formed us. But I do now.  Proudly. And even a country away, I wear it still. 

We are being formed constantly by our surroundings. There are regulars on the path that I walk each morning. I don’t know them by name, but how they walk on the gravel. It’s only recently that I’ve seen two of them out in the “real” world. One at a green grocery. One at an electronics store. And I had the same feeling for both. It was quite strange, but I noticed how they both looked smaller in this new context. And I can only think that on the gravel path, in this untamed world that we inhabit together, we walk a little taller. We stand strong. We stand out. Without words we take pride in our collective journey. And it makes me smile. 

We can be proud of the paths we walk. Each stone that we have traveled over. Each rock pulled from shoe. They are victories. Don’t hide your journey. Shoulders back. Head high. Walk in it. Stand tall. Wear your gravel well.

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Saving Provence.

I always rationed out my Halloween Candy. Counting each day. Indulging in a piece or two. Doing the math. The goal was to make it last until Thanksgiving. I imagined that each piece was a link in the joy chain. Even on the days when I limped along with my least favorite candy, like a circus peanut or a Jolly Rancher, I was keeping the sweetness alive. 

Most of you celebrated your Thanksgiving yesterday. Here in France, of course, it is not a holiday. No days off. So the tradition that I dragged along with me won’t be celebrated until Saturday. As I read the posts of you already walking off your gratitude, I could let it get me down, but I choose to think of it as the luxury of keeping my chain alive. I give thanks again, and check the turkey parts thawing in the refrigerator.

I suppose it’s what I’m doing with everything, trying to keep the chain alive, with a painting of a niece, a grandma, a brother-in-law, a cousin. What if somehow we could all connect? In this most unlikely of scenarios, (and aren’t they all) we could come together and find the joy. 

Of course I have my days, my moments, limping through the “circus peanuts” of life. But even the worst days connect me to a chance of something better. So I give thanks. And wait. Today is going to be delicious.

Saving Provence.
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Meaning.

We toss around the word so easily — this passion. “You have to find your passion. Follow your passion.” Like everything would be solved if you only did this — as if all joy would be received in your passion. When actually, when you discover, or simply admit, to the things you truly love, that’s when the real work begins.
And I suppose we’d know this, if we looked at the word itself. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫. (Far from the mouth’s of today’s influencers using it to describe the latest storage options from IKEA that they are obsessed with and so very passionate about.)  But don’t be afraid, we’ve basically altered the meaning for suffer as well. The word suffer comes from the Greek word pathos, which usually means to experience or undergo. And it’s this pathos or suffering, that refers to an element in an experience, like a work of art for example, that makes us feel compassion.

I mention it only because I have to learn it as well. Daily. I can easily confuse the feelings in my heart for pain. For suffering in its modern definition. But what it really is, is love. And this is meant to be endured. To be felt and passed on. To move from my heart to page, to canvas. To be offered in the most compassionate of ways. 

So yes, I will be, am, passionate! Images surround me — experiences of heart and mind. I sit across from the painting at the breakfast table, excited to do the work of the day — to experience it all. Knowing, if I do, love will endure. Love will ever endure. 

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Bouncing between.

I was never one for magic — I mean the “magician” kind. I guess I was always afraid of disappearing.

I didn’t have the words for it then. I’m not even sure I was aware of what I was doing when I began to write and paint at five years old. But I knew how it felt. This creating something. An extension of myself on the paper, through words and images. When I would present it with two hands to my mother, just outside of my bedroom door, she would stop whatever she was doing. Whatever occupied her hands at the moment, be it dishrag or mascara, she put it down, and gave me her full attention. And never was I more seen. My heart. My being. On full display. In full acceptance. The warmth that bounced between us seemed to light up this hallway stage, and I thought this was the only magic I ever needed. 

When my father left, and my mother felt sad, I could feel that light begin to dim. I wasn’t going to let her disappear. I began writing about her. Poems, prayers and promises. On sheets of paper. On pieces of wood. And the stage changed from house to apartment, to apartment again. But the magic remained. 

Maybe it’s the way with all artists. We begin to create to prove that we exist, and then continue to show the others that they do too. 

I was only a few strokes in yesterday when I began to cry. It’s my first painting of Grandma Elsie. I wasn’t sad. Nor nervous. I hadn’t even yet called on the magic before it dropped in. She is coming to life in my studio. 

I guess it’s the same with real life — the more we see others, the more we connect, the more we feel alive. Now that doesn’t mean you have to paint. Or write. But you do have to connect, however it may be, to keep that light shining, bouncing between. There are a million different forms it can come in, but I suppose it’s always love — love is the only magic that keeps us from disappearing. Ever seen. Ever alive.

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On bloom. 

I expect to have roses in the summer. And they are beautiful for sure, but the late autumn roses…the ones that come out of nowhere, welcoming me into the crisp mornings, when all others have let go, succumbed to the force of the fall, these, well these are something spectacular. 

We’re not all green when we’re asked to grow. I was fortunate to see my mother bloom. Long after, I suppose, her peers and townspeople expected. Some might think I brought her to shows, to galleries, to book-signings because I was kind. While I always want to be kind, I wanted her next to me because she was blooming in full sight. She was a long-stemmed rose in my booth. Attracting all who had grown weary of the expected vine. Her delight in this crisp and open new world, was infectious. And I knew, we knew, we were lucky to bouquet around her.

Maybe one never gets over an autumn bloom. I’m hoping that’s the case. I can’t imagine it any other way. How can you look at it and not feel spectacular? I have to imagine, we are given the responsibility — to bear witness. What a privilege it is to keep sharing the story, her story. 

In recent years, we have all heard the saying, “if you see something, say something.” Why we reserve that for the bad things, I’ll never know. This should be something we live by, for all the good things around us — the spectacular blooms we are privileged to walk within and beside. 

It’s a daily choice we’re given, to trample, or bouquet. May we ever choose to bouquet.

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The tender fields

I only had to hear it once for it to stick. “There are no stupid questions,” Mrs. Strand said, addressing the thirty strained-necked five year olds looking up from their cross legged positions at Washington Elementary. So the questioning began.

Behind our house on VanDyke Road, there was a field of grain. Hugo’s field. Lined from green to gold every summer. My grandpa had the same, but he also had a field for the cows. Unlike the fields of grain, it was fenced and trampled — “But still a field?” I asked my grandpa. “Yes, he said. “But what will grow?” “The cows,” he said. I shook my head in agreement.

I was surprised the first time my mother dropped me off at the field to play softball. This was a field too? This sanded and based lot. The teenage boy who we loosely called coach said he would teach of the basics – hitting and fielding. Fielding? No one else raised their hands. Why wasn’t anyone else questioning all these forms of field. I put down my hand and began to play.

It wasn’t lost on me that when you were asked to choose your line of work, it was your field. And when you became good at your chosen profession, you were “outstanding in your field.” The first time I heard this, probably because of Mrs. Strand, Hugo, because of Grandpa, because of the teenage boy, I heard, “out standing in your field.” I still think of it that way. Because this is where I go to create, to the tender fields that led me here. And they were tender. Even through every cracked bit of earth, with every run and trample, I learned. When yields were low. I learned. Each season, I grew. Never with a guarantee, but always a promise of hope. It is with this welcoming of wonder, I wander today’s field.

Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.

Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.


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Learning.

Getting dropped off was always a production. To be separated from my mother seemed unthinkable to me. Even across Van Dyke Road in the gentle peach of Weiss’s house was just too far. The first visits to my grandparents were excruciating (and you know I loved them dearly). I wrapped myself in the telephone cord line, hoping to get the call of return. Even play dates began with tears. As if the little salty pockets of water would form a stream and carry me back to my mother’s arms. I mention it only to put the following in context — I never cried when being dropped off at school. Even in the uncertainty of my first kindergarten day at Washington Elementary, in my polyester dress, white knee high socks and patent leather shoes, I walked up the entry stairs without looking back. Even before it was proven to be true, school always saved me. 

Through the years, I have had the privilege of going across the country, school district to school district, with my books. From coast to coast, we have stood up against bullying with “I am Amazed.” Promoted self-esteem with “Believe.” Encouraged creativity with “Astonish.” Two days ago I got the message that a school in Canada ordered 100 books of “I’m not too busy.” And once again, I am saved.

The answer for me has been the same since I was five years old — keep learning. Through every trial, every heartache, every wave of uncertainty. Today, once again, I pull up my knee highs, straighten my skirt and climb the stairs. No day is ever the same, but everything is going to be ok. I pull open the heavy doors, without turning back. Step onto the terrazzo floors. And begin again.

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Taking comfort.

New Orleans was hovering between Christmas and Mardi Gras. Purple and gold decorations spilled from the trees onto the walls. We had just arrived in the city, for the fourth time, (though every time in New Orleans joyfully feels like the first), and Dominque wanted to pick up some maps from the city center. It seemed everyone had questions that day, so we stood in line at the counter. The only three people certain of the reason for their visit stood in front of the fireplace in the lobby. She, barely covered in a white sleeveless mini-dress and high heels. He, in flannel and work boots. The priest all in black.

They pledged “forever” in front of the impermanent purples, and seemed to have no idea of those of us touristing through their life changing moment.

It’s happening all the time. Life. Somewhere in that city, under the same purple and gold, they were saying goodbye to a loved one — completely stunned that the world could keep on turning. Someone was being born. Someone was celebrating. Someone was waiting for a bus (not wanting go), watching us unfold a map with expectation.

We’re all traveling through the randomness of each other’s lives. And isn’t it comforting, knowing that we aren’t alone? Couldn’t we have a little more empathy for each other? Be a little more kind? I smile, wandering within love’s purple and gold.

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Reflecting light.

Margaux is a thirteen year old sponge and the daughter of Dominique’s oldest. She joyfully absorbs everything. Notices everything. And I mean the important things. Like new shoes I’m wearing. Or a bracelet. If my French is improving. And I think the thing that is most spectacular, she not only notices it, she mentions it. (If compliments were supplied in the French grocery store, they would be in the “exotic” aisle, bottom shelf.) It’s just not their culture. But Margaux lives in pure Margaux fashion, so when we stepped into the elevator of the parking ramp in Aix, upon seeing her reflection, I said, “Hello, Gorgeous!”  And greeted myself the same way.

She helps me with my French, I help her with her English. But most importantly, we lift each other in the girliest, giggliest, and most joyful of ways. I repeated the phrase, and I told her this is something she must say to the mirror every morning. 

It circled through our rotation as we shopped. Sometimes even directed to Dominique. With her French tongue, it took a little practice, but by the time we returned to the parking ramp, it rolled from her head and heart and into the elevator mirror. And so did the laughter. When we hugged and said our gorgeous goodbyes, we all knew we had stumbled upon something pretty special. 

The next morning, I was awakened by a text. A rare text from her. You can probably guess, but it’s too spectacular not to type — she said — “Hello, Gorgeous!” I clutched my imaginary pearls, as my heart reflected back to me — no mirror necessary. 

Love comes in so many shapes and sizes. Even languages. We must see it. Hear it. Acknowledge it when it comes. And when love’s light reflects and bounces from heart to heart, showing up in smiles and giggles, how could we do anything but look it straight in the face, and say, “Hello, Gorgeous!”

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