Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: Minneapolis, Minnesota, first love, love, Walker Art Center, Art, Museum, Bus ride, field trip, school


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Surprise.

The things I worried about on a random Wednesday night seem rather ridiculous now, but to my Elementary self, they felt nearly insurmountable. I suppose it’s ironic that the very library feeding my imagination could bring about so much anxiety. Rereading the books that I had checked out for the week, I interrupted myself with a lot of “but what ifs…” I’d ask my mother — But what if they don’t give us enough time to search the shelves? What if the book I want is already checked out? What if they didn’t get in anything new?  She always answered the same — “Give them a chance to surprise you.”

I’ve tried to keep that answer close at hand, tucked inside a heart pocket. It’s easy to assume outcomes. To imagine how people are going to act, to respond. To live out the conversations before they even happen. I’m as guilty as the next person. But some of the most joyous moments have come when I have allowed people to surprise me.

She was known in town, almost feared, as a hard person. My mom had worked with her. At an event, when she began thumbing through my cards and books, I held my breath. Braced. Ready to defend the heart on my sleeve. But she began to smile. She laughed in the right places. Teared up in the raw moments. Clutching her imaginary pearls in both. What a welcome surprise!

I hadn’t changed her. Only given her a chance. And I was given a gift that’s still with me today. 

The thing is, we think we know. We think we know how everything is going to turn out. With others, even our own life. But how many doors (hearts) close down in all that certainty. I’m trying to get better. To let it all unfold without a manufactured outcome. Because I don’t know. And that’s ok. It’s good even. I open myself up. Hand in heart pocket, I give this life a chance to surprise me!

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Knee high.


For years I thought you had to “find” your home. I began with a summer red wagon. Knees not even wagon high, I filled the rusted container with baby dolls and stuffed animals, along with an unopenable can of chicken noodle soup, a glass jar of water, my hardcover copy of Little House in the Big Woods, a blanket (said to be for their comfort, but mostly for mine), Bazooka Joe bubble gum, and the plastic camera that no longer worked that I ordered with those same gum wrappers. I didn’t have a watch, so I can’t tell you how long I was gone. But I’m certain the sun didn’t change positions. I was not allowed beyond the “north end,” and it was too difficult to drag my wagon alongside Hugo’s field, so most likely it took me longer to pack than journey. I returned to the green grass in front of our green house, took everything out of the wagon and placed it neatly back in my bedroom. Grabbed my Big Chief Notebook from under my pillow, palmed my number 2 pencil and wrote of the voyage I imagined I just took. And I was home.

Maybe I’m more of a maker than a seeker. The answers aren’t waiting to be found, but created. I’ve said for years that you have to fall in love with your bathroom. Learn how your oven works. Curate, not decorate. Become and become and become. To be the life in your living room. In every room. I suppose the same is for love. 

It’s true I love to travel, but in search of an experience, not the answers. The things I know for sure are nestled in the heart, the little red wagon that I keep filled with all that I love. 

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Braided.

Being blonde and from Minnesota, it was exotic to braid one’s hair. And even more so when it was wet. To sleep in the kinks to come upon morning’s release. Probably the most daring of all, was to do it before fourth grade picture day at Washington Elementary. 

I was horrified when I saw myself in the mirror. Flat on top, and then a sea of crinkled mane, then straight once again at the ends. It wasn’t a hairstyle so much as a triangle. I brushed and brushed. As if the faster strokes would release me from this nightmare. There was no time to shower. The bus had already made one pass on its way to Norton’s and would soon be coming back up the hill. 

I was tall for my age. Always in the back row. My only hope was that the inexperienced photographer had no light training and I could hide in the shadows. In my stocking cap I apologized to Mrs. Paulson, who’s skirt was ironed and blouse was bowed. I pulled it off of my head. She wasn’t an expressive teacher. Not overtly emotional. She touched my shoulder that day, for the first and only time. Her fingers pressing in with “an everything will be ok.” I’ve never seen that photo again. But her kindness remains.

I never braided my hair again. Never really thought about it, until I painted this girl yesterday. But I have written about Mrs. Paulson so many times since then. Because she made a difference in my life. 

It matters, what we do. Every day. 

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The race of summer. 

To be so filled with life that it has to flush from your very pores. Cheeks ruddy and ever ready. I suppose we all think it will last forever — sure that our feet will keep the deal that youth has made. But maybe it’s the heart that takes over. (Or maybe it led all along.) Maybe it’s the heart that drags us from spring’s mud into summer’s bliss. Maybe it’s the heart that races through grass’s morning dew again and again, and lifts us up from green knees when we fall, ever promising to keep our cheeks flushed through autumn. Through winter.

Every time I paint a face, I feel the colors in my own, flowing through my hands. And the corners of my mouth rise up, smiling, so happy to be a part of youth’s reddening still.

What will you do today, to remain in the race of summer? 

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Getting in.

Certainly they were treasures. And I’m just as certain they weren’t expensive. But back then, (and I pray it’s still true today), I, we, didn’t associate value with money. I recognized beauty when I saw it, and these books were beautiful — these compilations of classics, bound in leather, blue, red and green, on my mother’s bookshelf. Too young yet to even sound out the words, I simply ran my fingers over the titles and somehow they got in. And this love of words has never left me.

The most likely scenario is that she got the books through a fidelity program in the grocery store. Just like we got our set of encyclopedias. And didn’t it make perfect sense, this feeding of body and soul. I devour them to this day. I can’t get enough. My fingers are currently tasting the appetizer of my newest book’s embossed title. My mother taught me that. About value. Beauty. She got in. And I know she will never leave me.

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Hope.

“You don’t feel it? The bird on your head?”

“Sure,” she smiled.

“It’s not too heavy?”

She wiped the bangs from her eyes and joyfully showed the gap between her front teeth.  “Hope won’t weigh me down.”

And off they skipped, barely touching the ground.

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Field trip.

All field trips were welcomed. Turning in the signed release form from my mother was always a bit exciting. Seeing the curve of her “I”, still ignites a feeling that something good is just a bus ride away. 

That giant yellow box on wheels took us stomping the bog up north. Crawling through Crystal Cave. Orienteering is some forgotten forest. To the zoo. Knute Nelson Home. The baseball stadium. And then one day, without my knowledge or permission, straight to the door of my first love, The Walker Art Museum. I bought two pencils from the gift shop and saved them like pressed corsages from a high school dance. 

I suppose you never forget your first love. It changes you. Not only the love you receive, but finding out the love you are able to give. This infinite supply that says you will always have a reason to board that bus. To try new things. To believe in them. To see the beauty all around you. Ever. Still. 

That’s what The Walker in Minneapolis did for me. Does for me still. Even a country away. I pulled out my most recent purchase from last year’s visit. I read the back of the shirt. Minneapolis, MN — the World in New Ways. I couldn’t have imagined what that would mean. And I couldn’t love Minneapolis more than I do now. 

My mother was always right. Something good is coming.