Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: artist


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Now.

I don’t know how she knew. There were no influencers. No self help books. And even if there were, she wouldn’t have had time to read them. She would have laughed at the thought of someone telling her to stay “in the now.” “Where else would I be?” She would have said. 

It was a Saturday evening. Grandma Elsie’s “now” was filled with some pots brewing, others soaking. She shooed me away from the stove into the wafting of Grandpa’s pipe. I followed it into the living room. I didn’t ask, I simply followed the pinstripe of his overalls onto his lap. He perched the pipe away from the top of my blonde head. “You smell like today, “ I said. He raised his eyebrows. It was a combination of sun, and breeze, and hay and earth, topped with just a hint of tobacco. I squeezed the pouch in his pocket, still wanting to touch the end of his pipe, but remembering the heat from the first and last time I touched it. I pulled at the corners of his pierced lips to form a smile. He was still so new. I wanted to know everything. I didn’t have the words for it then, but he, being already formed, I wondered if I could be a part of it. I sculpted his face and flannel like clay, wanting to be somehow connected. I put a thumb on each of his eyebrows and pulled upward. “That means surprise,” I said. He smiled on his own this time, without my pulling, and I knew that we were connected. 

The pans clanked in the kitchen. The coo-coo of the clock stayed silent. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. And we were in it. I’m sure he had thoughts of tomorrow’s farm, but he didn’t stray. He tapped his pipe in the tray beside the lounger. And we gathered in the scented remains of the day.

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Fresh.

I was picking out an avocado when I saw her. Maybe eight or nine years old. Standing in the middle of the grocery aisle. Completely engrossed in her book. It was probably one of her first non-picture books. I remember that thrill. (It’s not lost on me that the name of the store is Fresh.)

I was so proud the day she, our librarian at Washington Elementary, introduced us to the grown-up books. All barriers were down. All worlds open. Books with spines and plots and nothing but words. Books that were entrusted to our care for seven full days. A responsibility I did not take lightly.

Even though library time was just after lunch, I did not put my chosen book into my locker, nor in my desk, but kept it nestled in my corduroy lap. I kept it open on the bus. Devouring each word. Only pulling it to my chest when the teenage boys threw balls or papers or sometimes fits.

Our driveway on VanDyke road was maybe only four car-lengths, but I read my way to the door. Then to the chair by the picture window. Lighting each words with the reverence it deserved.

Nothing has changed for me. Neither time nor country can diminish my love for books. I still let out an audible gasp when the newest release from a favorite author arrives in our local bookstore, or when gifted such a treasure by a friend. I saw that love in this little girl’s eyes as she bumped her way through the aisles to meet her father in the cash line. Never closing the book. Never averting her eyes, ripened with desire. She was one of us now, I thought, and smiled — smiled for her journey, mine, and the future.

The sun is coming through the windows now. Brightening the words I type. A daily responsibility that I never take lightly. My heart tumbles and bumps its way fresh onto the screen, and I smile, for this page ever open.

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In all of this wild. 

I have to admit, (physically and metaphorically) I’m shooting most of my photos in the wind. As I walk along the gravel path, the wildflowers seem to pop up, blooming as proof that it can be done, even in the strongest of winds that race directions through the hills. Some barely petaled, they still have the audacity of hopeful beauty, and I think, if I could just catch them mid sway, it would be like capturing the wind…and if I did, in fact, capture that wind, it would find its way into my heart, spreading limb to limb, and even against all forces of the natural and unnatural, I too, would dance. 

So even as the sun blinds the screen of my phone, I point and shoot, not knowing until much later what will appear. Looking at yesterday’s photos from the comfort of home, I have to swivel in my chair. I smile at the blurred backgrounds — the forgotten hardships — and see the dancing petals. So fragile. So strong. So beautiful. And I smile, knowing today, it just might be me, who flowers in all of this wild. Me, barely petaled, who dances in the wind.

…and so she would dance.
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On giving.

Maybe it was because my college roommate Kimmie managed to take home, piece by piece, a 12 place setting of dishes from the cafeteria in her purposely bookless backpack. Or maybe it was just because they were so pretty, these little blue hand-made Japanese bowls that were placed in front of us at the restaurant yesterday. But I must admit, there was a split second speck of my brain that wondered if one, or maybe two, would fit inside my purse. I said it out loud, more of a compliment really, and perhaps a way to police my actions. Once they had been filled with soy sauce, the urge subsided, and I enjoyed the meal for the brief and impermanent gift that it was. And the more I think about it, it’s probably why we have the urge for these things. From restaurants or hotels. To keep the precious moments alive. Like the objects could delay or prevent the loss of time.

Stomach and heart full, I left the restaurant with only the items that I brought in. Perhaps as a nod, or a little gift from the universe, when I went for my afternoon walk, the woman on the podcast I was listening to started to talk about how much she loved the mug that her drink came in at the restaurant she visited the night before. I was already laughing, and continued to listen. She told of how on the bottom of the mug it said “If you steal this mug, you will be charged $150.00” I am not alone on this planet. Still wanting it desperately, she asked the waiter if she could simply buy it for the $150.00. He gave her the information to contact the person who actually makes the mugs. Her sense of urgency urged her to ask another waiter, only to get the same response. Even she knew that it sounded crazy, and I knew that it sounded crazy, but oh how delighted I was to listen.

In the end, she ordered from the website as instructed. I mention it only because I think it shows what lengths we will go to in order to connect, to be a part of something, to keep experiences alive. And I smile, because in telling my story, and hers, maybe you think of your own stories, and we do all actually connect. And none of it is by hoarding, but by sharing. Nothing has to be stolen, neither hearts nor moments, because life just keeps on giving.

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With all that raggedy trust.

When I was five I began drawing. Six, writing. Every paper in my tiny bedroom was filled. I sat on my twin bed and poured out my heart to the Raggedy Ann and Andy sheets. Emboldened with their always smiling and gentle approval, I held the paper in my plattered, chubby hands, and presented it to my mother. She knew the gift that it was, and welcomed it with a caring so safe, so loving, that I knew I could do it again and again. 

I did it daily. When my mother passed, it was that little girl that looked directly at me, that looks at me every day, hands and heart extended, she asks me where she is to go. And she’s so small. And I don’t want to hurt her. She’s still so filled with ideas and belief, and I can’t turn her away. When she comes to me, with all that raggedy trust, I smile, and do the best that I can with what she is offering. I tell her what she has made, what we have made, is something special, and I clutch it to my beating chest before setting it free. 

If you’re reading this, I, we, stand before you, so small, but still believing it matters. And I will do it, again, and again.

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My one day is every day.

We stood among the empty boxes in our first apartment. A mere quarter of our possessions from the house on Van Dyke Road easily filled the space. Standing silent, exhausted, knee deep in abandoned cardboard, it seemed as if the moment was calling us to either laugh or cry. I looked up to catch my mother’s eye, to find her lead. Packing tape still stuck to one elbow, she Vanna White-ed her arms across the brown mess and said, “One day, this will all be yours…” We burst into laughter.

And it was true! Is true! This ability to find joy in the moment, this knowledge that one way or another, we’re going to have to let it all go, emotionally, physically, spiritually… this is what she gave to me.

It was a special week for me. I sold a painting and I gave one away. Joy requires no measurement. Both were different experiences, but completely filled my heart!

She’s still the first person I want to call, my mom, amid the joy. But somehow I believe she knows. She’s standing by as I pack the painting to be shipped. She’s holding my vulnerable heart as I spin the other for the big reveal. The gift that was given to me so long ago, bubbles to the surface, and all I can do is laugh.

I am loved. My one day is every day. I do have it all.

“Would it be easier for you if I went with you?”
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A lot of strokes.

I’m in the middle stages of a new painting. From time to time I have to stop and take a photo of the work, otherwise it just becomes a series of shapes. If I stay focusing on just these tiny pieces, they become very hard to unsee, and I can lose the whole. 

I suppose the danger at large is in real life. It is so easy to grab hold of these tiny pieces. Latch on to one thing and then assume. These small pieces are often the ones with little hooks, maybe even sharp edges, so it’s simple, I’ll give you that.  And it’s ironic, these little things that make us so unsure, can give us such certainty. Like, she’s divorced, so she must be… or he’s a democrat, so he has to be… he’s old, she’s blonde, they don’t speak our language, he’s elite, she’s too young, he’s too fat, they’re the wrong religion, the wrong color, they’re just so… oh, the tiny pieces. 

If we want to be more, we have to see more. Step back. Stop naming and defining each piece, and instead see the person. When all the tiny pieces are placed together, they’re not so sharp after all. It takes a lot of shapes to make a puzzle. A lot of strokes to make a painting. So it is with people. 

“And if we did, see past it all…If you saw that I am not just my face, but all that I have faced…and if I did that for you…

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To keep our pink ladies dancing.

I used to imagine that the front stoop of my grandma’s house was only there for the family of Hollyhock dolls that grew on either side of the cement steps. I was only allowed to pick a few each season. She showed me how to pluck the flower from the stem, flip it upside down and push an unopened bud through the then top to make a head that rested above the pink flowing dress. And for the rest of the afternoon, this small gathering of elegant ladies danced outside the entrance reserved just for them.

I gave them the voices to compliment each other. “How lovely is your pink dress!” “And yours is beautiful!” I danced them together like my mother once did at the Lakeside Ballroom with her cousin Janet. And the music from the transistor radio scratched in and out as I adjusted the antenna in the summer breeze. The lessons of last summer were forgotten. I had no fear of the wilting dresses. I only played. And played, believing that all beauty on Rueben and Elsie’s farm would ever remain.

I wasn’t wrong. Yes, the flowered dresses lay almost flat by the end of the day, but decades and countries away, the beauty remains. Yesterday, in the French countryside, she showed me the one Hollyhock flower that somehow grew between the century old crack of the house entrance. I wasn’t surprised. I had enough French words to tell her of how I made the pink ladies on my grandma’s stoop. We both smiled and touched the rhythm of her little pink dress.

I wrote in a poem, “This year… let’s love like no lessons have already been learned…” Of course we have to grow and educate and evolve. But some “lessons,” like those that deal with lost love, disappointment, unreached expectations — to keep our pink ladies dancing, we have to let those go. The heart stoops must remain clear and ever hopeful.

Countless things grew on Rueben and Elsie’s farm. Again and again. And the beauty will ever remain. I wake to this morning sun, and keep on dreaming.

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WWED.

It was in the first aisle of Jerry’s Jack and Jill that I got a nose bleed. My grandma, hands already full with a sack of toasted marshmallows, told me to reach into her folded sleeve around her right elbow. Sure enough, there was a Kleenex. It wasn’t long before I needed another. “Check the other arm,” she said. I switched to the opposite side of the cart, reached into her folded left sleeve, and pulled out another. In aisle three, even after the bleeding had stopped and the marshmallows were nearly gone, I wanted to see how far this went — if Grandma Elsie was actually some sort of magician. “I think I need another one,” I said. “Check my right bra strap,” she said quite confidently. And just like a rabbit from a hat, I pulled out another Kleenex. 

And it was magic — the ease with which she could fix any situation. How I counted on it! I suppose we all did. But I never saw the weight of it — the things she carried. How lightly she skirted through the aisles. And certainly things had to bother her – she was a woman of this world, and no one escapes, but still she never weighed upon, but lifted up. 

I think about it now. Am I traveling lightly? What is it I’m choosing to carry? The solution, or the burden? I ponder, WWED? (What would Elsie do?) I smile, and I choose the lightness of magic, the lightness of joy, wearing my heart on my sleeve, and sometimes under my bra strap. 

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Gentle and kind.

I suppose I already knew it, but it’s good to be reminded. Margaux began a week of summer school theatre classes. I asked to see the end project. It was just a short film clip to show some emotion. I had never really seen her argue before. She was indeed acting. Thinking about it later, of course they would have been directed to this. Anger is always the easiest. The quickest trip. The path cleared with the worded blade. And unfortunately, that remains so true in our day to day lives. 

Wielding our knives, we so easily remove the protective sheaths of kindness.  The subtle acts of wonder and curiosity, even thinking. I, too, can make the leap far too easily. Aaaaah, patience. I urge it to come walk beside me, even when it has already made the offer, already stood waiting…patiently. I laugh at the irony, me trying to rush patience itself. So I stop. I listen. 

Answers don’t come with the speed of bullet, at the cutting of a blade. Anger is not a path. Will there be acting? Of course. Not pretending, but acting, acting like it all matters. Because it does, doesn’t it? Don’t we? Matter? We’re all listening for this reply. I still have to believe the answer is a resounding yes. A yes that waits for us to join its path. Patiently. 

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