Jodi Hills

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

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Becoming.

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I used to claim that my feet would never leave the sidewalk. City girl. Through and through. Such pride in that. And it was fun. It was great. I loved that girl. Brisk steps. Heels on cement. Click, click, faster and faster. Starbuck’s in hand. Purse on shoulder. Phone in other hand. Grand.

I baked a cake in my French kitchen. Not just any cake. It was Italian, or maybe Spanish, or both… I don’t know, I’m an American in France now…it was something deliciously different. It was slow and deliberate. My phone doesn’t work in the kitchen, no need for that. No Starbuck’s across the street. Take the time and bake a cake. I do that now. And I love this girl too. 

I separated eggs, and creamed half and beat the others, and crushed the fresh picked almonds, and stirred, and folded and pre-heated, and waited. Patiently, almost. And I won’t claim I am only this girl — patient international cake girl — but I am this girl. And I can be. And I can still love New York, and Chicago, Paris even. And I can be fast. And I can be slow. And I love it all. 

I want to try new things and gather them up with the old and create fresh realities, every day. I don’t have to be one girl. And I won’t judge any other girls, or women, or mothers or workers or friends. Nor men either. We are put here to explore. Explore streets and forests and lives and kitchens and cultures and humanity. 

So I celebrate this girl. (Sometimes with cake!) I celebrate this day. This she. Knowing I am a part of it all. Learning, trying, becoming…forever on my way.

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A love letter to my hometown.

Dear Alek,

I know you know that’s not a typo. Those who knew you called you Alek, not Alex, or even Alexandria, for we, I, knew you with an intimacy that required something familiar, a term of endearment, like Alek.

And we were intimate, weren’t we? Those hot summers, almost endless with the first sun, the first swim…rolls in that green grass. And then bundled together in the whites of winter. Yes, I knew you. I knew you on school buses, through mutual friends. and fleeing family. You made me smile, you made me cry. You heard me sing. And watched me hope.

But if we’re being honest, I couldn’t get away from you fast enough. After high school, I ran as far as I could. I hope I said something like “we can always be friends,” but I’m not sure I did. I think I didn’t look back.

There was so much to see. So much I have seen. And Alek, the world is really
beautiful. So beautiful. It has taken so much time, as I suppose all good things do, for me to see that you too are part of that. You, who knew the beginning, should deserve to know the middle – I pray it’s somewhere near the middle… Because life is good, Alek, so good, and I can share that with you now. I can tell you that I’m happy. And I can see you now, so much clearer, and I need to tell you that. I need to tell you that I hold everything dear. The good days remembered, the bad forgiven. I hope you can do the
same for me. Remember my good days, forgive my bad. Because we had something special. We gave our love, didn’t we? We even gave it big, sometimes. And that has to matter.

So, Alek, you gave me my youth, and I thank you for that. If I may be so bold, I ask for just a little more. Take care of my mother’s memory. She gave you her heart, the best heart maybe you will ever know. And watch over my family, especially the young ones, they will give you the future that you so deserve. And one more thing, Alek, keep me in your heart for a little while, you are forever in mine.

All my love,
Jodi

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Dish towels and dancing.

I don’t think it makes me a serial killer just because I like my dishtowel to hang neatly. (They seemed to imply this in the movie Sleeping with the Enemy.)

I suppose I could have gone either way. My grandma’s kitchen was always, well, I’ll say it, a mess. Dishes piled head high. Pots still on the stove. My mother liked a clean sink. The dishrag hung alone over the faucet, testing the humidity level of her apartment. It was a good day for her if she woke to a dry rag in an empty sink.

It’s funny what brings us comfort. An ironed dish towel hanging neatly in the kitchen is enough to start my day off right. And it doesn’t mean I love my grandma any less, I just know what works for me.

There was a tiny plaque by my grandma’s stove. Above the picture of a very pregnant woman it read, “I should have danced all night.” Perhaps my mother took that advice to heart. She never taught me how to cook, but she did teach me how to dance. Her kitchen recipes included “Slow, quick-quick. Slow, quick-quick. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. A heel and a toe and a polka step.” And so we danced in that clean kitchen, never disrupted by a boiling pot.

I suppose there’s a little of both of them in my French kitchen. I know my grandma is watching as I boil the fruit from our trees to make jam. And it is my mother’s hand that gives me the slight nudge to change direction as she dances me through my clean kitchen.

When my son-in-law washes his hands and leaves the towels in a heap, I don’t really want to kill him. But I would like to tell him a story. Of a chubby woman laughing, a tall woman dancing, both leading me in love.

It’s a crazy world. We all have to find our own joyful way. Do what works for you. (And don’t forget to wash your hands.)

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The view.

Didn’t we say forever? And believed it at the time. Best friends we promised in the middle of the Washington School playground, underneath the monkey bars. And then beside the swings. But forever came before we moved on to Central Junior High, and we promised again. And meant it. We raced to Social Studies and English literature, and around the block for gym, and then changed again. At Jefferson Senior High School, so close to the imagined adulthood, we vowed again. Threw our graduation caps in the air, along with our forevers. 

Yesterday we went to a small village here in France. Driving the narrow streets, built long before they made cars, we winded and turned, and backed up, squeezed and turned some more. With no “rights” or “lefts,” we could only look up for direction. “Somebody’s on top of that hill,” I said. “I think it’s the Virgin Mary,” Dominique said, “a statue…”  I wasn’t sure I needed that clarification, but I smiled. We parked, or probably closer to the truth is we abandoned the car. 

We started climbing the cobblestone paths. Higher. Higher still. Surely we would see her soon. Above the village now. Gazing over the houses. “Where is she?”  Confused, I stood beside the ancient obelisque. Then I saw her. Proudly she stood atop the hill on the opposite side of the village. Oh, she moved, I thought. Because surely it wasn’t me. I hadn’t changed direction…

We’re changing all the time. All of us. And that’s a good thing. It’s the only way we grow. The only way we gain a new perspective. Our forevers get nipped and tucked, and some even abandoned. But it doesn’t make any of them less important, less meaningful. Everything has a time. A season. And each day we have a choice of whether or not to enjoy the moment, to enjoy the view. 

Take a look around today. It may not be what you thought, but it might just be amazing.

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The birthplace.

My brother left VanDyke Road for the US Airforce. Barely leaving the ground, he swooped back into town, just as he promised he would, and built his high school girlfriend a house on Van Dyke Road. Right next to Vaseks. Tom became TomandRenae. I helped them stain the cupboards. They had a two car garage and two cars. Renae wore a fuzzy peach bathrobe. Tom mowed the lawn. They called each other terms of endearment. They got a big yellow lab. Everything we had lost as a family just up the gravel road, was coming to life again. And it was all as Big Ole had promised — the statue that guarded the near entrance to Van Dyke Road — this was indeed “The Birthplace of America.”

As they drove past Big Ole, on the way to the hospital to have their first child, he told her, “When we drive past Big Ole again, our lives will never be the same.” They brought Joshua Thomas home two days later, and all of lives changed. For the better. They were parents. I was an aunt. My mother was a grandma, and somehow we belonged to something again.

Three years later, when Rachel was knocking on life’s door, my brother was on a hunting trip. Freshly licensed, I was the one to drive with Renae past Big Ole. My mom stayed with Josh and I stood inside the miracle. I breathed in time and watched them pull Rachel out of Renae with forceps. Sometimes life has to be encouraged.

I am in another country now, and a world away from being able to lift either one of them, but I do still carry them with me. I always will. In so many ways, we were all born together. I suppose that’s what Big Ole meant, we would all be asked to change and grow, to star over, to let go, to begin, again and again.

I can still hear the gravel popping fresh beneath the tires. It’s the birth of a brand new day. And so it begins.

Happy Birthday, Josh Hills.

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Mighty.

There’s a small stack of pots resting by the side of the house. A little plastic one on top. I think I used it as a scoop when repotting another plant. I guess some soil was left behind. Were seeds blown in from the wind? Watered by the almost non-existent summer rain? I can’t be sure. And I don’t need to be. Because it’s there. Not a weed — but a real plant. And it’s not similar to the two types we have in the house. No, it’s brand new. Strong. Greening and growing without our help. Without our knowledge or permission. Coming to life. Strong. Through all the madness of this world, it found a way. 

I’m not proud of it, but I can be a worrier. Inventing scenarios in my head that may never happen. But thankfully, I can also see the signs. The beauty all around me that says, “Look. We’re given everything we need.” I smile and carry the image with me. And on the days when I feel no stronger than a seed blowing in the wind, I think, I’m going to find a way. Hope grows mighty.

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Raison d’être.

I was maybe five or six the first and only time my mom told me to clean my room. I didn’t like it at all. Not for the reasons you may think. It was because I didn’t like being seen in this way. A mess. I suppose I just loved her so much, I wanted her to see the best of me. And she was right. This wasn’t my best. Bed undone. Clothes on the floor. I knew, even then, what this space was for. My room to create. I needed this space to gather all my feelings on paper. And she knew it too. The space to make sense of all the things we were feeling, this would save us. Saves me still. It and I became clear, as she smiled from the doorway.

I didn’t have the words for it then. And certainly not the French words. But I hear them. Daily. “Ma raison d’être.” My reason for being.

This is what I’m making space for. A clear path to feel it all. A way for everything to get in. For everything to get through. Because as hard as it is sometimes, I do want to feel it. All of it. I think that’s why I’m here. My reason for being. To feel it and capture it with words and paint. To unclutter the path so we can all make our way…together.

Sometimes one of you will pick out a few words, a phrase from the daily post, and walk it back to me. This is my mother’s smile from a path made clear, and I know, I’m exactly where, who, I’m supposed to be. I’m smiling too.

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Protecting grace.

It began out of necessity — “If You See Something, Say Something®” —  a national campaign to raise public awareness of the signs of terrorism. We’re nearing SeeSayDay, September 25th. It was established, as their website explains, because “We all have someone, or something, to protect.” 

And while I believe this is extremely important, I’d like to add a thought. What if we took this philosophy, this “If you see something, say something,” and used it in our daily lives, when what we saw was something good, someone beautiful…

I have never met her in “real life.” Only here on Facebook. My cousin, Shawn, introduced us. And from what I am reading in her recent posts, I will not be offered that chance of meeting her face to face. 

What I do know is this. She sat with my grandmother and made rugs. Quilts. Some might say, only making tiny artistic ripples in the small pond of Farwell, Minnesota. But the grace, and elegance she is showing in her final days is extraordinary. The words of peace and gratitude she is offering up, for me, has created a wave that reaches across the sea, and it is so very beautiful. If she ever had doubts about becoming an artist, let them end here. What I see is a gorgeous work of art. I see her, and I have to say something. I have to tell her, tell the world, that she matters. Thank you, Gloria.

Perhaps this is my daily campaign. To show you the people that I think ARE REALLY SOMETHING!  The SeeSayDay urges us to “get involved.” I guess I’m doing the same. Because I agree, we do have a duty to protect each other from the evil of this world. But perhaps just as important, we have the privilege of shining the light on the best of us. We have a grace to protect.

Today, if you are met with kindness, with love, with beauty of any kind — and I pray that you are — please, please say something!

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Laid upon the counter.

My first instinct was to save it all. Candy from Easter or Halloween. I would spread it out. Sort it by taste and then color. Count it. Figure out how many days it would last. Not wanting to run out. Supplementing with Christmas, or Valentine’s, possibly birthday…how could I keep the candy supply chain alive?

It became quite clear on our trip to Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store, that this was the furthest thing from my Grandma Elsie’s mind. The first thing she picked up was a bag of coconut toasted marshmallows. She ripped open a corner and placed them in the child seat at the front of the cart. “Grandma!” I shouted a warning. “It’s fine,” she said. “We’re going to pay for it.” “But we’ll get in trouble.” “No, I know the people here.” And indeed she did. Never hiding her joy of these sugary treats, she ate them right in front of the butcher, and the stock boy. She said hello to everyone, popping them into her mouth, one after the other. By the third aisle, it became quite clear that we weren’t getting into trouble, so when she looked at me offering, I agreed. They were delicious. “Don’t you want to save any?” I asked. She looked bewildered. “But you love them…” I said. “What am I going to do with all that love?” she smiled.

We placed the empty bag on the counter at the cash register. It was my favorite trip ever to the grocery store.

It became so clear. Nothing was worth anything, if it wasn’t spent. Candy on the bedroom floor had no taste. And it became even more true with emotion. Courage had to be exercised. Love had to be given away. Or it meant nothing. I suppose we think we’re safe or something, if we hoard it all, but I’m afraid it’s just not true.

I want to live this way. So sure at the end of the day that I’ve laid it empty upon the counter. My sacks of courage, and victories, my joy, my woes, even, and especially, all my love. So sure that there will be more tomorrow. Again, and again, I will taste this life.

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By name.

Left to my own devices each weekday of summer, I became quite adept at navigating this solo world of play. On the alternate days when I didn’t have a softball game, I figured out a way to play catch with myself. My mother bought a net that was strung between a metal square. If you threw the softball directly into the sweet spot it bounced directly back to you. I thought I was making a good decision when I placed the net in front of the garage. Because our driveway faced Van Dyke road, I didn’t want to throw the ball directly into what I loosely will call “traffic” (the random neighbor’s car).  Perhaps I overestimated my throwing accuracy. Hitting the target several times in a row, I gained the confidence to throw harder. I “wound up” and let the ball fly. Missing the target completely, the ball shattered the glass window of the garage door. 

I panicked. I looked around to see if anyone saw. There was no one there. Only my banana seat bike. It seemed to be the only answer. I dropped my glove and straddled the banana seat. Kicking the air. Trying desperately to keep up with the pedals as I raced down the hill toward the North End. The North End was the undeveloped land at the end of our neighborhood. Undeveloped by housing, but certainly overdeveloped in every school age kid’s mind that lived on this road. It was where every bad thing imagined or otherwise was sent to live. It was the threat of the unknown. The Bermuda Triangle of this small Minnesota town. Exactly the place where thieves or window breakers would go to hide.  I threw my bike into the side of the gravel pit and waited. 

It could have been hours, or a lifetime, I’m not sure how long. I imagined my story. It was robbers who did it. Certainly bad people who just wandered by while I was innocently playing. Or maybe it was one the Norton girls. Surely I could throw the blame at one of them. I kicked the dust with my bumper tennis shoes and thought and thought and thought. 

When I first heard my name called, I was sure it was the police. I held my breath. I heard it again. It became louder, but not angry. Almost sweet. Almost welcoming. I knew that voice. I got on my bike and rode towards it. My mother stood at the top of the hill. Every excuse fell from my heart and hands as I dropped my bike beside her on the gravel road. “I did it,” I said, hugging her nyloned work legs. “I know,” she said. We walked my bike back home.

Love will always call your name. Heart open, I walk the road. And listen.

Heart open, love called her name.
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