Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: believe


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Tall.


I can feel her eye roll all the way from heaven as I sit in the hotel breakfast lounge. Not for me, of course. She would never have allowed me to go out into a public area dressed like that. She led by example. Hair, make-up, clothes — even when at their most casual — impeccable. And I wanted to be just like her.

When I was old enough, she got me my own starter kit for make-up. Most likely they were the free gifts from her purchases. She wanted me to learn with my own products. And not to mess up hers. This was clear from my earliest of memories. If I wanted to dunk my cookie, she gave me my own cup of coffee. And so it was with make-up. With clothes. I could admire her shoes, but never walk around in them. Because these things were special. They meant something. She took pride in herself. To be tall in stature was good, to be tall in self-worth was priceless.

And so we dressed for the occasion. Each day was just that. Whether we were toasting, or just going to the lobby for toast. I finished my morning coffee, not in judgement, but in thanks. I stand tall. Every day. My mother still sees to that.

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The season.

When I moved to France, I left behind my Christmas decorations, but certainly not my Christmas spirit.

The first thing in my new collection was a cardinal that I painted. A female cardinal. A symbol for me in so many ways. A visit from those who had passed on. A vision of hope. Not to mention my high school mascot. A winged collection of all that I am. All that I can be.

And never was it more true. I carried it all with me. Hope won’t weigh you down. Nothing is lighter, except perhaps joy.

I have added to my collection through the years, but it’s these wings that begin my celebration of the season. Long before Thanksgiving. They can’t be contained by calendar or country.

I’m writing to you today from Paris. But no different than yesterday from Aix en Provence. I am just here. With you. And what a comfort that is. Knowing it, I can believe my mom sits beside me, planning her outfits and sipping her latte. My grandma fills her purse with extra snacks. My grandpa perches his pipe between silent lips. My husband smiles at me, knowing our table is always full.

I don’t need the Starbuck’s cup to tell me that it’s Christmas. My heart and wings already know.


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The in-betweens.

She was sitting just a table away from the band. Was it a wedding? In between the ceremony and the dance? To see her sitting there at the table, my not-yet mother, early twenties, I know her. One eye on the other woman at the table. One ear on the music. Size tens slightly tapping under the table. Ready for the dance.

It wouldn’t have been “old time” dancing then. Just dancing. Surely there would have been a polka — I see the tuba. But she was good at the in betweens, my mother. Teaching me that what we had, was exactly enough. It was easy as a child to get caught up in the next of it all. Rushing through Halloween. Making a path with the candy to lead to Thanksgiving. Clear the table. Get the dishes done so we can decorate. Wrap the gifts. Shake the gifts. Unwrap them. Happy New Year! But she taught me to enjoy the middle.

We both loved to read, so she compared it all to a book. Those center pages, when you are so immersed in the story, you don’t want to stop reading, but you don’t want it to end. This was the glorious part of living. This is where I want to live. Still.

It’s still easy for me to get caught up in the what ifs and whens of it all, but then I look at the photo. And I sit in the moment just before the dance. Breathe in the music. I will be happy. Right here. Right now.

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…and so she would dance.

I suppose we all have different destinations. I used to walk down Hopkins Crossroad and take a left onto Minnetonka Blvd. The obvious attraction to many was the bright red roof of the Dairy Queen. But not for me.

It was no accident, I suppose, that there was usually a Dairy Queen next to the softball fields of my youth. In dusted and grass stained uniforms, with skinned knees and sweat matted hair, all the young girls gathered behind cones, and cups. Celebrated or commisserated with frozen cream. Intolerant, being a word well above my reading level, I just knew I would get sick. (After two very unsuccessful attempts.) Sometimes I opted for the Mister Misty – the DQ’s version of shaved ice – but mostly I just went without.

I could have felt sorry for myself. My mother didn’t allow that. “Look around,” she said, on her way back to work, “You have a banana seat bike and a beautiful summer day, figure it out…” So I rode. I rode that bike to lakes. To swingsets. To ballfields. And neighbors. The North End. Parks. On gravel and hills. In cemeteries. Empty school yards. To the public library. Ben Franklin. Hugo’s field. I saw everything. I pedaled the paths and when the paths got too thick, I dropped my bike and walked. And walked some more. As I wore the flowers from my banana seat, and the soles from my bumper tennis shoes, without my knowledge or permission, I was indeed figuring it out.

I still think of it as my superpower — seeing beyond the obvious red roof. During my Minnetonka stay, I saw it almost every day, the weeping willow just before the DQ. One autumn, after dancing with it for an entire summer, I came home and gave thanks on the canvas. For the willow. The road. My mother. The love of the dance.

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Only and.

When I was young, and still believed that any conflict could be resolved with a “but,” I said things like, “but it’s not fair,” “but she got to do it,” “but I didn’t do anything wrong.” 

It took years. On the playing fields. In the gym. On graded papers. During doctor visits. Within goodbyes to homes and family. I butted my way through it all. And nothing changed.

I suppose it was another gift from my mother that got me through. She gave me the gift of “and.” When I was sick of and sorry for myself after another surgery, she shook her head yes, “and we’re going to the mall.” When we would get lost, wandering without GPS or any sense of direction, and I would panic that no one would ever find us, “yes,” she said, “and look, there’s Herbergers!”

When Thanksgivings didn’t gather — “and look, we have bagels!”

When Sundays were too long — “and one day, we’ll have too much happiness to fill our days.”

We didn’t always have the power to make problems disappear, yet we had the magic of “and.” “And we have books. And we have music. And we have each other.”

With that love, we had everything.

The world is still trying to learn what my mother always knew. (I hope we’re still trying to learn.) Daily, I hear on the news the justification of horrors, from people and countries, all under the guise of “but they did this…”  What if we looked within. Acknowledged the truth. And responded with kindness. And love. Looked around and said, “And we have all this. We have each other.”

So much to question. And the answer is still, and again, love.

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Here.

I would always sit in the front row. I loved my English LIterature courses. I wanted to be a part of it all. My hand shot up before my mouth even knew what was going to come out. “You’ll think of something, ” my fingers encouraged as they waved in the air. It wasn’t about assuming I was right. Not about proving my point. I just wanted to be involved. To be among the words. Part of the discourse. 

I sat slunched in my chair. Sweating. Sick. My roommate had told me to stay in bed, but I didn’t want to miss out. Within the hour, my mom was on her way to pick me up from college and bring me back home for an emergency appendectomy. When Dr. Merickel gave the diagnosis of acute appendicitis, I smiled. He asked why I was smiling. “You said it was cute.” We hear what we want to hear. 

I went back to school two days later, a little lighter, but no less enthusiastic. All that learning prepared me for what was to come. Not in the way you might think. I didn’t learn any foreign languages. So when I moved to France, arms at my side, I feared the conversation. Even the most simple were acute! Trapped inside an introduction, I heard my brother-in-law introduce me as his belle-sœur, I beamed. I heard the word belle and thought “pretty.” And the word soeur meaning “sister.” It turns out that belle-sœur means sister-in-law. But once again, in this need to belong, to be a part of the conversation, I heard what I needed to hear. 

I don’t always get it right. I don’t think it’s always necessary. What we do have to be is brave. Curious. Willing to open our hearts and get involved. Be a part of it all. When I raise my hand today, it’s to wave you in. Welcome to my conversation. I’m glad you’re here.

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The gallery given.

I can’t say it was the most comfortable lap, my grandfather’s. If you wanted something soft, you went to my grandma. Her lap was pillowed with sugary treats, and as soft as the toasted marshmallows she loved to eat from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store. You could easily get lost in her folds of love. So what was it that my grandfather had? First of all, I rarely saw him seated. He was skinny. The farm saw to that. He smelled of earth and pipe tobacco. And just where my head would reach, between his chest and shoulders, were the hooks and buttons of his overall straps. The real comfort came, I suppose, straight from the heart. To be let in, this was the magic. To be offered these rare moments of respite. Between the field and the plate wiped clean with a sheet of bread. To be given the time, when time was currency. This was pure love. Perhaps it’s not visible to the naked eye, but I know the button imprint remains on my cheek, and somewhere deep in my heart. 

People often ask me, “Do you come from a long line of artists?” My first thought is the quote from Vincent Van Gogh — “There is nothing more artistic than to love people.” My grandmother’s quilts still keep me warm across the sea. The portraits I painted of my grandfather keep me safe. Protected. My mother’s blouses wrap me in a love that will never die. I was loved. I am loved. Still. I walk daily within this gallery given. So, YES! The answer is always yes! I come from a long line of artists. Today, in my most humble of ways, on canvas and paper, I attempt to pass on the line. To pass on the love.

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Through.

David Hovda and I were wandering, slowly and aimlessly around Jefferson Senior High School, both in knee-high plaster casts. (This was in my dream last night. I’m sure he’s actually fine.) I had no idea what my schedule was. The halls were empty and the classroom doors were closed. The bell had rung. And I didn’t know where to go. The cast part was real, but not once in my high school years did I ever forget my schedule. It surprises me that I would still have this dream.

I woke up before either of us found our way. I’d like to think we went to the Superintendent’s office. That’s where our parents would have been. His father. My mother. And in typing this, the dream just made sense. My mother sat too close in age and distance to Dr. Hovda. When he passed away first, something told me it wouldn’t be that long. 

In high school, I suppose I thought that I would just learn things, and that would be it. The knowledge would stick, and everything would be fine. I had no idea how many times I would have to learn the same lessons. They first told us that we would understand when we got bigger, when we got older. We did both, but oh how the world can make you feel so small. So lost. And you have to learn again. Grow again. And find your way. 

Normally a dream like this will unsettle me. But I didn’t wake up afraid. I guess it’s because my heart knows where the Superintendent’s office is. I know I can walk down the terrazzo hall, open the door, and my mother will still be sitting at the front desk, full smiles, overhearing something that Dr. Hovda shouted from his open-door office. And I, we, will all be saved.

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Hearts on the line.

I guess they could be in almost anything — these signs of hope — if that’s what we want to see. And I do.

I pass by this particular house on my twice daily walks, a total of four times. Coming and going, I see the clothes hanging on the line. And it’s not like they forget them, or abandoned them. No, they are different each day. Even as our weather begins to change to the cool humidity of autumn, the clothes are pinned  to the line. Ever hopeful. On the days that the wind blows against my face and I tuck my chin to heart, I think, well, their clothes should dry today. When the sun hides behind the mountain and the clouds, I see her arms raised to the line and think, just as she must, the sun could come out today. 

I have never met her, or them. But it’s not essential to our connection. I’d like to think the hope that bounces back and forth is our daily conversation, and we are united. I also humbly hope the same is true, when someone up the hill, from their unshuttered window, sees me passing by daily, in summer’s heat, or autumn’s damp, that perhaps they smile and think, “maybe I could do the same.”

We never really know what connects us. But make no mistake, I believe we all are connected. If you could see the hope in me, my daily actions, and I could see that in you… Maybe with our hearts on the line, we could do anything.

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The come-with gal.

It was my mother who taught me to be a come-with gal. Both by being one, and by asking the same of me. 

When I started having surgeries in my teens, on every joint available, my mother was there. She made appointments during her lunch hours. She used vacation time for hospital stays. She overnighted in questionable parts of strange cities to be there when I woke the next morning. She was the driver. The nurse. The companion. The entertainment. Each and every step of the way, she came with. 

Returning home, still releasing anesthesia through tears and hanging limbs, she would say, “Well, I’m going to the mall.” I didn’t want to miss out. She knew that. She also knew this would get me off the couch. On crutches, or slinged, sometimes both, I slapped on the lipstick that she already had raised from the tube, and I limped along beside her. She tried on every outfit that Herberger’s had to offer. Some to stun. Some just to make me laugh. And I did. I got over, because I came with. 

Just the other day I sold a painting that turned out to be a two-fer. Sometimes when I run out of canvas, or panel, I paint on the opposite side. As I was wrapping up the painting of Lake Agnes for shipping, I smiled, because there she was, the woman on the other side of the painting — the come-with gal. How appropriate, I thought. On one side, the image of where I came to life, Lake Agnes of Alexandria, Minnesota. And on the reverse, the symbol of how I came alive, just by coming with.

No days wasted. My mother saw to that. The sun is calling, and I must go.

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