Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: bird, birds, bird painting, fashion, fashion play, fashion astronaut, astronaut, flying, high, believe, become, mom


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Out of the nest.

I saw the nest in springtime. Of course it would have been spring, but I did not yet know the timing of such nests and eggs. What I did know was that I had my banana seat bike, the one I got for my birthday, March 27th. Youth’s privilege allowed me to see my bicycle also as a ladder. I propped it against the trunk. Tippy toe on the seat, I could just reach the lowest hanging branch. I wrapped each hand around. I needed to get my feet up as well. I pressed my toes into the seat and thrusted, just nipping the branch with one bumper tennis shoe. I did it again. Not there. My celebration on final thrust for wrapping my feet around the branch, turning myself into a swing was negated by the tumbling of my bike to the ground. I had heard the saying before, but I only now understood that I was really out on a limb. 

I did have some fear of letting myself fall, but my biggest fear now was landing on my bicycle which rested perfectly beneath me without a clue of the harm it could cause. I spoke to it on the off chance it could actually hear me, like I was sure my stuffed animals could. What I heard back in my head was an arrested apology that said, you’re going to have to do this on your own. 

My bark weary hands urged my brain for a solution. Remembering why I came up here in the first place, to see the bird nest, I had a desperate longing for my own, nest. Of course I called for my mom, purely out of instinct because I knew she was at work. Dangling was not an ever solution. I was going to have to decide. To trust. To let go. 

Some will call it luck. Fate. Faith. But I landed between bars. Unscathed. Into the beautiful nest of our unmowed lawn. 

Had I landed improperly. Twisted an ankle. Broken an arm. Would I have stopped climbing? Future me in the fifth grade, arm broken at Noonan’s Park Ice Skating rink, says probably not. My take on it, I will never be stifled nor stuck in certainty. In life and love, I’m going out on that limb.

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Look up.

I don’t know how many fallen bird nests I saw. I stopped counting when my mom assured me that the birds did not fall with it. “They flew…” she said. “But were they sad to leave?” I asked. Never one to sugarcoat things, or possibly she knew how close we were to living the same truth, she said, “For a little while, maybe, but then they realized the sky was theirs too.” 

Everything changes. That’s life. But it doesn’t have to signify a fall. I’m getting better at noticing it. Sometimes mid flap, but I get there. So many nests get taken away, or are simply left behind. But comfort can be found. Again and again. 

We are all given the tools. For me, wings are disguised as paint brushes and letters. Ruffled blouses and open paths. And every day I fly. The sky is always there. It turns out the answer remains — just to look up. 

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Green.

Dining outside yesterday, alongside an urban, but calm street, the beams of sun, just like the cars, hummed gently, no need for brake or throttle. And I felt simply in it. There was life and motion, not to throw but inspire. A slow dance of body in air. And would I have felt different, being a blade of grass? Reaching. Among. Within. About. 

How do you capture a sunny day?  I’ve been trying. Foolish, I suppose. To be a blade afraid of winter. When all there is, is green. 

And isn’t it the same with love? Not lost. Even in its final winter, there will be spring. I feel the hum of those who have passed. Music in my heart. No need for brake or throttle, it stays alive within me. My ever green. My sunny days. 

The sun beams. And so do I. 

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Outside Martina’s Restaurant.

Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.

Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.

My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.

It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.

I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!

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Of the chorus.

Some would argue that in the song “Feeling Good,” the singer has already found their desired freedom. Others say that they are singing to convince themselves of the possibility. I seem to be, not unlike the dragonfly, somewhere hovering in between. 

The birds have their songs. The bees, their honey. So what about that dragonfly? Are we not in the same sky? Under the same sun? Sure we’re not all given the same gifts, the same advantages, but we are given the same day. The same 24 hours to make the most of it. I don’t want to waste my time envying the bird, but celebrating my own flight. 

And I don’t always get it right. But on those days, I try to sing even louder — 

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day
It’s a new life for me, yeah
It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day
It’s a new life for me, ooh
And I’m feeling good!”

There’s a reason for the chorus. The importance of it. That’s why it’s repeated again and again. So on the days when I make the same mistakes, I sing myself out. Not with shame or worry, but simply a welcoming of the chorus. 

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Part of the song.

Those that play know it’s there, the piano in our library. It’s one of my favorites spots in the house. A collection of art, music, books and photos. And it will call to you, in the voice that you need to hear.

I suppose we’re all drawn to it, what we love, if we dare to follow the radar that pulses from each heart beat. I’m always surprised when people say they don’t know. It’s literally pounding inside of you. I guess they are afraid.

It has been said that we’re driven by one of two things, love or fear. Love will lead you to the piano. Will never allow it to go unplayed. Love will encourage the stumble through each note. The beginning again and again. Love will music your family in, and soon you will all be part of the song.

Fear is quiet. Lonely. Cold. (It’s not lost on me that my painting above the piano reads, “all my heart ever wanted, was just to come in from the cold.”) And it has. This is my hope for all. My welcoming.

In recent days, within minutes of entering our house, our nephew, who was vacationing from the US, was at the piano. I suppose one never takes a vacation from the self. So many miles away, almost instantly, he found his way home.

The best we can do is keep them in sight – the pianos and books, the kitchen tables, the art supplies and open corners on beds, the hearts between outstretched arms. But we all have to listen, to follow, to become. It’s up to each and every one of us to be brave enough to try. To come in. To dare the unplayed piano.

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Having the farm.

When he saw the painting of my grandfather he asked if we still had the farm. I paused, stuck in who the “we” would even be. I started passing it down in my head, from uncle to cousin, to second cousin, (none to whom I felt a collective we). It passed again in my head to I’m not sure, to finally, it didn’t really even matter, because, I told him, “I still have everything.” And I do.

Even a lifetime and country away, I can feel the warmth of the rock at the base of the driveway. The same steady of my grandfather. The gravel beneath my feet. The jolt of an electric fence. The smell of apples, on and off the trees. The sandy feel of a cow’s tongue. The bounce of a screen door. The scent of my grandma’s kitchen. My face against her sticky apron. The ever damp basement. Jesus on the cross upstairs. Prayed to from the kitchen table. The sewing room that stitched all nine children’s lives together. The front stoop that promised the scent of tobacco and hope. My mother laughing in that kitchen. Crying in that kitchen. Hands folded at that table. Driving away from the rock one last time, never really leaving. 

So, yes, I still have the farm. And the we is all who listen to the stories. The we is you who remember your own grandmother’s apron. Who read the words and climb upon your grandfather’s lap. We still have it all. We have everthing.

Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
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A little bit higher.

I loved Mrs. Erickson, my third grade teacher at Washington Elementary, but it was clear she didn’t have all the answers. I can see, looking back, what she was probably trying to do, but still… She wanted us, as young girls, to get interested in the sciences, so she grouped us together and told us about exciting careers in medicine, geology, chemistry, why “we could even be astronauts”, she cheered. My hand shot up in the air — so eager to speak, I crossed my left arm over my chest, trying to keep my right arm from, well, shooting into space. She pointed her stick at me, letting all the words out of my mouth. “We’ve been playing it for years!” I said. “What’s that?” She asked. “Fashion astronaut. My mom and I play fashion astronaut almost every day!” She tightened her lips and closed her eyes, shaking her head in dismissal. “That’s not a thing,” she said, staring back at the blackboard. 

“Well of course it’s a thing! I know what I’ve done and hadn’t done,” I thought to myself, head hrrrumphing in my hands. My mother had never lied to me. We WERE fashion astronauts. I got ready with her each morning. As she accessorized she explained how this scarf or this necklace would put this certain outfit right over the top! Launching it above all others. We were indeed astronauts! No one could tell me otherwise. 

I took the bus home, rolling the assurance of my scarf between my fingers. I stomped down the gravel driveway and waited for my mom to come home from work. I told her everything — it all came out faster and higher than I hoped, but she had become very efficient at deciphering my “we’ve been wronged” vernacular. She smiled. “That’s the thing about being an astronaut,” she said, “we don’t really need anyone’s approval.” I smiled too. And knowing this, didn’t we just go a little bit higher!

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