Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: bird, birds, choir, band, song, empathy, sing, together, ensemble, music, united, usa


by Leave a comment

Not even my best Cindy.

This was not my grandfather’s field. Hugo didn’t wear the assurance of overalls. We weren’t supposed to cut across his field to get to our house, even though it would save a good five to ten minutes. And coming from the fairgrounds, it was a straight shot. Still dizzy from the last spin on the tilt-a-whirl, and a little bit of sick on my t-shirt, I hadn’t the strength nor the will to go around. I stepped into the stalks. With tassels reaching over my pony tail, I relied on my feet and not my eyes. Less sure and more hot with each step, I began to slow down and question each decision made that day. Experience had taught me not to go on the rides, but with only a series of “c’mon”s I boarded. As I stomped through the dirt, it was this that bothered me the most. Even more than throwing up in public, I hadn’t the strength to say no. Which led me here, in the middle of a field that I promised the last time not to cut through, and yet, when my heart asked my feet to go the long way, they refused. And now here we were again. Sick.

I don’t know how long I stood. It was most confusing, I suppose, because there seemed to only be one answer. Not the normal conflict of good and evil argued between shoulders. No. Not good and evil. Only two farmers speaking in my ears. Hugo and my grandfather. Both telling me to go back. Go around. Oh, my feet had a few things to say, but still I turned. When I got to the road near the cemetery in front of the fairgrounds, I saw her. Cindy. Not my best Cindy, but the third one I knew from our school. Had she been one of the c’mons? I wasn’t sure. She waved and ran towards me. Reached out her hand. “You dropped this,” she said. The plastic wagon wheel key chain that I had won at the ring toss, just before I tossed my belly on the tilt-a-whirl. It was worth maybe pennies. But the fact that she walked in the heated summer sun to find me, being not even my best Cindy, this was priceless. She asked if I was ok, never mentioning my shirt. We hugged like the schoolgirls we were. I joyfully walked around. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

To Chickadee


I could tell she was so excited to be surrounded by all the birds. Standing in my studio she said, (in French) “You know what my last name means…” To be honest, I didn’t even know what her last name was. “C’est Mésange.” (As if that helped.) She pointed to one of the birds on canvas, and looked up on her phone. “Chickadee?” I said. She looked at her phone, Yes, yes, yes. She beamed. Her name meant Chickadee.


I never have any idea what will connect us. But I do know this. People will find themselves, and in turn, you will find them. 

It was always the blouse for my mother. Yesterday, the purse in the painting for my friend Sheila. And with each reveal, I learn a little bit more about those around me, just by seeing what they see. 

I suppose we’ve been saying it forever. A mile in someone else’s shoes. But I wonder if we’re still doing it…making the journey from Mésange to Chickadee.

I flutter to hope so.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

A common calm.

At the moment my two most popular pins on Pinterest are of young women reading. It warms my heart that neither are distracted by the thousands of views and likes. Nor by the news that we are becoming a post-literate world. They can’t be certain of what lies ahead, but they continue. Fighting back, not with fist nor fury, but by simply reading.  

There is so much noise currently. But there are things that still give me hope. An open window. An open spine. The quiet exchange of knowledge. Of truth. That you will take the time to read my simple words. And we connect, not over a ranting rage, but a common calm. 

I quietly open the morning window. Taking comfort in knowing that hope always whispers. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Well written.

I imagine how the next day went. And the day after. Because their lives didn’t end when I got to the last page. Isn’t that what a good book does? With the same tools as every other writer, all the curved lines that form letters, the dots and dashes that make you stop in your tracks, an author can change the way you feel (not just in the moment) but for a lifetime. 

I suppose it’s the same with love, when it’s written well upon your heart. That has to be what draws us in. What keeps us thinking. Those whose lives are so developed, whose storyline runs so deep, it continues long after the final turning of the page. These are the lives I want to surround myself with. It’s the life I want to live, and not in a vain way, (although I do indeed want you to keep coming back – I want to hold your interest) but also for myself — I want to be interested in my own life — to see where this goes. What could happen next? I want to live so deeply that the only choice isn’t even a choice, but a continuation. 

The morning sun awakens the letters that tickle their way from heart to head to hands…and the story continues…

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

And other anthologies.

Receiving a letter in college was monumental. We shared a community phone for our floor, and had to pay for long distance, so it was rarely used. The mailboxes were the tie to the outside world. Located in the entrance of our fifth floor walk-up, what lay behind the gray square door was significantly tied to the speed at which I could climb the stairs. One small letter could erase the added weight of my backpack, loaded down with the likes of Shakespeare and other anthologies. Anticipation picked up each foot. Thumb trying to break the seal before opening the door. Books thrown on sofa, I cracked the remaining seal, and breathed in the connection. And I was saved. 

I could always count on the weekly letter from my mother. Sometimes my grandma. An occassional random boyfriend marked with a mascot of another school, or PFC. And I learned quite early on, to get a letter, you needed to send one. To be lifted, you had to do some lifting.

When I was painting her yesterday, the stories ran through my head. Up and down the staircase of my heart and brain. All those things I needed to say. All those things I needed to hear. And I wondered how you would see it. When you saw her. At first glance. Was she getting the letter? Or was she sending it? I suppose it depends on if you are needing to hear something, or if you have something that needs to be said. 

We’re always navigating through both. And I guess the key is to keep the chain open. To be lifted. To keep lifting. 

Life will weigh us with worry and “other anthologies,” but it will also give us what we need if we choose to participate. 

I live in the word. And I am lifted.  

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Another Magpie.

I saw the black and white feathers in the lawn. It’s funny how you can tell the difference between something let go, and something torn apart. While I don’t want anything to hurt our backyard birds, my first thought was, I hope it wasn’t another Magpie. 

It’s ironic I suppose, the closer you are to someone, the less you see it coming. 

But the resilience of the heart and brain. To keep trusting. To keep loving. It’s so beautiful. And isn’t it even more beautiful that I don’t think about it. That I have to be reminded of it, by feathers in the yard. 

I walk through the vacation of our summer yard. Nearly bare of clothes and worry. The birds flutter and sing, and I know we all have it. This youth of spirit. To forgive. To barefoot again upon love’s green, beneath the chatter, the hope of the Magpie. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

So black it’s blue.

There were rare occasions when I saw adults cry. Gathered snuggly around my grandparent’s kitchen table. Perhaps to confine the news that came in the letter. Or the heartache of a loved one lost. To give it open space was to let it catch up to us in the summers of our youth. But sometimes, with the need for a Sugar Daddy, or a Slowpoke, I would sneak through the screen door and see it, them, dampened eyes and heads down, and my heart would sink. The ground seemed to shake beneath my bumper tennis shoes. I backed out the door. 

It was my grandfather who caught up to me. Dazed and darkened under the largest tree near the road. He could see I didn’t want to be dazzled by false comfort. And he was never one to do it. “It’s like the Magpie,” he said. He was never much for small talk. He got right to the point. “What is?” I said. “The color. So black that it’s blue.” “I don’t get it.” He told me to get up. He led me back to the kitchen. Dishes had already begun clanking. There was the scent of coffee in the air. Chairs being pushed aside. Knees unbending. Even a few laughters of relief. Life. He looked down at me. “Blue,” he said. I smiled and nodded.

I have carried it for years. This knowledge, even when things are so black, they are also blue. You have to get up. You have to want to see it. But it’s always there. 

I look out the morning window. He’s still right. I smile into the blue. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Will not fade.

It was our first book connection. The fact that we were even exchanging notes of literature was a good sign. My Antonia. His in French, mine in English, but the story was the same. And we were linked. 

I suppose it’s like how some will save ticket stubs from a concert, or flowers dried in a box, to serve as reminders. It’s the same for me in a bookstore. I saw it on the shelf yesterday. I picked it up and held it towards him. We both smiled. On the back of the jacket it read, “Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not fade.” The Antonia of my heart did, does, the same. 

People always ask me, “how do you remember?”  I guess it’s love that leaves the images. And if I feel the slip, I race to paper or pen, to computer or sketchbook, and gather them in. Is every detail perfect? I can’t be sure. But I know it doesn’t have to be. I’m not making a map. I don’t need to travel back, only travel with. And those images, those feelings, they are secure. They will not fade. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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.

Shop Now!