Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: bird, birds, open, windows, fresh air, fresh, grace, gracious, mother, light, in the light, open doors, beaming, life, mom, gratitude,


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Checking yes.

I’ve always loved paper. Even before the freedoms of learning to ride a bicycle and then a car, there was something so liberating about the writing of words. The clarity of question, thought, and answer, right there at the end of a #2. We all knew it. I suppose that’s why we passed the notes in class. All feelings could be declared or denied, with the simple checking of a box. Do you like him?  Check yes or no. Where are you going after school? Check practice or Hardees. 

Maybe it’s why I continue to write — a simple checking of yes to the day. It’s still so powerful and clear. A way to remember. A way to forget. A letting in and a letting go. Simply with words. 

My #2 is often replaced electronically. But it will never replace the feeling of holding it in my hands. The questions. The hopes. Dreams. The story. 

When I tell you mine, and then you share yours, it is the pedaling of banana seat bikes and wind in our hair. It is the release of laughter ridden into. It is an open car window on a summer’s road, releasing music from an AM radio – KDWB 63. It is the exclamation point of a giant X that goes beyond the edges of the yes box. 

Humans were made to connect. I ask myself daily — Can we do this? Can we do this together? Can we feel the freedoms of connection? I know my answer. Are you checking yes or no? 

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Fill up that sachet!

It’s a variety of the beignet, but distinctive to the south of France. More importantly, they are simply delicious! As luck would have it, the best I’ve ever tasted come from the boulangerie nearest our home. I suppose I’ve eaten my share, knowing that when I enter the door, either of the two women working there shout out, “Des oriellettes!” And I must say, it only makes them more delicious!

It’s the equivalent of the coffee shop knowing your order. The butcher your cut of meat. The librarian knowing your last read. The person on the walking path waving with an “it’s great to see you again this morning.” We all want to be seen. And what a simple and glorious gift it is! Names and numbers, status and rank, not required. A little eye contact. A smile. It goes a long way.

Sure, the oriellettes are sweet. What keeps me coming back, what tells them to fill up that sachet, is a little glimpse that they see me, maybe even enjoy it, and I enjoy it too — nothing much sweeter than that! My heart begins to dance.

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Sometimes it’s brave to paint a duck.

A common criticism within the arts is that the piece is overworked. I suppose the same is true with most things. A poem can be too flowery. A batter over mixed. An outfit over accessorized. 

“Art is never finished, only abandoned,” is a quote attributed to Leonardo DaVinci. It highlights the fact that perfection is unattainable and creative work is only completed when the artist chooses to stop and let it go. 

So I stopped yesterday. On my large painting. And wasn’t it her hand itself that reminded me. You have to let go. It’s so easy to want to add a “but” in there, slip in a “maybe”… but maybe if I, or but I just wanted to… Here’s where I tell myself again and again… I don’t want to live a maybe life. 

Sitting in front of the dancing woman, because letting go doesn’t mean you have to be alone, I picked up a small panel, and painted a duck. Some might say a small duck. But this was the duck that helped me move on, helped me feel accomplished in what I had done, satisfied, but not overworked. And as my mother used to say, “Nothing small could do that.” 

The morning comes. I, we, will be brave. 

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The curve of a woman.

I have had this canvas for about 15 years. It has transitioned and traveled with me through abstraction and country. The last painting was here in France, a seascape of sorts. But I can’t tell you exactly what came before that. I know it’s still there. Underneath. Behind, within this woman. 

If you ask me who she is, prepare yourself for the underpainting. She is the curve of every woman. 

She is my grandmother whose hands never stopped. Hands that I watched in amazement and wrote, “If she did worry, it never showed in her hands. She held. She gave. She touched.” 

She is my mother. The posture of grace. In an apartment kitchen filled with more worry than nourishment, she lifted a hand, and gently directed me in the dance. 

She is my friend, long past her days of professional dance, who still walks in the garage as if onto the stage. 

She is another friend, deep in grief, (a depth that only comes with love) who dares the dance of my mother, and releases, again, and again, with the curve of a woman.

When I look at the sides of the canvas, I see these bright and dark colors. Not who she is now. Not who I am now. But I see the lines of the underpainting — the embossing and debossing of all that paint (the experience) that has come before. And it adds pattern to her dress. Movement to her hands. Strength to her feet. And opens the sky. Opens her heart. My heart. Your heart. Wide open. 

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An open door.

And would I have known the difference, had I not opened a winter door in Minnesota? Had I not braced? Had I not lowered my head for impact as if the cold were not just a feeling, but an immovable object? Maybe. But I did. And I do know. I will always know. 

I will always be grateful opening a summer morning door. Head high and sure that the way is clear. My bare legs think they are wings, untouched, simply a part of sky. 

This is what love can do. When the cold comes. And not in the form of weather. To have the embrace, that requires no bracing, this is what gets you through. My mother was that summer sky. My grandparents. They kept my head, my heart, high and sure. They still do. 

I open this morning’s French door, with the ease of being loved. 

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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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Cardinals.

I suppose we could have been called anything, and I would have loved it, but we were Cardinals, so the moment I put on the red uniform, for volleyball, basketball, track, band, whatever, whenever, I, we, represented Independent School District #206, and proudly became those beautiful red birds. 

We shortened everything. Perhaps we were in such a hurry to grow up. The name of the town, Alexandria, became Alex, and then simply Alek. Cardinals became Cards, always led with a “Go!” I see the urgency now. To get somewhere. To win. And now, it all seems like a fluttering, a blur of red and black wings. 

The Alexandria Boys’ Basketball team won the state championship this weekend. I don’t live there anymore. Not even in the country. The high school that I went to has been torn down. I can’t name a player on this year’s team. But somehow, magically, in that winning flutter, I am part of the we — the “We did it!” 

Perhaps more than any team, I think the same when remembering my mother. With each victory big or small. Selling a painting, surviving a hard situation, conquering a fear, just being happy for no reason on a Monday morning — I look to the heavens and joyfully say, “We did it!”

We are only as strong as our connections. They don’t have to be cardinals, but they should lift you, help you reach things you never even imagined. They should be the ones you look to, recognize, call you by name, ever tell you, “one way or another, we are going to fly!”

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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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The gracious fresh.

I didn’t like the dark. Windows and doors were meant to open — that’s what I learned from my mother. Even in the winter, even if she had to blowdry the windows open, she gave us a blast of fresh air.

I didn’t really want to go to her house. We weren’t really what I would call friends. We had been in classes together. A few summer softball teams. In the fifth grade she beat me by one basket in the National Hoop Shoot contest. She invited me over to see her trophy. “It’s the gracious thing to do,” my mother said. My ten year old concerns weren’t really consumed with being gracious. Maybe it was because we were standing in the breeze of the open winter window. Maybe it was because she looked so bright, so sure, so lovely, and “if this was gracious…” I thought, I wanted in, so I agreed.

She pulled up to their house. Left the car running. “Go ahead,” she said. Handle on the door, I froze, no longer for winter reasons. I couldn’t see any lights on. “They’re expecting you,” my mother continued. The pulled shades said otherwise. Not wanting to admit fear, I slowly opened the car door. Clumped through the unshoveled walkway. The screen door, still attached, hung by one hinge. I tapped gently. I turned back around. My mother gave me the scoot sign with her waving hand. Never in my history had I wished so badly that no one was home. The doorknob turned and the better basketball player opened the door. My mother pulled away. In one hour she would return. I stepped inside slowly to take up extra seconds. It was even darker inside than I expected. But I could see her smiling as she led me to the sofa — the sofa with the coffee table that held her golden trophy and weeks of old newspapers. I had never really seen her smile before. I sat down and listened to how happy she was that she won.

I could hear something in the corner. What was that? That rhythmic noise. A motor? I jumped when I saw movement where the noise was coming from. It was a human. “It’s just my mother,” she said. “Sitting in the dark?” I thought. I could see the outlines now. Long hair. Hands on the rocker. Was there a clock somewhere? How much time had passed?

She went on about her win. At least it drowned out the breathing from the corner. She told me about each attempt at the free-throw. I never really thought about money before. I didn’t think about who was poor, who wasn’t. I don’t even know if we had more money than they did. Probably not. But we had light. Sweet and glorious light. We had open windows and fresh air. I had a mother who stood in it. Gracefully. Never was I more thankful. For the next 57 minutes, I offered up this gratitude.

In the end, I was happy she had the trophy. She deserved it. The shiny gold was the only light in the room. And I was thankful that she had that. Still, I’m not sure I was all that gracious, as I ran to the door, waving my goodbyes when I heard the honk of my mother’s car. I jumped between the steering wheel and hugged her so tightly. “You can open the window if you like,” I said. She smiled and we drove away in the gracious fresh.

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