Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: birds


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Another pocketed miracle.

I had to stop wearing my little pinky ring. I need to have surgery on the finger that has held that ring for decades. It waits for me now, in a tiny little bowl. I know I will wear it again. And it’s not so much that I have faith in my finger (which I do) but I also have faith in my ring. It knows the way home.

Years ago, I was filling large orders for framed art work. It was just after the New York show, so I had product and packing everywhere. My hands were in a constant blur of activity. It wasn’t until after making a haul to UPS that I noticed it was gone, my little ring. I checked my apartment. The garage. My car. Nothing. I had more orders to fill, so I kept working. My thumb often reached to give it a phantom twirl. But my brain said it was gone for good.

Two weeks later I got a misshapen envelope in the mail. I opened it quickly — because mail!!! It was a handwritten address from the east coast. My ring was inside. The note said they found it while unshrinkwrapping my artwork. They took the time to compliment my work, bubble wrap the ring, and send it back to me. The stone of the ring is not precious, but their act of kindness certainly was!

I only mention it because this morning I reached for my permanent necklace (the one I never take off) to move the clasp to the back. Something poked me. Only prongs. The stone was gone. We shook the sheets of the bed. Checked the bathroom. The carpet. It could have been anywhere — even in another state. The possibilities were endless.

On our way to hotel breakfast, I stepped into the fitness room. Looked at the floor between the elliptical machine and the treadmill. There it was. Preciously waiting. It was a tiny miracle really, but not my first.

I was only 5 or 6 when I went out into the field with my grandpa. Maybe the sky was bigger then, but it seemed endless. Nothing but blue above and black dirt below. I couldn’t see the house from where we were. I began to panic. I wanted to go back. I didn’t want to be here. How would my mom find me when she came from town to pick me up? She would drive up the gravel and we wouldn’t be there. She would swing open the screen door and call my name, and I wouldn’t hear. She would be sad and scared. And she might cry, I gasped between my own tears. And I felt terrible because I had begged to come with. I had been warned that we would be out a long time, most of the day even, and yet I pleaded. Now the tears that tracked black down my dirty face wiped with dirty hands wanted nothing else but to see the way home. He didn’t argue. Didn’t make fun of me. Didn’t “I told you so,” or “I warned you,” he just took me home. Gently. Easily. “We all find our way home,” he said, dropping me off in full sight of the farm house, in full knowledge that my mom, too, would find her way.

I put the gemstone into my husband’s pill case. Safe. Sound. Another pocketed miracle.

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On white shoulders.

Most people don’t associate seagulls and farmers, but it was the first time I saw one, with my grandfather, in Florida. It was among so many firsts. Not just my first vacation with my mother, but actually my first vacation. My first time on a plane. The first time seeing the ocean. The first time seeing my grandfather in shorts. I had never actually seen his legs — only overalled on the farm. 

They rented a condo on Cocoa Beach, my grandparents. My mom and I went to stay with them for a week, during the winter break of my seventh grade. It was so strange to see my grandfather at the gate of the airport. I had never seen him out of context. He grabbed our luggage and we drove off into the dark warmth of the Florida air. What was that noise, I asked. It’s the ocean, he smiled, as we pulled up to see grandma waving under the porch light. Every sensation was on fire. The next day, my lavender mid-western skin would be as well. 

I raced to the beach in the morning sun. He was right behind me. The seagulls hopped all around. I kept looking back to see if he saw what I was seeing. By his smile, I knew that he did. As the wind blew at his shirt, I could see his tan was still that of a farmer. His shoulders as white as the sea gulls. And even with all these firsts, I felt the comfort of home. 

I suppose we always take it with us — the things that make us care. 

Sitting in a new hotel. At a new desk. Sometimes I have to look at the keycard, or the pad on the desk to even remember where we are. But then I paint the white shouldered bird, feel the love that I have been given from the start, believe that he stills sees what I am seeing, and know that I am home.

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In the hollows.

There is a hollow space beneath my left set of ribs. After they removed my body cast, I noticed it. I guess six weeks of the plaster wore it down.

Today I swim. Walk. Run. Exercise. All the things. The space remains. I don’t know why I saw it yesterday. In the mirror. Showering after my workout. I almost never think about it. I rarely even see it.

Maybe the universe thought I needed a little sign. A reminder, not of the pain, but of the living. I’m certain while I was in it, I thought it to be endless. Probably felt trapped. But I have no feeling of that now. Only a small hollow space that serves me well. A space, that if it had been immediately filled, I wouldn’t have it as the proof of strength, survival, of life itself.

Maybe that’s where we keep our most precious gifts, in those spaces. The tiny hollows left by life lessons, wayward paths, even love.

I miss my mother. But forever I keep a space open, just for her. Where memories have room to giggle and weep. To hug and wonder. To roam. And forever love.

I look in the mirror. I smile. Not weighed or worried by the hollows. I carry them with me, as light as joy.

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Palette.

It’s not like we were told, but I think we all assumed we had to pick one. By October in each school year at Jefferson Senior High, we fell into line. Jocks, Hoods, Preppies, Nerds, Geeks. Some of us tried to hover between band, the gym and English class, but the differences were clear. Sometimes even uniformed. The only thing I was sure about was that everyone seemed so sure in their roles. Perhaps they thought the same about me. I wasn’t.

I suppose it takes a long time to build a soul. A life. Along the way you discover parts. Tiny sparks of color that make you feel a little bit more like yourself. You grow and change. Adaptations often more regular than choice (maybe these adjustments are the real choices).

Looking at the palette that makes up my latest creation, I smile. A dab of this. A stroke of that. This collection — this beautiful mess of colors that make up my life. Yes, I am an artist. An author. But I dip my brush and I bake. I dip my brush and play yard sports with the kids. I dip my brush and travel. Play fashion show. And read. And build. And change. Stroke by stroke, I am given my wings. Not confined by stereotypes or assumptions. I am my own blend of feathers. And one way or another, I am going to fly!

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The Birds.

I really didn’t want to be scared, but still I begged to watch it — The Birds, by Alfred Hitchcock. I had heard some of the other kids at Washington Elementary say they were going to watch it. Several boys had said they even had watched it the year before, claiming it was nothing — only babies would be afraid. This sealed the internal deal for me. “But I love birds…” I whined to my mother. “That makes it even worse,” she said.

She was right about both.

I watched behind fingers. Watched repeatedly within my Raggedy Ann bed sheets. Bad dream after nightmare. I was afraid of the winter birds. Those I had so admired for their strength against the cold, I ran from to get on the school bus. I shied away from their spring songs. Timidly in the summer sun I ran under trees. In ballparks. Among friends. And one day, moments passed. I didn’t worry. Days passed. And I skipped. I biked. And I wasn’t afraid anymore.

I suppose the same thing happened with love.

I paint birds. A lot of birds! I never stopped loving them. Each one I paint reminds me, not of the fear, but of the love. We will all get hurt along the way. Be frightened. And it is worse when it is someone you love. But that doesn’t have to ruin love itself. Love will always find a way to soar. I will not miss any more seasons out of fear. One way or another, I am going to fly!

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Nothing but bath mats.



I wanted to ask him what I was supposed to do now. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He should know. Him with all the answers. The plans to each season. I kept watching him. Silent. Taking in all of my mother’s broken words. My heart screamed into my unopened mouth — say something!!!! I knew he had liked my father. I knew it wasn’t only my mom and I that felt the break. There isn’t just one crack when a family splits. But he was the shoulders — my grandfather, her father, this farmer that stood beside the kitchen table. He was the master of dirt. Changing it into green and gold. Why wasn’t he changing this?

I kept staring out the window. He said a few things to my mother. I don’t know that she felt better, no, better would take time. But I could see relief. Relief of weight. Of story. Some words aren’t meant to be carried.

I was still waiting. Waiting for my “few.” His worked hand cupped over most of my shoulder and part of my back. He leaned in. “It’s not it,” he whispered, “you get to decide.” My heart was not yet even green, but I knew better would come, in my season.

Stepping out of the shower yesterday in Mississippi, I reached for the stack of towels I had asked for from the maid in the hall on my return from the gym. The top towel — a bath mat. I threw it on the floor and got out. Second towel. Third. Bath mats. She had given me nothing but bath mats. Cold and trying to wrap in the impossibly small cloth, I started to laugh. I ran to my iPad and wrote down the words, “Nothing but bath mats.” I decided it was going to be a great day.

We don’t always get to chose the words we are given, but make no mistake, we decide the story.

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Unlaced.

My first and only question to the clerk at Iverson’s shoes was, “Are they fast?” He assured me that they were, but encouraged me to race to the front window of the store. He neglected to time me, but still, these felt faster than last year’s pair. He put my old pair in the box. My mother paid. I wore my new bumper tennies home. Not certain if I was racing them, or they were racing me.

I don’t know what we did with the box, but I assume they didn’t come with directions. I was left to my own devices. I decided it was completely up to me, what these beautiful shoes could or couldn’t do. Testing if they could pedal faster, I took my banana seat bike from the garage and set out for Lake Latoka. It was hard to gauge on the gravel of Van Dyke Road, but when I hit the paved hill by Lord’s house, I began to really move! They were faster! On the long stretch toward the lake, my knees blurred into the blue of my new shoes. I had never gone so fast. Perhaps in my eagerness to give them a spin, I had neglected to tie the laces sufficiently. In a scramble of laces and chain and heel hitting the tiny spikes of the pedal, my right shoe flew off my foot into the air. For a brief second, my heart in my throat, my legs in the air, the pedals still spinning, my shoe beside my head, it felt — no, I was sure — I was flying! That’s the thing about magic, no one can ever prepare you.

Time moves faster than last year. I have the final pair of Van shoes my mother bought. I don’t know if she asked, but they turned out to be fast. They sit beside me now. Unlaced. Almost brand new. I was unprepared for this as well, but heart in my throat, I know she is flying.

I can’t be sure if I’m carrying the magic, or it’s carrying me, probably a little of both. The pedals keep turning — what a ride! My heart keeps believing — What a ride!

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Here to stay is the new bird.



There are many theories to the lyrics in Winter Wonderland — “Gone away is the bluebird. Here to stay is the new bird.” Sometimes the most likely answer is true. It’s the one I choose — that bluebirds migrate away, but some arrive, like the cardinal (the new bird.)

Some of the other teams mocked us for our mascot – the Alexandria Cardinals. Them being cougars, bears and wolves — surely they assumed themselves to be tougher. But I knew something different. I knew what it meant to be strong. To stay when the weather got bad, when times were tough. To dare the longest of nights, and still greet the morning with hope. My mother was a new bird — a cardinal. A pure and beautiful symbol of the very strength we wore proudly on our uniforms. And to see it, even when the others didn’t, well, that just made it even more special. It made me, all of us, stronger. And so we sang our fight song proudly, “We are the cardinals, mighty, mighty cardinals…”

Wearing my vintage cardinal t-shirt, typing the words while the Christmas songs go through my head, I do miss my mom! But just as promised, she is here to stay — the new bird. I smile knowing the strength I too carry, easily underestimated I suppose, sometimes even by myself, but strength I wear proudly, carry with me. Hope, just like the cardinal is mighty!

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Snow birds.



In the winter of my Minnesota seventh grade, I took my first airplane ride to Cocoa Beach, Florida. I didn’t know what a snowbird was, and I must admit there was a small part of me that hoped they would be donned in feathers. I spotted them immediately at the gate, my grandpa still in overalls and my grandma in a flowered dress, only missing the apron.

I heard the ocean before I saw it. The sound was as big as the sight. I stood in the sand, paralyzed by one thought — that it all was real. It had taken 6 years for Mrs. Bergstrom’s globe to come to life. But there it was! All the blue that she had passed around to us. The blue that we spun with our hopeful fingers. It was right there in front of me. I turned back to my grandparent’s. They shook their heads. I took off my shoes. My pants. And ran into my first dream come true.

It didn’t take long for my lavender winter skin to turn a bright red. I slept soundly on their condo floor.

They took me to all the attractions. Cape Canaveral, the dog track, the outlet mall, and the 4:30pm dinner special. We didn’t go to the “happiest place on earth,” but to be honest, I couldn’t imagine being happier. I basked in the unexpected warmth of winter sun, and their full attention.

Returning to Central Junior High, all smiles, and one less layer of skin, all the other seventh graders, knowing I went to Florida, asked how I liked Disney World. We didn’t go, I said, to their utter shock and dismay. I had no photos. I didn’t own a camera. I had no souvenirs of Mickey or Minnie. “So what did you see?” “Snowbirds,” I said. “They’re real?” “Yes,” I smiled. It was all real. And I had everything. Still do.

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Shopping small.

If Herberger’s was ever low on pantyhose, there was a distinct possibility that my mom just restocked her drawers.

She was always prepared. Had she been a scout, and they offered a fashion badge, her sash would have been decorated immediately. Eagle status. Not only did she have the right pair for every outfit, and any future outfit, she kept them in pristine condition. After wearing and washing, she folded them back into their original packaging and filed them neatly, easily visible by color, into her pantyhose drawer. On days when the world just didn’t make sense, I, we, could look to that drawer and find hope.

Sure, it may sound silly. And it probably was. But so what. It brought her joy. It brings me joy. Still. When I see the advertisements to “Shop Small,” this holiday season, I think of her drawer. I think of all the little things she gave to me.

I think we can all get caught up in the “it has to be bigger, grander, more expensive,” to mean something. But, I suppose, it’s always the little things. With gifts. In life. In love. It’s the small things that we will carry. That will fill us for our entire lives.

I bought a pair of green pantyhose two days ago. They match perfectly with my green dress. I wore them yesterday, with all of my mother’s pride. And I saved the packaging. My heart is filled with small mercies.

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