Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: birds


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My best yellow.

“If I were a bird,” she thought, “I would fling myself from limb to limb. The breeze would take away all the weight of being, and I would feel alive.”

“If I were her,” thought the bird, I would change out of my yellow dress and lie, pillowed, comforted, and still.”

It’s so easy to see what we think the “others” have. It takes a special effort sometimes to see it in ourselves.

Yesterday, I took two hours to hand paint a single bookmark. As the woman was coming to life on the paper, she looked so familiar. Someone I knew? I couldn’t quite place her. As I cut her, tasseled her, gave her a sleeve, I saw it — the yellow bird painting. She was the yellow bird. And that’s when I heard their voices.

I’ve heard those voices before. In my head. The ones that compare, Oh, the French do this, or the Americans have that… and I can get lost in this battle of others. It’s so ridiculous, and never makes me happy. I’ve seen people do it online, comparing their lives to the manufactured world of social media. Ugh. But it seemed so simple, when I saw the yellow birds, the yellow-dressed woman — we all have everything we need, we just have to see it. To live it — live our best yellow. When I want to fly, I must fly. When I need to rest, I can rest. There are no “ifs,” there is only YELLOW! And when comparison tries to whisper in my ear, you don’t belong here, you’d be better off somewhere else, I simply fluff my winged dress and say, “Oh, but it IS my place!”

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Never finish loving you.

When you complete a painting, the recommended last step is to apply a fixative. This chemical substance acts as a preservative. It stabilizes the paint. It protects the painting from damage. It is finished.

But for a small cage of ribs, the heart is offered no such protection.  It carries the pain, both exquisite and excruciating. Some may try to put up walls and barriers. Fighting it, as if love were a wind. But I’ve never looked to stability as the cure. The only answer for me is to ride it, feel it — feel it all. 

Walking yesterday, experiencing the exquisiteness of each painful heartbeat, I stopped at a gathering of poppies. Most were braced against the wind, but there was one, not fighting it, just dancing. Petals whipping. A glorious blur of red. 

My life doesn’t need to be fixed. Only lived. And I know, this glorious poppy that beats inside of me, that dances in the winds of change, it, I, will never finish loving you.

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No pretending.

Before I knew the word ironic, there was a brief moment in my youth that my mother and I colored together. My book was likely purchased from Olson’s Super Market – filled with cartoon characters. Hers was was given to her by a good friend who recognized her situation – it was titled, “Color me happy.”  It just occurred to me, the meaning of “make-believe.”

I suppose the only way of learning it is to live it. And that’s what she did. By creating a belief (sometimes out of seemingly nothing at all) she made me believe not all things are bad, many things are good! So many things are good!

It’s not lost on me that on some difficult days, the best thing I can do is make-believe (I want to be clear – this is not pretend – this is creation.) I take out my colored pencils. I draw something. And color, by beautiful color, I can see the beauty of this moment, this day, this life, and I know for certain, so many things are good! 

With this tiny bird, I did in fact, “color myself happy.” My mother taught me that. She taught me how to color. She taught me how to fly.

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No separation.

The disconnect yesterday was overwhelming. It’s too foolish to mention the tiny tap against my “round ball of snow,” but I will. I couldn’t get a hair product. No longer sold in France. From there it spiraled to “Well, I can’t get anything — Nothing is familiar — I don’t belong here — And I miss my mom.” It’s hard to blame my Minnesota roots for the “snowballing” — no, this was all me. 

Before the real panic set in, (oh yeah, it can get worse), I whisked myself off to the studio. Grabbed my nearest brush. (I have canvases gessoed for just such an “emergency.”) And I began to paint. I made it before the tears. Tethered before I slid down the imaginary hill any further. My breathing slowed. Stroke by stroke. And I was saved. 

It was in kindergarten that I remember making the first connection. I’m sure there were many before, but this is one that formed. That stuck.  I can play it back whenever I need it. Five years old. Mrs. Strand hung our artwork on the wall. Lined them up as high, and just as straight as the near white bangs on my forehead. We walked hand in hand with our mothers down the line. Hearts racing, pumping, filling, standing in front of our names painted in primary colors. Was it her hand warming mine? Or mine warming hers? I couldn’t feel any separation. I didn’t from that day on.

Yesterday’s yellow bird arrived just before dinner. Dinner that I would have across from my husband. My heart. My French connection. The warmth that melts the snowballs my brain insists on making from time to time. 

In this calm, I received an email. It was a woman looking for a certain painting of mine — a painting she had seen with her mother at a gallery years before. A painting that held her mother’s heart. In this brief moment, mother, daughter, painting, all were one. Her mother recently passed. She wanted that painting. She wanted that moment. That moment of warmth. Of connection. 

If I belong to this world, if any of us are to belong to this world, it is only because of this — the warmth that passes from hand to heart — heart to hand. We are only as strong as our connections.  

I brush the hair from my face, and smile.

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The big deal!

I mowed the lawn yesterday. It kind of beat me up. Not because of the wind and sun and pollen. While nature was beckoning with “what’s now!”, my heart was feeling a tug of “what was.” 

It might sound silly, but I wanted to text my mom. I wanted to tell her that I was about to tackle the green giant. She would say, “Oh, be careful,” and “Take some breaks…” She would check to see how I was doing. “Don’t get overheated.” And I would give the “No, don’t worry, I’m fine…” But truth be told, I liked it. Not that I wanted her to worry. (And I’m not sure it was true “worry,” but a concern.) She not only cared, but she cared enough to show it. Just tiny words strung together, but oh, what a big deal!!!

I suppose it’s always a collection of the little things. 

I moved my spring cleaning from outside to inside. Cleaning the cave, I found something small and curious. A jumbled set of tiny paper tags. It was buried in a back drawer of my husband’s storage. Little tiny tags perfect to carry the things I’m grateful for. I began writing. I add something each day. Words like mom and friends and art and books and sun and chance and growth. Just tiny words strung together, to make up this love, this life. 

If you are lucky enough to receive the random text today. The phone call. The email. Answer it. Give it all the love it deserves. These are the big deals!

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Until I let go…

I suppose the combinations are near infinite. Paper and paint. For a Christmas gift I received this tablet and a set of pastels. The person who bought them together wasn’t wrong. It was printed right there on the box and the tablet cover. They were supposed to get along. But I didn’t love how the pastels felt against it. The paper didn’t seem to want to hold the delicate medium. A few days ago I started using acrylics with this paper. Instant love. The paint grabbed onto the surface like it was meant to be there. The paper welcomed it home.  The combination worked perfectly, without the “should haves” and “supposed tos” of the manufacturer’s suggestions.  

When I was younger, I wasted a lot of time trying to fit into these guidelines. Trying to make people love me the way I needed to be loved. Or possibly worse, accepting “love” that I knew would never hold. It wasn’t until I let go, that it all started to come together. I let go of the norms. The rules placed upon me, or maybe the rules I placed upon myself. Either way, I released them. And everything that was once forced became natural. Became Art. Became Love. Beautiful.

Love, real love, is never wrong. You get to decide on your family, your friends, your life. And when you find it, it will just work. Without force, it will hold. You will be held in the open arms of “welcome home.”

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Each song has wings.

I always knew I was fast on my bicycle, until Hardware Hank’s had a sale on speedometers. Before my brother secured it to the handle bars, I had my own way to gauge the speed. I sang. I knew two complete songs from Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark album, thanks to the constant play on my sister’s stereo. I knew how many verses it took to get past the gravel of VanDyke road to the smooth pavement. How many verses it took to get through the cemetery to the fairgrounds. I sang and sang. Past the tanks. Up to big Ole. Down Main Street. Each segment had a song. A lyric. A melody. I had created a soundtrack to the movie of my life.

The first ride that I watched the needle rise was rather amusing. I had a number now. Something real, I suppose. But then I stopped singing. And only watched the speedometer. My eyes darting from the road to the needle. Up and down. I began to miss it all. So focused on the number, I missed it all. The signs in Ben Franklin’s window. The girls laughing outside the Dairy Queen. The boys pushing outside Hardee’s. No music. Only a number.

I guess I learned pretty early on. It was always about the journey. And I didn’t want to miss it. I still don’t. It’s so easy to get caught up in the race of it all. Have to get here. Have to do this. Clock racing. Calendar flipping. And soon the music of it all disappears. Until I sing. Slow it all down and listen. Look around. Stepping. Riding. Living in the moment. In the movie of my heart.

Breathing heavy. Unsatisfied, I dropped my bike into our driveway. I found a screwdriver in the garage. Smiled with each turn. Dropped the barely used speedometer into the junk bin beside the car. And began to sing.

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Tulipalooza

We were at the doctor’s office yesterday. A routine, non-urgent appointment for Dominique. A small hedge separates the office from a school. Facing the window, I could see the kids running with a ball. A makeshift soccer game on the small playground. It has occurred to me through the years, traveling through countries, cities, villages, that there is a ubiquitous sound — children playing. It has a universal language that is distinct and recognizable. Words mixed with laughter, that can only really be described as joy. 

This lilt was broken up by the sound of the ball hitting against the exterior wall of the doctor’s office. She said excuse me, and allowed herself the one minute it took to open the back door and throw the ball over the hedge to the now silent children. As soon as the ball landed on their side, their beautiful chorus continued. 

It was only a moment, but it was beautiful.

I picked a few tulips from our yard and placed them in a vase. I have always been told to place your flowers, your plants, whenever possible, in front of a mirror. This doubles the beauty. Tulips become Tulipalooza! The bouquet seems vast. The joy is reflected.

What a lesson in humanity. I ask myself, “Am I doing that? Am I reflecting the joy?” I hope I am. And it can be as easy as returning a smile. Joining the laughter. Being present. Involved. Throwing a ball back over the fence. We have a decision to make. Minute by minute. Day by day. Are we going to focus on the negative, or reflect the best of us. I want to be a part of the lilt. The song. What if we all tried to reflect the universal joy?

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Learning to fly.

I was having coffee with a friend of mine when I got the call. Deeply immersed in the big fashion issue of Vogue, I was prepared for the adventure he proposed. I didn’t know him well. He was a pilot. Had his own small plane. It was a lovely sunny day and he was “going up” and wondered if I wanted to come along. “Sure,” I said. Told my caffeinated friend. Her first question was, “What are you going to wear?”

I had the perfect outfit…so I thought. It was a combination of flow and twirl. A Michael Kors silk skirt and top. The skirt was fitted to the knee, and then flirted with a small flare. The top flowed. I was a human airplane scarf. Ready to soar. I was Faye Dunaway. Meryl Streep. I was Whitney Houston in the final scene of the BodyGuard. Cue the music! I was ready!

He pulled up to the hangar. I was underwhelmed with his baggy jeans, but still prepared to be in my own movie. We walked up to the plane. I looked for some sort of stairs. A ladder even. Anything. He was doing his pre-flight check, and told me I could get in. But could I? I replayed the movies in my head. Scarved and flowing, I saw Whitney run to the plane. But they didn’t show how she got in. How was I supposed to get in? I looked around. Trying to appear interested in the empty sky. I was really just waiting for him to get in so he wouldn’t be able to watch me crawl up the wing. He easily hoisted his long leg in his baggy jeans up on the wing and hopped in. I hoisted my skirt. What underwear was I wearing? I hadn’t thought about that. It wasn’t that kind of date. “Don’t step on the wing with those shoes,” he said. Obviously I wasn’t wearing tennis shoes with my ensemble. So I pulled myself up on the wing. Sat on my backside. Crab crawled my way in backwards. Pulled my feet in, not touching the wing. Sweating in the glaring sun, and even hotter embarrassment. I adjusted my skirt. He niner-ninered, as I sang, “I will always love you,” to myself, in my head.

I acted out the movie for my friend at Caribou Coffee the next day. It was one of our greatest laughs. My full length drama had become a latte-snorting comedy. I try to remind myself of this, during those times when I feel like I’m hoisting myself, struggling to climb the wing of the day. Everything is not as serious as it seems. I look in the morning mirror. Fling back my imaginary scarf over my shoulder, breaking into chorus, “And I, I, Iiiii, will always love you….ooooooh-ooooh!” I’m flying!

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Winning.

I had played on teams for years before I understood that the “A” in “Bring your A game” didn’t stand for Alexandria. But I liked that it did. I mean I always knew that it meant the coach wanted us to be our best. To do our best. For ourselves. For our team. For our hometown – Alexandria. I suppose, in a joyful way, I will always want to do my best for this place. 

Now there are other cities that do this for me as well. New York. Paris. They make me want to be a better artist. A better human. I read books by great authors, in hopes of becoming a better writer. I visit museums. Watch videos. Sketch. Learn. Repeat. And maybe most importantly, I try to surround myself with people who are doing the same. Not the same things necessarily, but trying to do their best at whatever they do. Because as we learned in school, you always play better against the better team. 

My mother (Ivy) didn’t know anything about sports. But oh, did she have game! And she brought it. Even in her toughest times. She brought it with style. Elegance. Lipstick. Grace. And an endless supply of breath mints in her purse. She taught me more about winning than any coach. Any team. Winning was playing when you didn’t feel like it. Winning was getting up. Getting dressed. Presenting your best self to this world. Not to convince them, but to convince yourself — you were worthy, you were someone. Winning was laughing beyond the tears. Winning was loving, beyond a cracked heart. Winning was teaching your daughter to be her best. Do her best.

I have a lot to live up to. That is not pressure, but a welcome challenge. The sun is coming up. I reach for the best inside of me — not just my A-game, but my I-game as well. I smile in the mirror. And put a breath mint in my purse.

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