Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: birds


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At play.

I’m not sure we ever finished a game. There was softball. And kickball. And kick the can. And freeze tag. Regular Tag. One game morphed into the next in the empty field between our house and Dynda’s. With five girls, the Norton’s made it possible to do almost anything. If they showed up, teams were easily made. And that’s really all any of us had to do — just show up. Balls. Bats. Even bikes waited patiently in the grass, or the curb of the gravel road.

If we did keep some kind of score, it was forgotten. Erased by front stoop calls to dinner, or the dark of night. When I think back, it may be one of the greatest lessons I received in humanity. In love.

As we get older, we think we have to do something – and even worse – do the “right thing.” When someone is going through a difficult period, we struggle. “I don’t know what to say.” “I don’t know what to do.” We search for answers or solutions. But as with most things, we were given the tools from the start. We knew what to do. It turns out, it still holds true. All we have to do is show up. Be there for each other. Forgetting all the scores, remembering only to reach out an imperfect, sweaty, grass stained hand, and just be… together.

My lot is trampled. Sure. Worn even. For this I am blessed. My heart is at play. And I will never finish loving you.

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Daily posture.

For one day a year we placed the posture of our entire future into the hands of Miss Feldman — our track suited, middle school gym teacher. Shirtless, in a line of developing teenage girls, we stood single file in the basement of the Central Junior High girl’s locker room. One by one, Miss Feldman told us to bend over. Touch our toes. For some reason, we were perfectly trusting that her gym teacher education qualified her to assess the condition of our spines.

Waiting in line for maybe 10 minutes, I was able to create a scenario in which I had scoliosis. Stepping closer. Girl by girl. Of course I had it. Without any rhyme or reason, it became my reality. Forget the sports I played. Forget the health I enjoyed. I had scoliosis. Of course I did. Even in the damp coolness of the pink basement, I began to sweat. It was my turn. I bent over. It took maybe 5 seconds. “You’re fine. Next,” she said.

Of course I was fine. Now laughing.

The power of suggestion is strong. I learned that early on. Every day before going to school my mother would say, “Goodbye. I love you. Have a nice day.” I guess the key word was “have.” It gives you all the power. (A power never to be given away!) She didn’t say, “I hope it’s a good day.” She told me to have one. Now, you might say, well, everyone says that. But sometimes we don’t always see the power within that statement. The power within ourselves. So I remind you. I remind myself. To have a nice day.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the worry of it all. Life is challenging. And there are so many things we can’t control. So on the days when I’m stuck in a line of doubt, I go through my personal checklist. Are you loved? Yes. Do you love? Yes. Safe? Yes. Capable? Yes. Willing? Oh, yes! Do you have scoliosis? No! “You’re fine,” the mirror answers. “Have a nice day!”

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A joyful ease.

“Hi, Jod…” I can’t play it for you. The only recording of it is in my head. You’ll have to trust me. The sound of it is so beautiful. Like the first bird you hear in spring. The lilt of song that tells you all is well, just as it should be. A joyful ease, with just a glint of what could be. That is what I heard when my mother called my name.

I knew when she said it, “Hi, Jod,” that there was no news to tell. Just a sharing of gathered interests. Gathered hearts. Maybe a new outfit from Sundance. Something that made her laugh. Something she still hoped for — those were my favorites – to hear her still hope for something, like a Spring coat, or a gentle kiss. 

People memorize stanzas of songs, of poems, to feel something, with far less meaning. How lucky am I? To have it all in just two words. So easy to carry in my heart’s pocket. 

I started a new book yesterday. “Trajectory,” — collection of short stories by Richard Russo. In the first story, a group of intellectuals are discussing the “greatest lyric poem ever written.” They made the ruling that to nominate a poem you had to be able to recite the whole thing from memory, and then make your case for its greatness. One person recited “Kubla Khan” in its entirety. All the greats. But when it came to this one man’s turn, he recited a children’s poem. Everyone knew it. With its “childish iambic downbeat.” Everyone laughed and enjoyed it, but then insisted he explain why this was the greatest poem ever in the English language. “Because,” he said, suddenly serious, his eyes full, “when I speak those words aloud, my father’s alive again.”

Tears of joyful tenderness fell down my face. And I heard the words, “Hi, Jod.” These two words, for me, the greatest poem ever written.

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727 home runs.

I could tell you I did. There are no records to prove it. No one kept the stats. And to be honest, there was never a wall that the ball had to clear. We didn’t have stadiums. We had parks. And if you hit the ball beyond the outfielders, you had a pretty good chance of a home run. And if the infielders would happen to overthrow, underthrow, or just completely miss from base to base, which happened often, and you kept running, and they kept throwing, you could often round the bags without being tagged. A home run. Now in the major leagues they would never score it as that. Maybe a single with three errors. But this was summer softball. A league of our own. And if you scored with one swing of the bat, that my friend, was a home run. And when my mom got home from work, she stopped everything. Even if there were groceries to be put away. And I’m sure her feet hurt from heeled shoes. Legs to be freed from pantyhose. But no, before she did anything, she stopped and asked about my day. My game. As if it were the only thing in the world. She didn’t care about softball. She didn’t ask if we won or lost. She cared about me. I listed off the victories – “a homerun, a single and a double.” (When I think about it, I rarely got a triple. Once you got to third base, you just kept going, no matter what.) I could have told her anything, I suppose, but when I was finished, she raised her hands and cheered! Fists nearly to the ceiling, my heart not far behind.

I haven’t missed a day of writing these posts, these blogs, in 727 days. Again, no one other than me is keeping the stats. Some days I will get 30 likes. Some days 100. I started writing them mostly to get the two handed cheer from my mom. Nothing will ever compare to this. I can still feel it, with each word I type. Each letter is a foot on a sanded field. Each sentence a run toward the base. A paragraph to first. To second. A story each day, just trying to race home. Race home to the one who will lift you. Love you — hands raised in the air kind of love!  No matter the score. 

The sun is coming up, my heart is not far behind. I’m ready to play.
I will spread my wings and call this home.

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The Painful Blossom.

Nature has it right. Never is it more beautiful than when it is about to grow. Full blossom. And proud! “Look! Things are changing,” the trees say joyfully in pink and yellow and white. If they are afraid, they don’t show it. And the transition can’t be easy. They are awakening from winter. Changing shape. Having to rely on sun. On rain. Fully exposed. 

The obvious teacher of this would have been my grandfather. A farmer. Riding, guiding, nature’s wheel. And he did — teach me. Never shying away from the difficulty. “I can’t glamorize the dirt,” he told me. It was real. Rocks needed to be picked. Hands would be recognizably changed. But each year he too changed the fields from black to green to gold. Fully exposed. Fully beautiful.

But maybe the best teacher was my mother. When her seasons changed abruptly from married to single. From sure to uncertain. Fully exposed, each morning, she willed herself into the light. Smoothing the lines on her face. The seams of her skirt. Allowing the painful blossom. Allowing the beauty of growth.

The petals slowly falling on the trees remind me, it is once again my turn. It’s time to grow. Fully exposed, but never alone. Each petal a sign of those who have gone before me. In perfect harmony I hear them. My mother, my grandfather. “Look,” they say, “things are changing!” My smile blossoms. I am not afraid.

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My mother’s giggle.

She could keep a secret better than anyone I knew, except for presents. For nearly every birthday present, Christmas present, it went something like this: About two weeks before the event, my mom would ask me, “Do you want to open your present?” “No, I’ll wait,” I replied.

“You could unwrap it and then we could wrap it back up so you could open it again…”

“No, I’ll wait.”

“Do you want to just look at it?”

“No.”

“What if I just told you what it was?” She grinned.

“How is that different?” I smiled.

After about age seven, I knew the routine. But it was never manufactured. She truly was that excited to give me a present. And that was the ultimate gift, I suppose. Two glorious weeks of taunting excitement! Giggles and anticipation. Pure joy and love! That’s why I never wanted to open it early. I relished the time with my mother.

About two weeks ago, on vacation, I bought my favorite candle. The clerk asked if it was a gift. Yes, I smiled. She put it in a box and tied a bow. I still haven’t opened it. I just need a little more time inside my mother’s giggle.

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BFF

Before we knew how long it actually was, and how much we would actually need it, we used to promise it in three little letters – BFF – best friends forever. We wrote it in notes. on plaster casts, in year books…on the palms of our hands, and the seams of our jeans — forever!  

Somewhere along the line, we stopped. Maybe we thought we were too cool. Too smart. Maybe I’ve lived long enough for it to come back in fashion, or maybe I’ve lived long enough that I’m not worried about how it looks. I’m not embarrassed at all to declare my friendships in big bold, heart shaped permanent markers. I know what joy, what life-sustaining gifts you bring to me each day. And I will give thanks – forever!

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Fluffy random weeds.

It was only in the last ten years that I became aware that asparagus not only grows in large bundled stalks at the grocery store, but also in the wild.

I couldn’t see it at first. My husband pointed to the ground. “Regarde, les asperges!’ I started rifling through the small rolodex of newly learned French words in my head. I must have it wrong, I thought. I couldn’t see anything that resembled asparagus. He pointed again. Nothing. He bent over and picked up the tiniest stalk. That? I would have never seen that. It wasn’t what I used to buy at Byerly’s. “How do you know where to look?” I asked. He showed me the fluffy weed-like thing sprouting on the ground. Oh, I thought, I could see that. “Does it grow within that?” “Oh no,” he explained. “Well, close by then?” “Sometimes. Sometimes not.” That is the worst clue, I thought to myself.

The season is short. Just a few weeks in the spring. I didn’t think about it much that first season. But the next March, while out walking, I just randomly saw one on the side of the road. I looked around all smiles, as one does, to see if anyone saw me make my big discovery. No one had. I picked it. And from then on, without my knowledge or permission, I started not only looking, but seeing.

I suppose we all think we are being so obvious. That everyone should know exactly how we feel. Really see us. Perhaps the clues we give are as ridiculous as a random fluffy weed.

Nature tells us that it is worth the look. Worth the time. As I walk this world, I am reminded to do the same with you. It would be so easy to just walk on by. I’m sure I’ve done it a million times. But I want to see you. Really see you. I will only ask one thing, that you give me even the smallest of clues. Wave in the breeze just a little. I can’t promise I will understand immediately. But I can promise you this, I will look. Daily.

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My Swedish Dishcloth.

Maybe it was because she had nine children, or maybe it was just her nature, either way, my Grandma always had a sink full of dirty dishes. And maybe it was because of this, my mother never did. 

I suppose I could have followed either one. But I like my empty sink. We all have our own way of doing things. Things that make us happy. And it can be the tiniest of things. On our recent trip, we bought a few Swedish dishcloths. I had never seen them before. They looked like art. And would easily fit in the suitcase. Reasons enough.

Upon returning, fighting jet lag, fighting to once again make familiar the familiar, I bake the bread, serve the Corsican cheese with the French wine, and wash the dishes with my new Swedish dishcloth. It’s probably silly to love it, this 6″ square, but I do! Maybe because it works well, or maybe because it made me fall in love with my kitchen once again after a three week break. 

I am so proud of my grandma and my mom. Both lived the lives that suited them best. Neither made apologies for their preferences. Nor judged others for the differences. They found happiness, big and small. 

My dishcloth is now drying on the faucet of my empty sink. I find my path daily. And I am happy.

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Doing it anyway.

It’s hard to imagine now, but we always traveled, what today would feel like almost naked. We had no phones. No GPS. No maps (I guess they were available, but we didn’t know how to read them.) I’m not even sure we wore our seat belts. But somehow, someway, my mother got us from place to place. Mostly doctor’s appointment for me, in larger cities. She never thought she was brave, but tucked under her wing, as we flitted and fluttered about, I always felt safe. 

I suppose courage is a muscle. You have to use it to gain it. You don’t get to be ready. Not for anything really. I think sometimes we see people out in the world doing the most remarkable, frightening things. The only difference between them and everybody else is not that they don’t have any fear, the difference is, they’re doing it anyway. 

From all the times she “had to go,” my mother gained the strength, to well, just go. Go for fun. For shopping. To help me with art shows. Book signings. And I know that fear didn’t just magically disappear, but she learned to let it ride along. “Ok fear, you can come with, but you’re not going to drive.”

It is so easy to say no. To stand still. But oh, the things you’ll miss. I know it’s frightening. I have shook the tears from these fragile wings, but oh the views, the joy, the flight! You can’t miss it. I won’t miss it. And my mother, the one who first tucked me under her wing, well now, she’s tucked under mine.

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