Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: bravery


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Now.

I don’t know how she knew. There were no influencers. No self help books. And even if there were, she wouldn’t have had time to read them. She would have laughed at the thought of someone telling her to stay “in the now.” “Where else would I be?” She would have said. 

It was a Saturday evening. Grandma Elsie’s “now” was filled with some pots brewing, others soaking. She shooed me away from the stove into the wafting of Grandpa’s pipe. I followed it into the living room. I didn’t ask, I simply followed the pinstripe of his overalls onto his lap. He perched the pipe away from the top of my blonde head. “You smell like today, “ I said. He raised his eyebrows. It was a combination of sun, and breeze, and hay and earth, topped with just a hint of tobacco. I squeezed the pouch in his pocket, still wanting to touch the end of his pipe, but remembering the heat from the first and last time I touched it. I pulled at the corners of his pierced lips to form a smile. He was still so new. I wanted to know everything. I didn’t have the words for it then, but he, being already formed, I wondered if I could be a part of it. I sculpted his face and flannel like clay, wanting to be somehow connected. I put a thumb on each of his eyebrows and pulled upward. “That means surprise,” I said. He smiled on his own this time, without my pulling, and I knew that we were connected. 

The pans clanked in the kitchen. The coo-coo of the clock stayed silent. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. And we were in it. I’m sure he had thoughts of tomorrow’s farm, but he didn’t stray. He tapped his pipe in the tray beside the lounger. And we gathered in the scented remains of the day.

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Driving to the airport.

Maybe our sense of chance is diluted by the daily barrage of “last chance” emails. For the fourth day in a row I have received my “really, this is your final chance” to take advantage of this sale.

But I suppose I can’t really blame the internet. Maybe we’re just not designed to see it. Prepare for it. All of these final chances. These last times. The poets and singers have even tried to warn us — “Live like you were dying”; or “Live today like it was your last day on earth.” I get it, but I can’t say I really adhere to this way of thinking. There seems to be a lot of pressure within, or perhaps even desperation. I heard something recently that I like much better. It is from the author of Between two Kingdoms, Suleika Jaouad. Living with cancer, she was, and is, seriously confronted with this every day. But she explains, rather than living like this day is her last, she decides to live like it’s her first. Seeing the wonder and beauty of everything around her. This is how I want to live.

I thought I already loved him. But he was a country away. Meeting him in real life for the first time I was nervous and excited. My hands gripped the wheel, unsure of how to keep the car and my heart on 494. I slipped my foot from my shoe. I needed to feel the pedal. The energy seemed to be racing from my toes, changing to butterflies in my belly, to songbirds in my heart, and tingling straight out of my updooed hair. I was alive. Alive in every first of my being. I circled the airport once, not seeing him. Our phones, foreign to each other, couldn’t communicate. I circled the airport again. Pulling up slowly this time. There he was. Just like his picture. Sitting on the sidewalk. All of my first were real. Especially love.

Time has a way of covering the path in laurels…go ahead and rest, it says. I’m as guilty as the next person. But I don’t like it. And when I hear the shuffle of my feet in said laurels…when I get annoyed by the little things…it takes me a minute, sometimes longer, but then I hear the voice, “You better drive yourself to the airport…” And I smile. I make the first breakfast with the first toast from the new loaf covered in the new jam. Have the first coffee under this first sun with my first love and the day begins. I begin. I am alive!

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Beach or Store.



Like a bird surrounded by shiny objects, I could often get myself overwhelmed with choice. So many things to do. So many possibilities. Too much, and I would render myself immobile. I’m not sure why it took me so many years. My grandfather had given me the answer early on. Standing, almost dangling from the perch outside my grandmother’s second floor sewing room, struggling with the choice, he simply called up, “Jump, or go inside.” He saw things so clearly. I jumped. 

Even now, there’s a little part of me that will argue the point, “yes, but, what if…” and I catch myself dangling. So I break it all down. Give myself the option, this or that, sometimes even the smallest of choices, and then I jump. Oh, and I stumble. I fall. I walk away. Nothing is perfect, but I have found, always found, even the hardest of choice has always been better than dangling. 

And being the distracted bird that I am, the universe has to remind me, often and again. Walking in Cottagewood the other day, I saw the signs nailed to the tree, again and for the first time. One arrow pointing to “Beach.” One arrow pointing to “Store.” My grandfather would have liked this directional tree, just as if he planted it — and I suppose in many ways, he had.

Today’s path may not be clear, but my heart is, so I greet the sun, and jump…

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Yes!

When I was a young girl, someone gave me a tiny spoon. I think it represented a state they had visited. Maybe a park. And with that one spoon it was decided, not by me, that I collected them. After a few birthdays, without my knowledge or permission, I indeed had many tiny spoons. Then came a rack. Sone had a wide enough handle to hang on the rack, but most required that I snip apart a paper clip and superglue it to the back. Now I was putting effort into a collection I neither started nor wanted.

One of the first greeting cards I ever made was an image of a woman that read, “I meant no, but it came out yes.” It always got a good laugh. But certainly there was truth behind it. It has taken years, decades…I think I’m better at it, but it takes an effort. It shouldn’t take convincing that you are worth it. Worth your time. Worth your decisions. Worthy of saying yes to what YOU want. I have found that it’s a practice. (Maybe all of living is.) When you can say no to the little things, like if you want dessert or not, if you actually have the time to babysit, if you like the color red…If you can say no to all those little tiny spoons, then you can graduate to the big ones and maybe say yes! If you can say yes to the big decisions…the big choices… then you can actually live a life,maybe not exactly how pictured (who gets that?), but a life close to all the yesses of your heart.

Walking through an antique store yesterday, I saw them — a cup full of tiny spoons. No thanks, I said, and bought the frame that will hold the painting I will choose, I will make, and I will love. My heart smiled — it came out yes!

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Nothing here I can’t rise above.

It won’t make the visitor’s guide, but Duluth, for me, is famous for two things. It is home to one of the largest speeches I ever gave, and it ended my mother’s self-imposed waffle ban.

I felt like I was paying attention when I booked the event, but for some reason, I had it in my head that it was for a group of 50 people. I asked my mother to come along. No one could sell my after-speech merchandise like my mother. They gave us a lovely room overlooking Lake Superior. We changed our clothes and met the director at the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center (DECC). She opened the door to the largest room I had ever seen — Beyoncé big. Without speaking, I made eye contact with my mom. “It’s a little big, isn’t it?” I said, still assuming the 50 guests. “Oh, no,” she replied, it will easily seat the 700.” I could no longer look at my mom. 700? It wasn’t like I was limiting myself, but I had always thought of myself as an intimate speaker, a story teller. This would be a leap. I would have to break out of my small shell and lead this group. My mom knew. She knew everything. “50, 700, so what,” she said. “You can totally do this!” She was always on my side. She sat in the front row, and I led them. With words and heart and flinging arms, a little singing, and stage racing…I had them, all 700. And it was glorious — for me, Superior!

We woke to smell of baking the next morning. What was that delicious scent? We went down to breakfast. Still intoxicated by yesterday’s accomplishment, we were starving. Waffles. That glorious smell was waffles. You have to know the back story to know why this is significant. When my father had left decades earlier, he took with him the waffle iron. My mother was the only one who liked waffles. Of all the blows to ego and heart and soul and mind, this was the easiest one to fight, and so began the great waffle ban. Neither of us would eat them. This included any syrup enriched breakfasts such as pancakes, but the waffles were the banner of the banning.

Sometimes we choose to grow. Sometimes growth is thrust upon us. We were not the people we used to be. None of us. There were no more limits but the ones we placed on ourselves. We had chosen life. Joy! Chance! We were proud of our story. Ready to tell it! Ready to live it! We ate those waffles, and never spoke of the ban again.

It’s not lost on me as I see the lift bridge of Duluth today. Rising up, letting things pass. I suppose we all have to do this. Life is as sweet as you make it!

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In the white space.


One of the best lessons I learned as an artist was not in the creation, but in the white space. Whether it is on the canvas, or the wall around it, there has to be space for the eye to rest. The white space. To see the art, to really be able to feel it, there must be space around it, so it can breathe, it can live. When it all becomes too cluttered, then nothing can really be seen. Not even the best of art.

I suppose it’s the same with living.

There are a million books written about it. Grief. It only recently occurred to me — looking at my grandfather’s portrait. I’m living in that white space. Missing my mother. (My grandpa and grandma too.) But it made me feel better, seeing it this way. It’s all part of the big picture. This white space — this emptiness — it shows us the real beauty of life. And it’s not separate from the art of living, it’s a necessity. So I feel it. And I know that I’m lucky. What a privilege to be a part of these glorious lives. To rest in the space beside them. Knowing that we are all a part of the same work. We are together. Always.

I only mention it because maybe you are missing someone. Maybe you are resting in this space. And maybe, for a moment, you too can see the beauty of it all — the endless art of this living…

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Open.

Bracing her hands against her knees, still looking up at the painting, smiling, joyful tears filled her eyes. I stepped closer in, wanting too, to be caught in her moment of happiness.

It isn’t often that I get to finish the sale in person. Normally it’s online, and then I ship it out. The grateful emails are nice, but nothing like being face to face. Yesterday, I got to witness her reaction. In real life. In real time. Of course the money is always nice. There is validation to the dollar amount. But to see the reaction. To know that this painting brings her and her husband home, this is priceless. This is why I keep painting.

There is an intimacy to this life, that should never be missed. When people allow you into their moments, be it tears of joy, or sorrow, go all the way in. Stand beside the raised arms or bent knees and feel the moment. It is the most precious gift we have to give. We have to receive. It takes courage, for sure, to do both, but the rewards are immeasurable.

I hope you see these words each day as doors. As windows. Come in, you and your heart sit down.

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Here.

I would always sit in the front row. I loved my English LIterature courses. I wanted to be a part of it all. My hand shot up before my mouth even knew what was going to come out. “You’ll think of something, ” my fingers encouraged as they waved in the air. It wasn’t about assuming I was right. Not about proving my point. I just wanted to be involved. To be among the words. Part of the discourse. 

I sat slunched in my chair. Sweating. Sick. My roommate had told me to stay in bed, but I didn’t want to miss out. Within the hour, my mom was on her way to pick me up from college and bring me back home for an emergency appendectomy. When Dr. Merickel gave the diagnosis of acute appendicitis, I smiled. He asked why I was smiling. “You said it was cute.” We hear what we want to hear. 

I went back to school two days later, a little lighter, but no less enthusiastic. All that learning prepared me for what was to come. Not in the way you might think. I didn’t learn any foreign languages. So when I moved to France, arms at my side, I feared the conversation. Even the most simple were acute! Trapped inside an introduction, I heard my brother-in-law introduce me as his belle-sœur, I beamed. I heard the word belle and thought “pretty.” And the word soeur meaning “sister.” It turns out that belle-sœur means sister-in-law. But once again, in this need to belong, to be a part of the conversation, I heard what I needed to hear. 

I don’t always get it right. I don’t think it’s always necessary. What we do have to be is brave. Curious. Willing to open our hearts and get involved. Be a part of it all. When I raise my hand today, it’s to wave you in. Welcome to my conversation. I’m glad you’re here.

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Find the good.

The first set of paper dolls I received was for my 7th birthday from Wendy Schoeneck. My mother had always taught me to smile when receiving a gift. I didn’t know why she had made such a point of it. I suppose up until then, I had always been thrilled with my presents. Wendy was smiling so intently, watching me tear the wrapping paper. So pleased with what was about to be revealed. I scraped the yellowed Scotch tape from the last reluctant piece, only to reveal, to my horror, Buffy and Jody paper dolls. Not only had they spelled my name wrong, but Jody was the boy. I glanced up at my mother. I knew she knew. I guess her constant reminders paid off, because I forced a smile in Wendy’s direction. She couldn’t seem to tell that it was more pain than gratitude.

We played music. Pinned the tail on the donkey. Dropped the clothespins in the bottle. Passed around the presents. Laughed and held sweaty hands in circles. All had been forgotten and forgiven.

One of my presents was a Winnie the Pooh giant story book. We all started to sing the Pooh song, when one of the girls noticed that Winne the Pooh could quickly and easily be translated to Wendy the Pooh. Others joined in. Some giggled. But not Wendy. I knew she felt bad. I opened the box of paper dolls and my mom got out the scissors. We cut out the clothes and quickly forgot about both Poohs. It was a good gift after all. Wendy was smiling. My mom was smiling. And so was I, for real this time.

Sometimes it’s hard to see life’s gifts. They often come ill-wrapped at unwelcomed times. But even the hardest day is kind enough to pass. Find the good. It’s out there.

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The wayward pony.

I suppose everything is about context. It’s not like I’d normally be afraid of a pony. (I’ve even painted them.) But yesterday, when I looked up from the path to turn the corner and almost ran into one, I must say it was alarming. And he wasn’t alone. There was a donkey. A llama. Many sheep. Rams. Other ponies. I don’t know who was in charge of this gang by the river. There were no other humans in sight. Neither the sheep, nor the donkey seemed to care that I was there, but what I can only assume as the lead pony, looked at me like I was the suspicious one.

After taking pictures, I kept walking. The whole path seemed different. I felt disoriented. This path, that I could normally navigate in my sleep, suddenly felt completely strange. Had that always been there? What about this? Did I miss my turn?

I started to take inventory. I knew this rock. This tiny bridge. To walk up the slope on the left side. The smell of these trees. The purple flowers growing out of the concrete fence. I knew this path.

Life can throw you the strangest curves. And you can’t prepare for everything. And sometimes each step can become unfamiliar. When it happens, it may sound silly, but I always take my own inventory. Am I safe? Yes. Am I loved? Yes. Do I have to be afraid? No. I step aside from the wayward pony, smile, and keep walking.

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