Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: bravery


by Leave a comment

Heart bound.

We lived in three houses on VanDyke Road. We didn’t stop until we reached Grandma Mullen. For this brief moment in time, we were wedged between the two grandmas — Dynda and Mullen. The fact that we were related to neither of them, didn’t make the grandma bookends any less special.

We choose what holds us up. What keeps us together.

I remember thinking that gold was actually the color of white. Because in all of the fairy tale books beside my fairy-tale-needing bed, the women had hair “spun from gold.” The two grandmas had the finest, whitest hair. Hair that seemed so different, so magical, that my chubby fingers could do nothing but reach out and make a wish. A golden wish — that I would be forever held.

We lost that house. My mom and I moved into town. The grandmas passed away. They paved the road. I left the city. The state. And eventually the country. Some might say, “Well, that golden wish sure didn’t come true…” I guess it’s all what you choose to see. I think it has. I think it continues.

We used to play a game. Telephone. Strings and tin cans. Whispering into the tin, our voices traveled through the string into the other can. We said things that we didn’t dare say out loud in the light of day. Words only safe on magical white string. Sometimes, before I fell asleep, I’d imagine that Grandma Dynda would whisper a secret. One that would travel across the vacant lot. Through my open window. Translated by my heart. Passing through the trees, into the bedroom of Grandma Mullen. We were all connected.

You might say that VanDyke road was the place where everything fell apart. Or you could say, it is the place that gave me the tools to keep everything together. That’s what I choose. Daily. What lifts me. Daily. What holds me together. Forever wedged within the magic. Heart bound in the belief that we are all connected.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Seeing it!

“What a horrible looking snack,” I thought as they handed me the cone. I was raised to be polite, so I didn’t say anything. I looked at the other 6 year olds in line. Were they horrified? They didn’t seem to be. I held the cone filled with… with what? What was this? Were they nuts? Maybe. Or dogfood? They wouldn’t feed us dog food? Would they? Not on a school field trip. No one else was eating it, thank goodness, as we walked single file into the Deer Park. The Deer Park. Before Funland. Before Valley Fair. Before Six Flags. This is what we had. No rides. No lights. No games. But still, we were excited. Excited because it meant leaving the classroom. Getting on a bus. Singing. Tickling. Pushing. Anticipating. We got out into the gravel parking lot. Went beyond the fence. Got our cone filled “snack” and proceeded to the deer. What a relief it was to see the first boy in line hold his cone out to feed the ever-so-tame baby deer. It was for the deer! “Ohhhhhhh!” I exclaimed, my audible realization. All the other kids turned to look at me, and so I covered with — “Oh, look, at the pretty deer!” We all smiled and wriggled in our single-file.

“Did you touch their noses? They were wet!” “I did! I touched a nose!” “Well, I was licked!” “You were licked?!” “Well,” not to be outdone, one boy professed, “I was bit!” “Bit????” we screamed in unison. Mrs. Bergstrom smoothed her stern face down to her stern skirt. “Maybe just a nibble.” he said. She continued to stare him down. “No,” he said, “I guess just licked.” She winked. Mrs. Bergstrom winked. We sang out the open windows, wishing the day would never end.

Back at Washington Elementary, our legs bounced beneath our desks. She told us to put our heads down. “Relax,’ she said. Relax? How could we relax? What we had experienced! It was so joyfully overwhelming. Heads down, we danced in the memory.

We had no cameras. We had each other. We saw and felt everything. I have no proof but for the space that remains filled in my heart. A tiny space where deer may nibble at the truth, and children may wriggle in the dream. I raise my head and see out the morning window. “OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH, Look!!!!”

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Pot by pot.

One of the greatest lessons I received in humanity at Central Junior high school, was not, in fact, in a humanities course, nor social studies… not in any of the rooms on the top floors. But it was in the basement, in art class. Our mustached teacher gave us the great news that we were going to be allowed to throw pots. Use the potter’s wheels. The room filled with “Oooohs!!”

We had tipped our toes on the wheels anxiously throughout the year, but weren’t allowed on. And then the day came. The week actually. We were shown different techniques on the glorious spinning wheel. But in order for us to succeed our teacher said, we all had to succeed. If we didn’t do everything he told us regarding our ashtrays, our bowls, our undeciphered knick knacks, we could make things bad, not only for ourselves, but for everyone. It wasn’t just about succeeding with our own creation. Because, as he explained, if we did a poor job, didn’t pay attention to the rules, the guidelines, or didn’t treat the clay with the respect that it deserved…then our projects were likely to blow up in the kiln and ruin all the other creations. No one wanted to be that bursting pot. We listened. We worked. We scratched our initials in the clay. We, as a group of seventh graders, paid more attention in this class, than any other.

On the last day of our pottery cycle, we walked into the art room. Hopeful. We watched as our teacher pulled his mustache slowly from his lips. We held our breath. And slowly he smiled. We all exhaled. He took us to the rack. No broken pots. We beamed. Were they the most beautiful ceramics ever? Certainly not. But we had created something special – certainly! We had worked together. Saw something bigger than ourselves. We wanted to succeed. We wanted everyone to succeed. What could be more beautiful than that?!

Without the aid of uniforms or cheerleaders, we had come together in the basement of Central Junior High. We waited until we were in the clearing of the hallway that day to high five each other. Celebrate this collective victory! This strange group of brains, and geeks, and jocks and nerds, and hoods…our own Breakfast Club of Central Junior High!

I think of it often as I write. As I paint. It’s a glorious thing to be creative. To be an individual. And make no mistake, we were allowed that in 7th grade. We were allowed to form and glaze our pots however we saw fit. And we proved it was possible. To be free and easy. To be joyful and unique. Not at the expense of others, but right along with them.

What if we lived like that? I want to live like that. Pot by pot. Day by day.

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Grab hold.

If you’ve been a follower, it probably won’t alarm you to hear that we moved Uncle Wally into the back yard.  (Uncle Wally is our baby Walnut tree who is not such a baby any more.) It’s not surprising how easily and quickly he outgrew his space by the front door. But we were more than a little amazed at the strength and depth of his roots.  

On hands and knees we dug for three days. The impressive tangles crept deeper and deeper. Impossible to just pull. So this is how he did it. Does it. Stands against the Mistral (the winds of provence).

There are times in life when we are asked to do the same. Forced to dig to the very depths of our soul and hang on. And it’s hard and it’s messy, but when you find it, when you get to the roots of your very heart and soul, and see how strong they really are…it’s then you stand a little taller. A little stronger. It’s then you have the strength to not only withstand the wind, but provide a stable force for someone else. Someone still fresh in the dig. 

We can do this for ourselves. For each other. I think we’re meant to. Grab hold. Dig deep. It’s nature at its finest.

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Asked to grow.


We had to trim our olive tree down to almost nothing. It was growing into the shade of a large pine tree. It just wouldn’t be able to survive in all that darkness. It was hard to watch as each branch fell to the ground. But it has a chance now. A chance to grow in the other direction. A chance to thrive in its own light.

He cut a thin slice of one branch for me. I began sanding. First with the 40. Then the 80. The 120. Change doesn’t always come quickly. Two days of sanding, and it is cheek brushing smooth. This olive branch lives on as a coaster on my desk. The desk that faces the window. The window that shows the olive stump. The olive stump that has a chance at new life.

Change can sometimes feel like a chainsaw to our limbs. But it’s often our only chance to grow. And we don’t always get to be ready. But we do get to decide — decide whether these will be growing pains, or simply pain. I choose growth. May we all choose growth.

The sun is coming up. I drink from the cup that rests on the coaster that came from the tree that waves to me with its hopeful limb. Welcome to the garden!

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Crossing over.

We felt like we knew a secret. Decoding DKNY. Donna Karan New York. She was one of the first designers displayed as you entered City Center in downtown Minneapolis. My mom and I thought it was like entering the magic kingdom. The greatest part was that we shared the key.

We spent most of our time in the designer sections. We couldn’t afford to buy it. We couldn’t afford to miss it. We tried on everything. And the matching shoes. It was never about having, it was about seeing. Experiencing. Adoring, not only the clothes, but this time together.

Yesterday, walking in Aix en provence, I was listening to a podcast. It was the designer that first helped Donna Karan launch her brand. They were both just starting out. Both New Yorkers, with all the love that entails. The designer listened as Karan expressed her love for New York, as they sat under the Brooklyn Bridge. It reminded him of the story of why he was in love with this city. As a young boy, his grandfather — a fishmonger — would bring him to this bridge in the middle of the night. They set up for the early morning sales. His grandfather gave him this bridge. Gave him this dream. With this beating inside of him, it was so natural, so easy for him to create the branding for Donna Karan. He included the image of the bridge. The words New York. And gave birth to both of their careers.

I imagine my mother, sitting in my grandfather’s pickup. Sweaty legs against the vinyl seat, at the last stoplight before turning into town. Waiting anxiously for him to put the truck into gear, place his foot on the gas, and take her across the “Brooklyn Bridge” of her heart and into the city of Alexandria.

He took her to Alex. She took me to Minneapolis. I eventually took her to New York. Love always leads us. Helps us cross over, to the beauty that lies ahead.

No dream left unspent.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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.

Shop Now!