Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: celebrate


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One more twirl.

Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport. 

We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk. 

We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped. 

Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is! 

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Through any door.

My grandma pulled into her driveway. Put the car in Park. I unbuckled my seatbelt. Pulled up the lever to unlock the door. As she opened her door, she looked over at me and said, “Don’t say anything about her arms…”

I didn’t have time to question her. She was already half way to the front door.

My grandmother made quilts. She made rugs. Some of her friends did too. The friend we were visiting on this day had a giant loom. And apparently, something wrong with her arms. I raced my six year old legs behind her. My grandma pushed me through the door first. Her hand on the small of my back was both the courage and decisiveness I needed. She had done it since I could walk. Even when she was phone sitting at the funeral home, she guided me through each room in this very way. She taught me to enter boldly and gently. To greet whomever was inside. (Even the ones who were no longer with us.) So with the help of her farm hand, I entered the home of the loom woman. She was the largest woman I had ever seen. I’d like to think I didn’t stare, but the extra pinch on my back said differently. “Hello,” I said. I told her my name. “Ivy’s daughter,” my grandma continued. We went to the loom. Her giant arms waved in a way that impressed us differently, but we were equally amazed at the beauty she could create.

My grandma didn’t travel. But you would be mistaken to say that she didn’t see the world. She taught me that not all who lead are out front. Someone has to be there. Behind you. To support you. To make sure you walk through that door. Even when you are uncertain. Perhaps afraid. To present yourself with the assurance of who you are, where you come from. And through it all, to be kind.

I have seen more of the world than I ever could have imagined on that gravel road. But I know, I have never walked through any door alone.







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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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Plain to see.


I suppose it all takes time. To see the ordinary. And to appreciate it. Those of you that follow me here, have come, I hope, to know my grandparents, my mother, my schoolmates, and teachers. Some might say “just plain folks.” And that’s probably true. But maybe that’s the real beauty of it all. To find the spectacular in farmers, housewives and receptionists. To see the extraordinary in the daily living.

And in seeing them, it helps me see myself. Helps me find the gratitude of the day given. Of the toast for breakfast. The smell of coffee. The hand that reaches out for mine.

I am reading the book, “Love, Kurt (The Vonnegut Love Letters). I have this book, only because I have a special friend. Last year, together with our husbands, we went to Stillwater, MN. My friend and I stood in the bookstore as if before the Christmas morning tree. So many gifts in front of us, we had a hard time deciding. We each settled on our present. I loved her choice as much as mine. This year, she gave her book to me. Those simple words don’t seem to give it enough meaning, but I will tell you that it fills my heart. It brings me back to a laughter filled day on brisk streets and slow choices. It, for me too, is a love letter.

In the book, Kurt Vonnegut writes with his young pen, to his young wife, “Angel, will you stick by me if it goes backwards and downwards? Holy smokes, Angel: what if I turn out to be just plain folks?” Tears fill my eyes. I imagine we’ve all had the worries. Will I be special enough to be loved?

It’s these memories, of course, that give me that comfort. That give me the yes. My heart is packed full of the love from these glorious and plain folks. And I have loved them. Love them still. And I am one. Proud to be living with these extraordinary people. It is plain to see, they, we, are more than enough to be loved.

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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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The in-betweens.

She was sitting just a table away from the band. Was it a wedding? In between the ceremony and the dance? To see her sitting there at the table, my not-yet mother, early twenties, I know her. One eye on the other woman at the table. One ear on the music. Size tens slightly tapping under the table. Ready for the dance.

It wouldn’t have been “old time” dancing then. Just dancing. Surely there would have been a polka — I see the tuba. But she was good at the in betweens, my mother. Teaching me that what we had, was exactly enough. It was easy as a child to get caught up in the next of it all. Rushing through Halloween. Making a path with the candy to lead to Thanksgiving. Clear the table. Get the dishes done so we can decorate. Wrap the gifts. Shake the gifts. Unwrap them. Happy New Year! But she taught me to enjoy the middle.

We both loved to read, so she compared it all to a book. Those center pages, when you are so immersed in the story, you don’t want to stop reading, but you don’t want it to end. This was the glorious part of living. This is where I want to live. Still.

It’s still easy for me to get caught up in the what ifs and whens of it all, but then I look at the photo. And I sit in the moment just before the dance. Breathe in the music. I will be happy. Right here. Right now.

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All is as it should be.

As paintings sell, our entryway changes. But not the welcome.

When I came back from my first visit to France, it was to let go of my apartment, and a majority of my things. But being my mother’s daughter, I still visited one of my favorite stores – Anthropologie. The first thing that caught my eye, other than the reflection of myself in a new dress, was a box of large letters. It struck me that I was in the process of melding my name with another. Orsolini and Hills. OH! How fitting that these two letters would describe our new life together. OH, what a surprise to have even met! OH, what delight! OH, my goodness I’m moving to another country! OH, how I will miss my mother! OH, I am in love! OH, I’m doing this!

These letters hang proudly on our front door. LIfe continues to surprise and delight. And certainly, from time to time, they symbolize a hanging heart, an empathetic “oh, understand….” And always, I am welcomed in.

We hung the new painting together. And maybe it’s ironic, or just that all is as it should be — either way, the recently sold painting is going back to my old neighborhood in Minnesota — OH!

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…and so she would dance.

I suppose we all have different destinations. I used to walk down Hopkins Crossroad and take a left onto Minnetonka Blvd. The obvious attraction to many was the bright red roof of the Dairy Queen. But not for me.

It was no accident, I suppose, that there was usually a Dairy Queen next to the softball fields of my youth. In dusted and grass stained uniforms, with skinned knees and sweat matted hair, all the young girls gathered behind cones, and cups. Celebrated or commisserated with frozen cream. Intolerant, being a word well above my reading level, I just knew I would get sick. (After two very unsuccessful attempts.) Sometimes I opted for the Mister Misty – the DQ’s version of shaved ice – but mostly I just went without.

I could have felt sorry for myself. My mother didn’t allow that. “Look around,” she said, on her way back to work, “You have a banana seat bike and a beautiful summer day, figure it out…” So I rode. I rode that bike to lakes. To swingsets. To ballfields. And neighbors. The North End. Parks. On gravel and hills. In cemeteries. Empty school yards. To the public library. Ben Franklin. Hugo’s field. I saw everything. I pedaled the paths and when the paths got too thick, I dropped my bike and walked. And walked some more. As I wore the flowers from my banana seat, and the soles from my bumper tennis shoes, without my knowledge or permission, I was indeed figuring it out.

I still think of it as my superpower — seeing beyond the obvious red roof. During my Minnetonka stay, I saw it almost every day, the weeping willow just before the DQ. One autumn, after dancing with it for an entire summer, I came home and gave thanks on the canvas. For the willow. The road. My mother. The love of the dance.

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More ideas.

Sometimes it takes me a while to get there, but I usually do.

I’m no different from the next person when it comes to packing a suitcase, if that next person is slightly neurotic and overly excited. It’s still three weeks away, but the neurons in charge of organization have already begun counting underwear and creating a capsule wardrobe. “Wouldn’t it be great,” they urged, “if we had packing cubes, and other various sorting devices for the suitcases…” I nodded inside my own head and began searching the web. The options, while infinite, didn’t seem exactly right. I searched through sizes and colors and prices. The right price was the wrong country of origin. The right color was the wrong size. The right size was the wrong price. I searched and fumbled. Added some to cart. Backed out. Searched again. After about an hour and forty-five minutes, it became clear that I could use the random tote bags given free from the pharmacy and the stash of bags my mother gave to me from the make-up counter promotions. I take a breath. I take a pause. I have everything I need. What a relief to quit searching…unless that is, I need more clothes… That’s when I play fashion show from my own closet and once again realize, I have more than plenty.

I suppose it’s true with almost everything — we don’t need more things, we need more ideas. Of course there are specific times when you require a precise tool, object, (even scarf or scarves to match your autumn overcoat), but most of the time I find, if I’m creative enough, thoughtful enough, I already have the perfect solution. And it usually feels great! To shop your own closet and create a new look. To sand and sand the abandoned wood and make a new frame. To create a delicious recipe out of the left-overs. To give the neurons a break and let my heart and hands take over.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for commerce. I bought two new books yesterday. (I will use the french bag as backing for a framed picture, but still.) And I want you to buy pictures and books and cards, even from me (insert shameless plug here). So what was my point? I don’t know…maybe Marie Kondo had it right, about all the “sparking joy.” I like that. I think it’s a good idea…I guess that was the point, after all, more ideas — more joyful ideas! Wishing you a day filled with them.

Pause, and spark!

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Doing Better.

It’s no secret that I read a lot. Often they make the books into movies. Often I’m disappointed. For me, the words seem to paint a more realistic picture. A vivid representation of the person or people inside the story. Not tainted or swayed by the pressures of Hollywood. I wonder when we were first sold the idea that people, in order to be a hero, or heroine, had to “look the part.” I, I say with great fortune, have lived a life to the contrary. 

I have written about so many that have saved me through the years. Mr. Whitman, the caretaker of the cemetery, dirtied and slumped from the weight of burying the people from town. My grandfather, callused hand reaching behind his stained overalls to bring me along, bring me through. Chubbied Grandmother wiping kitchen hands on apron, just to give us something sweet. Wearied teachers, still finding a way to say the words that just might carry us. Tear-stained mother who laughed with unfaltering grace. 

So it came as a surprise to me, the woman in New York standing in front of my portrait of Maya Angelou — a sage I return to again and again. She read the words and seemed to be moved. She praised them. I thanked her. She wanted to buy copies, but whispering sheepishly now, “maybe without the picture.” Whispering even lower now, “you know, maybe she could be a bit polarizing to my customers.” 

I laughed. How ironically and completely opposite of the words that she claimed to love. 

Kindness. Truth. Beauty. Wisdom. Hope. Leadership. Strength. Love. It comes in all sorts of “packaging.” Each a gift. 

Maya would have forgiven her. As she always said, “When we know better, we do better.” I put the words and paintings before you, before myself, daily, in the hopes of doing just that… better.

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