Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: celebrate


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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.

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Celebrating jam!

I made a small batch of raspberry jam last night. I’m surprised I even slept, with the excitement of having it for breakfast. 

When the birds told me to open up the shutters, I donned my slippers and made the bed, quick as a wink. I clipped down the stairs and saw it — as red as Christmas morning. I brewed the coffee and toasted the bread (bread that I had also made). 

“Look at that color!” I exclaimed to Dominique. The perfume of the raspberries lingered through each bite. I held up the small jar in wonder. Mid-song of my praises, I began to laugh. I was transported to my grandparents’ table. The floor above the countless jars my grandma had filled. With nine children, I can guarantee that there was never a time my grandma sat at the table, admiring her jam, saying, “Look, Rueben!  Look at that color!”  I’m still laughing.

It’s glorious to make things. I want to live in a world of makers. And we should take pleasure in it. Joy even! But before we get too full of ourselves, thanks must be given to those who made the paths. Those who didn’t have the luxury of the morning stroll, but those who labored so that we could!  

My grandmother’s kitchen was always mid-boil, mid-brew. 9 children. 27 grandchildren. She didn’t have time to teach us recipes. She didn’t even have time to follow recipes. She just added, guessed, tested. So how is it that I remember the soothing rumble of her aproned belly, as I rode in the laughter of her lap. She still had the time. Took the time. For me. Perhaps the greatest gift of all!  

So, I say go ahead and celebrate the morning jam! The morning coffee! The morning laughter! What better way to give thanks?!!!

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Be the giggle.


As someone who grew up in the ice and snow of a Minnesota winter, I consider myself a bit of an expert, but through the years I have found nothing to be as slippery as old habit.

I decided to take a new path yesterday. I turned left instead of right out of our driveway. Across the bridge then towards the city. Cars raced past me. It was louder. The sidewalk seemed a little harder. Maybe I should just turn back, I thought. But I kept going. Turned to go down the embankment. I could hear the sound of the river. Bienvenue, it rolled. The ground softened. The colors brightened. I stopped thinking and started looking. Flowers were new. Listening. Two young girls giggled as they waded in the sea of white flowers. It’s hard not to smile when you hear giggling. And soon everything seemed to be — the water, the trees, the fountain, the birds — they were all in on it…

There are days, I must admit, when my brain wanders down a negative path. And it knows the way. So easily it can slide. And replay the tapes of negativity. Over and over. Step after slippery step. I’m getting better at catching it – before I slide too far. I really have to take a sharp turn to a new thought. And it can be as simple as changing rooms. Reading a book in a new chair. Going outside. Turning left.

As uncomfortable as change can be, it may also be the gift we are looking for. The gift we can’t seem to find sliding down the same old path. A butterfly kissed my cheek just before arriving back home. I get it. The universe wants us to be happy!

Some might lose their way today. If you’re able, be the giggle that walks beside, then leads them home.

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Coffee and love.

I remember the last coffee my mom and I had with my grandma. She was sitting at her round table when we opened the door. An empty cup with coffee grounds just within reach. I bent down to hug her. She reached up her arms to grab hold. So frail. She started to push herself up against my shoulders.  “No, no… you don’t have to get up.”  “Yes, I do,” she said, “You’re here.” I knew I was loved.

Most of her cups were stained. Not dirty, but showed the years of use. We took two from the cupboard and sat with her. I had just sold a painting. I remember telling her for how much, and she made the big “OOOOOH” sound with her rounded mouth and clapped her hands together. With that one sound, I received more than any payment. 

It wasn’t long before her head was asleep against her fist. We washed the cups and helped her to bed. The waft of coffee and love followed us out the door.

I suppose that’s why I write the stories each day — to keep the smell of love brewed alive and following. My grandma’s love. My mother’s love. 

Not that long ago, I was struggling through the tears of tenderness. I was writing this daily blog. A dear friend told me, “You don’t have to do it every day.” “Yes, I do,” I replied, “She was here.”

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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!

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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.

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For good.

They were the whitest things I had ever seen. So delicate. When my mom handed them to me, I couldn’t believe they were my size. They weren’t winter gloves. And my birthday had passed. It wasn’t yet Easter. “Could I try them on?” “Of course,” she said. I slipped my chubby little fingers in the first one. And then the next. I wriggled the tiny faux pearl button into the opposite string on my wrist. I put each arm out. One at a time. And gazed at them, as maybe only little girls do. “Are they for good?” I asked, meaning for special occasions, holidays. “Yes,” she nodded. “They’re for YOU.” I beamed. It was me. I was the special occasion.

I wore them all day. Pulling my stuffed animals and baby dolls in my rusted wagon. Up and down the gravel road. I’m sure they got dirty. But I only remember the pureness of it all. Of the love given freely. My mother never waited for a special occasion. I knew I was loved. Every day.

We have a wine refrigerator. In it there are wines from the grocery store. Some that were gifts. Some that were purchased at very exclusive vineyards. I don’t pretend to know a lot about wine. I have caught myself at times thinking, when pulling out a bottle for a Tuesday evening, is this too good for a Tuesday? Should we save it? I shake my head and know – we are the good, the special, the occasion to be celebrated.

I encourage you to light the candle. Drink the wine. Wear the nice clothes. Eat the chocolate. Speak freely and often the words of love! For good!

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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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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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True blue.



I got my driver’s license at 16. Not long after, I had a cast on both legs. A full length plaster on my left, from ankle to hip. And on my right from my toes to my knee. I could still walk. A little like Frankenstein. I couldn’t sneak up on anyone, but I kept moving. I could ride my ten speed off-brand bike. I tied a shoe lace around the right pedal to hold my foot in place and rode one legged from Jefferson Street. I could still drive. My mom had a sturdy (even more than we thought) used Chevy Malibu station wagon, in light blue. To get into the driver’s seat, I opened the door wide, lifted my left straight leg, (there was no way to back in) and in one full swoop, I grabbed the steering wheel, slid my left leg under the dash, hoisted myself up by that same light blue wheel, and seated myself at the ready. I’m not saying it was smart, or even legal, but I did it. Somehow we all survived. Me, my mom, and the Blue Chevy.

You never know what will end up supporting you. I suppose it’s the same way with friends. There is no way to anticipate or predict even what you will need. It’s not like you can go to the car dealership and hang from every wheel before you buy the car. But in this life we are gifted by the strength of others. Those beautiful friends who will support you, the full weight of you, when you need them. Without knowledge or permission we grab them by the wheel, and they hold. Some for a lifetime. True blue. I give thanks for them, every day.

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