Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: chance


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To the mountain.

I see the Sainte Victoire mountain every day. It always catches my breath. On the halfway point of my daily walk I get the best view. I try to drink it in slowly. It is the latte I order extra hot to make it last longer. It is the tentative first sip of familiar and spectacular against my lips. Delicious.

Sometimes I wonder if I would have noticed it. Would I have just gulped it in and moved on? It was Cezanne who led me to it. Painting by painting. Image by image. In books and museums. Telling me again how worthy it was. How beautiful. And I believed it before I stood beneath it. Before I climbed it. Before I painted it. 

That’s what we can do for each other. It’s why I love a latte, I suppose. Because of each one shared with my mother, with my friends. Each sip an experience. Of laughter and tears. An extension of a meal. A way to make the afternoon last longer. A gathering of love, sip by sip. 

And the thing is, we can do it with everything. When we share what we love. The things we find important. When we show each other the view from our hearts, it can be the familiar turned spectacular. I mean it’s just a rock, a giant rock, this Sainte Victoire. So if we can turn that into a “breath-taker” — just imagine what else love can do! 

It’s time to show our hearts. Look at things differently. Open our minds. And just see!!!!

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Stardust.

I don’t suppose the spaces left from loved ones passed can ever be completely filled. But maybe it’s wrong to think they ever were. These relationships weren’t beautiful, memorable, longed for even still, because of their solid perfection. Perhaps they were always stardust, flittering, fluttering, changing shape, with room always left for dancing, beneath the flickering light. 

It’s the way I choose to think of it, my mother’s space, not as a hole left behind, but a dance floor. And all that magic that sprinkles from her still, lights up the people around me, and they step in, tap me on the shoulder, and ask me to dance. They are my new daily connections. My new last calls. My shared laughter and secrets. Hopes and challenges. Not replacements, but keepers of the dance. 

We’re not all good at the same thing. Some are meant to pull you in, and simply sway. Other’s tap their feet and keep the beat alive. Some dizzy you into laughter. Dance you into breathless. And hold out the ladle of punch. I am grateful for them all. All of you, who keep my dance floor filled, my heart in motion, in sway, in the right tempo, under the stardust. 

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Paying attention.

She was the first to notice, the waitress in Stillwater, Minnesota. I have worn these earrings every day for a couple of years — the outline of the Sainte Victoire mountain. She brought the check to the table and asked, “What mountain is that?” I beamed, for me of course, but for her as well — being curious, paying attention. “It’s the Sainte Victoire,” I replied, “in Aix en Provence where we live.” And the conversation began, all because she was alive, awake!

These earrings represent home. Heart. Courage. Strength. They are the mountains I have, can, and will continue to climb daily. What made her, of all people, notice? Even in France, no one has asked about them. But she did. Maybe she was climbing her own mountain. Maybe she was asking her legs to carry what her heart just couldn’t bear at the moment. Or maybe she just liked them. And that’s enough too. The thing is, she asked the question. A specific question. 

We get lazy I think. Uninterested. We settle on the “how are you?”s and think we did enough. But is it? Is it enough? Is it enough to just pass through each other’s lives? Without learning? Without caring?  

Two years of climbing were wiped away in just a few brief seconds, and I was happy! It really takes so little. So I tell myself, I tell you, be curious, pay attention, — it’s not too much to ask. 

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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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There is motion at your front door.

Maybe it’s because I want to hear it. Maybe it’s because Mr. Iverson told us in the first grade that they could be about anything, the poems that he wanted us to write — the poems that he would inscribe neatly on the black board and our hearts, measured out note by note. And they were special. Lyrical. The ordinary things, our houses and shoes. Our games and basements and cars and trees. They all became magical because we called them poetry. 

We recently got a new doorbell for our gate. It is connected to our phones. It gives us the alert whenever motion is detected, even when it’s us. When I go for my morning walk, just past the gate, she pings in my ear and says, “There is motion at your front door.” And every day it is the poem that starts my journey. There IS motion at my front door – and isn’t it a good reminder! I always smile. Because isn’t it what we’ve been told in movies and books. By philosophers and teachers. “When you stop learning you die.” “It’s over when you stop dreaming.” “Sharks never stop swimming. You gotta keep moving.” The list goes on. It’s all about motivation. And could there be a better place to start than your front door? So I hear it. I feel it. There IS motion! I AM alive! And so I begin with my doorbell’s poem, off in search of another. Because we get to decide. We hold the chalk that turns the cursive words into prayers and sets the path of our journey. 

I have to go now. Begin. Create something. There is motion at my heart’s door. 

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Coo-coo and hum.

I have know idea how they got them in the house. It never occurred to me to think of those things — the logistics of moving an organ, a clock. And just as I assumed this clock that coo-cooed on the hour was called a Grandfather clock because it was his, I thought it was a Grandma organ, because it was hers. 

But it must have been fairly spectacular – this finding of an organ mover, a clock mover, to a farm house just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota. And they must have come through the front door – a door we never used, never even considered. And even if they came through this front door, there would have been a stoop to be navigated. A tiny hall before reaching the living room. But as I said, I didn’t think of it, how they got there. But I did count on it, them being there. 

And that was the gift, I suppose. It was all an assurance. One I didn’t ask for, or prayed to keep, I just had it. I knew, without a doubt, what would be found in this house. Coats and overalls hanging in the entry. A kitchen table with uneven legs. Candy in the corner cupboard on the lazy-susan. Sugared cereal beneath the silverware drawer beside the kitchen sink, a kitchen sink that was forever filled with dishes. Something on the stove. Publisher’s Clearing house magazines on the dining room table. The hint of pipe tobacco and baked goods. Television on. A ticking clock. The hum of the organ at the ready. And a love, no matter how many doors or windows were left open, would never leave. 

So it continues to be spectacular — this never knowing how it all got in — mostly the love. I just remember always having it. I still have it. And what a thing to move! To carry throughout a lifetime! Enough to make a heart ever coo-coo and hum.

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Dress up.

I asked my grandpa, “Where do they keep their coats?” He looked confused. “The cows,” I said. 

On the way to my grandpa’s place, we passed many other farms. Some of the cows were black. Some black and white. Some brown. Maybe it was because I watched my mother in a constant state of wardrobe change. Maybe because we played dress up. And fashion show. I assumed the cows were putting on their outfit of choice before they went to the field. Wasn’t that what the barn was for? The stalls? To hang their coats at night?

I’m not sure how long I believed it. But I remember he didn’t correct me the first time. Some magic should remain for as long as possible. I think he knew that. 

I love that I have no recollection of the truth being revealed. Not for this. Nor Santa Claus. Or the Easter Bunny. None of that magic was jerked from my heart. It was allowed to wander at a cow’s pace in the changing fields of color. 

It was my mother who always wanted to be a fashion designer. Some might say that never happened. I disagree. She taught me well. And just ask any Herberger’s shopper. She was always more than willing to lend her hand in design. She taught me that dreams don’t necessarily have to “come true,” to be valuable. The mere act of dreaming — believing in the sometimes unbelievable — saved us repeatedly.  It still does. 

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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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Letting it in.

It’s not that I have to, it’s that I get to… Don’t get me wrong, I often have to remind myself of that very thing, but it’s always true.

It was a springtime funeral. I remember it because I was wearing my birthday dress in the back of the Chevy Impala. I know it was the first grade because Gerald Reed complimented me on that dress. (It’s funny, but I recall my childhood more in grades than in years. Perhaps that’s the power of learning.) It must have been a distant family member or friend because we stopped to pick up my grandparents. I scooted over on the maroon interior to make room for my grandpa. Springtime was the busiest for him. All the preparing. It set the stage for the entire year. Keeping the farm was based on the work put in each spring. My mother, knowing this, said as he slid in the back, “It’s nice to have you here, but you didn’t have to come…” “I don’t have to,” he said, “I get to.” He patted my knee. I don’t remember the funeral. But I remember this.

We will be asked to do the most impossible things. To bear the unbearable. To live the unlivable. Love guarantees this. But all that we get from it — for me — makes it worth every second. We get to love each other. Be there for each other.

Do the words come easier some days than others? Sure. Does the love come easier at times? Of course. But I get to do this. We get to do this. Feel this. Live this. And I will choose my life, scoot over to let it all in, every day.

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