Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: change


by Leave a comment

The power within.

After a vacation, I need to get unpacked immediately. I don’t like hovering “between two kingdoms.” With both suitcases emptied, something seemed to be missing — a small candle that I found at a bookstore. I looked through my purchase pile. Emptied the sacks. Nothing. Went back to the closet. Felt through each zippered pocket of the suitcases. Still nothing. 

I went to bed that evening, still hoping my jet-lagged brain would kick in the next day. Sleep came quickly, and left with the same speed. Just after 2am my eyes blinked open with the knowledge — “It’s in your shoe!” Smiling, I went back to sleep. It was always with me.

After breakfast the next morning, I checked the inside of my New Balance tennis shoe. And there it was. My beautiful little candle. And bonus, also the tiny Native American vase I forgot about. Both safe and sound. 

Going for a walk, the French path seemed brand new. I saw the blooming trees, again, for the first time. My feet steadied the way as my head circled from bird to bird, branch to branch, curve through curve. Years ago I wrote, “I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.” I still believe. They still do. Short of clicking my no-heeled shoes together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I returned home, understanding that I still, and always, have the power within me.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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…

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Heading North.

Heart first.

I know there are strategies to Wordle. Of course certain letters appear more than others. Using the most vowels on the first word is helpful. If you want to take a deep dive, there are websites. Tips. Tricks. Hacks. I love the game, but I don’t play like that.

Yesterday, the first email I received was inquiring about my painting of the North End. I used the word “north” as my second word, and solved the puzzle. It’s fun to get a two, sure, but for me it’s the most fun when I can relate it to what’s happening in my life. Not that I think the New York Times actually bases the game around me. It’s not “about” me — I know this. But I like to be involved. Insert myself in the game. I want to be a part of it all.

All the teachers at Washington Elementary gave us valuable skills. How to read, spell, write, do the math. But it was Miss Green who not only gave us the tools, but showed us how to build something. We could have just written reports. Structured sentences and paragraphs, but she had us taking Spelling Trips. Each week we randomly picked a place on the map and had to write a story about getting there, being there. We had to place ourselves inside the lesson.

I suppose I’m still doing that. Joyfully. What’s the point of learning, of living even, if I’m not involved. Certainly it changes the stakes. I know being involved means I’m also going to risk being hurt. Hearts on sleeves are vulnerable — but oh how they can feel the love!

You can play it however you like — Wordle, this life… that’s the beauty of it, we get to choose. Me, I’m going to throw myself in the mix, heart first — heading North!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Palette.

It’s not like we were told, but I think we all assumed we had to pick one. By October in each school year at Jefferson Senior High, we fell into line. Jocks, Hoods, Preppies, Nerds, Geeks. Some of us tried to hover between band, the gym and English class, but the differences were clear. Sometimes even uniformed. The only thing I was sure about was that everyone seemed so sure in their roles. Perhaps they thought the same about me. I wasn’t.

I suppose it takes a long time to build a soul. A life. Along the way you discover parts. Tiny sparks of color that make you feel a little bit more like yourself. You grow and change. Adaptations often more regular than choice (maybe these adjustments are the real choices).

Looking at the palette that makes up my latest creation, I smile. A dab of this. A stroke of that. This collection — this beautiful mess of colors that make up my life. Yes, I am an artist. An author. But I dip my brush and I bake. I dip my brush and play yard sports with the kids. I dip my brush and travel. Play fashion show. And read. And build. And change. Stroke by stroke, I am given my wings. Not confined by stereotypes or assumptions. I am my own blend of feathers. And one way or another, I am going to fly!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Nothing but bath mats.



I wanted to ask him what I was supposed to do now. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He should know. Him with all the answers. The plans to each season. I kept watching him. Silent. Taking in all of my mother’s broken words. My heart screamed into my unopened mouth — say something!!!! I knew he had liked my father. I knew it wasn’t only my mom and I that felt the break. There isn’t just one crack when a family splits. But he was the shoulders — my grandfather, her father, this farmer that stood beside the kitchen table. He was the master of dirt. Changing it into green and gold. Why wasn’t he changing this?

I kept staring out the window. He said a few things to my mother. I don’t know that she felt better, no, better would take time. But I could see relief. Relief of weight. Of story. Some words aren’t meant to be carried.

I was still waiting. Waiting for my “few.” His worked hand cupped over most of my shoulder and part of my back. He leaned in. “It’s not it,” he whispered, “you get to decide.” My heart was not yet even green, but I knew better would come, in my season.

Stepping out of the shower yesterday in Mississippi, I reached for the stack of towels I had asked for from the maid in the hall on my return from the gym. The top towel — a bath mat. I threw it on the floor and got out. Second towel. Third. Bath mats. She had given me nothing but bath mats. Cold and trying to wrap in the impossibly small cloth, I started to laugh. I ran to my iPad and wrote down the words, “Nothing but bath mats.” I decided it was going to be a great day.

We don’t always get to chose the words we are given, but make no mistake, we decide the story.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Wander-welcomed.


Where your heart can rest, and your mind can wander, I guess that’s home.

We pulled into the town. I felt no connection. That feeling when you know you’re lonesome, but you just can’t pinpoint for what. We drove the Main Street. How could there be no parking spaces and yet nothing to park for? We turned on 10th per Google’s direction for coffee. It must have closed. Try ninth, she suggested. Driving slowly I saw the coffee shop, next to a bookstore. Yes!

The first sip was the familiar road. Entering the bookstore, well, that was home.Nestled in all those words, I was wander-welcomed. It’s a rare combination, this feeling of calm and excitement. This feeling that anything could be true, could be real, even the story of yourself.

I don’t have a physical place to go to, in the sense that some would call home. Not my grandparents’, nor my mother’s house. But I have something else. I have the stories they gave to me. I can take them anywhere. Everywhere.

Recently I found a note, a birthday card, tucked into one of my mom’s books. It was from her mother. I don’t know for which birthday. It would have been true any year. She wrote of what a lovely daughter she was and how she made the world a better place. These words are the open doors to my forever. My safe. My possible.

I’m the lucky one. I can walk into this unfamiliar bookstore, in this unfamiliar town, and be gathered in. Sensing the stories I carry, the words that rest on shelf and table say, “Come in, you and your heart sit down.” I do. We do. We all are home. Indeed, a better place.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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.







Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Present.

The way they warned us, the teachers at Washington Elementary, trouble seemed to be a place, a spot. “Don’t get into trouble,” they said. The only “trouble” I was having was figuring out where this place was exactly. Because when the teacher said, “Now Steven is in trouble,” he seemed to still be right there, sitting beside us. Hadn’t he said “present,” when she called out his name? Why couldn’t I understand? How come I couldn’t see it? Maybe trouble was invisible, I thought.

It sounds funny, I suppose, but it turns out, I wasn’t all that wrong. We never know what people are going through. We see the outsides so easily, but that’s usually not the whole story. To see the real story, we need to actually be present. It’s not enough to just call it out. We have to be there. Show up. Again and Again. And ask questions when we don’t understand. Listen. Raise our hands. Reach out. Find a way to connect. See with our hearts what our eyes cannot. Make all around us visible. 

And if you saw that I am not just my face, but all that I have faced, and if I did that for you…

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Pulled in close.

From the age of five we began looking to see if things fit.

We got our feet measured at Iverson’s shoes, checking for the length and width in the silver contraption. After wiggling our toes inside the bumper tennies, the man on the triangle seat pinched the ends in search of our toes. If he gave the all clear we raced to the glass windows and back. And we were shoed.

In Herberger’s basement, when it was still on Main Street, we tried on pants. The clerk pulled at our waistbands to check for room. Tugged at the length and estimated the time before they would be too short. Up the stairs, past the billing department, were the dresses. Beautiful dresses that were measured to our knees. Zipped up our backs. Smoothed down the fronts.

Dr. Blanchard checked for space in our mouths. Dr. Perkins took our heights and weights. We stood in lines in the school gymnasium to check our eyes and our hearing. All, I supposed, to see if we actually fit.

I had my own checks and balances. Accompanying my mother to Olson’s Supermarket. I waited for her in front of the book section, right by the check out lines. I would pick out the words I understood. Look at the pictures. Then clutch it to my heart. Somehow my heart always knew. The woman in the red smock asked what I was doing. “Just seeing if it fits,” I said. My mother never had to ask. She knew me.

I suppose I’m still doing that. With everything. People. Places. Time. The only way I have ever been able to tell if something really fits is by clutching it to my heart. Sometimes it still stumbles over the bigger words. The tighter spots. The growing pains. But pulled in close, beat by beat, it always leads me home.

Shop Now!