Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: confidence


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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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Constant journey home.

I have seen them fenced in. Countless times. But it’s different in the wild. In their house. These bison. My heart beat quickly as we drove through the national park reserved for them, not out of fear — I wasn’t going to open a window or try to pet them — but out of excitement, reverence. This was seeing them, really seeing them. Powerful. Graceful. Perhaps even vulnerable, the kind one allows one’s self in the comfort of your own space. And it was beautiful.

Perhaps we could do that with all living beings. Like humans for example.

As I struggled to find my place in the ninth grade, I wandered from group to group. Sports. Creatives. Nerds. Even loners. Looking back I suppose we all thought we were the only ones without a map. I knew I loved reading. Writing. All things English. I did well in my other subjects. I got A’s in everything, but it was only based in work, not in adoration. So it came as a surprise to me when the math teacher asked if I wanted to join the after school group of Mathletes. I laughed at the proposal. I hope he saw it was out of nervousness and not disrespect. It never occurred to me that doing more math would be fun. “Just come. One time,” he said. “See if you like it.” I didn’t tell any of my other friends. Not the girls from the volleyball team. I wasn’t blind. I saw how they were picked on, made fun of, these Mathletes vs. the Athletes. But I went. I was uncertain which room they met in after school. I walked down the long hallway. I could hear laughter. I could see a light from the open door. Certainly it wasn’t them though, I thought. It was loud. Silly sounding. I was shocked to see it was them. High-fiving each other. Joking. So this is what they looked like, in their environment. No one knocking books from their arms. No one cuffing the backs of their heads. Calling them names. They were completely free to be themselves. I stayed the two hours. And I was happy for them. I didn’t join. It wasn’t for me, all that math, but I was so glad I saw it, saw them.

As we travel the country, there are a million places that I would never want to live. So many people I’m sure I don’t agree with in so many ways, but each town, each city, each place is a lesson in humanity. And what a privilege it is to see it. To see people. I hope I’m learning. I want to learn. I want to be respectful, even when I don’t agree. Kind, when I don’t understand.

Not that much has changed since junior high. We’re all still trying to find our way. It’s a journey. We would do well to see that we’re all on one.

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Three Snow Whites and a Viking.

Three Snow Whites stepped out of the Starbucks in Bay City,Texas. It’s just a tiny town. It would have been surprising enough that they even had a Starbucks. And it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but they weren’t laughing. Their shiny black hair blew in the southern breeze, along with their silky yellow and blue dresses. Just shy of bluebirds on their shoulders, they looked perfectly Disney. They sipped on their coffees. Reached for their keys, and went to their cars, as if this happened every Saturday. And maybe it does, but we won’t be here to tell. 

I could have raced after them with my cell phone. Begged for a photo. But coming from a small town, I know the code. 

In Alexandria, Minnesota we have a statue of a large Viking. On his shield, it claims this is the Birthplace of America. In the summer, when our population doubled — all those coming from the Twin Cities to cool down in one of our many lakes — we could see them laugh. Poking fun at our big statue. Jumping on his feet. Taking ironic photos before heading off to the golf course. 

I would like to say that I defended him, us. But in my cut-off shorts and off brand tennis shoes, I didn’t yet have the words. I hope I apologized on my daily ride past him, perched on my banana seat bike, but I’m not sure that I did. 

Maybe it WAS the birthplace of America, maybe it wasn’t…I’m still not sure, but it was our birthplace, of our America. All of my beginnings began at his feet. It was the end of Van Dyke Road, and the start of Main. And even though at times it felt like I was the only one living this life, somehow it was not just my destiny. No, this we shared. Maybe all small towns do. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t have to. This was our town. Our Viking. I had to leave to find the words, but even from a country away, I will claim it. Defend it. My hometown.

So no, I didn’t find out about the three Snow Whites. That’s their story to tell. I sit back on my imaginary banana seat bike, and enjoy the view as they step outside their destiny.

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Morning heals.

The first time driving into Houston I was still in my teens. My mom and I were going to see her sister Kay. The approach to the city is a cluster of freeways. I wasn’t yet sure if the rumors were true, but certainly the cars were bigger, mostly being trucks, and they were fast! I sped to keep within the blur of the car in front of me, and out of the one behind me.

The time between then and now feels almost as quick. The memories whir in multiple lanes.

Yesterday I was at the wheel again. This time my husband beside me. We got caught up in the medical district. So many hospitals. One beside the other. Each bigger than the next. I weaved my way through the care, both urgent and long, while Dominique searched for a hotel on his iPad. I could see him swiping out of the corner of my eye. “They’re so expensive,” he said.

I wasn’t surprised. This I had known from being a teenager as well. Being a teenager always in the hospital. My mother by my side until visiting hours were over. Having to drive in the dark. No directions, internal or external. No GPS. No phones. Having to drive beyond the security and nearness that only money could buy. She drove to what we could afford.

Anesthesia wearing off, worry setting in, I had no way to know if she made it. If she dared to close her eyes. Dared the comfort of sleep. Miles apart. Still. Quiet. We waited for morning’s heal.

Time has blurred so much, but not the love. Not the love that I felt as my hospital door opened and my mother’s smiling face entered. What she did for me. Still does.

It’s not a spoiler to say that we made it. Then and now.

Life moves pretty fast. Somehow, slowly, thoughtfully, joyfully, we save each other along the way.

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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.

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Little Eiffel Towers in her apartment.


She packed her delight alongside our Walgreens’ provisions. Just a young girl in a red smock in this Biloxi Walgreens, so eager to learn about the world. “Where are you from?” “France.” Gasping, she asked if we lived by the Eiffel Tower. No, we smiled, south. “But you’ve seen the Eiffel Tower?” “Oh, yes, many times.” She was so excited. She said she wanted to go. So desperately wanted to go, and began to count our change again, apologizing. “No need to apologize, it is exciting, distracting even,” I said. “Do you eat croissants?” She asked, wanting to know everything. “Yes,” I replied, “I even make them.” “Oh my! You have to send the recipe!” I told her I would. And I meant it. She already had me, but then she went all the way. “I’m going to make enough money one day to take my mom. She loves Paris. She has little Eiffel towers in her apartment.” My heart spread across the Walgreens store.

I took her email address that she scratched on the back of our receipt. I sent her pictures of croissants I have made. The Eiffel Tower I have stood next to. Kissed under. Dreamed above.

Sometimes all we need to know is that it’s possible. I hope she believes it. If we can give each other that gift, then we have everything.

I carried her delight through the electronic doors. Hope stayed with her. We are all on our way.

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Seeing the gift.


I never asked for toys. My friends had every page of the Sears Christmas catalog marked. It wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to make something. Something I could paint. Something I could form, or mold, or color. Because I saw it as an extension. When they opened their gifts — their plastic toys — the excitement was there for a minute, but it seemed to end. For me, to get the gift of creation, it was like I got to open a new gift every day. It kept giving and giving.

Thumbing through my photos this morning, all the lights of Christmas were shining. And for just a brief second, my heart felt a little melancholy. It’s all so fast. How do we keep those lights burning? I reached into my suitcase for the answer. A gift I received. A beautiful leather bound book of ancient paper. Ready. Waiting. Just for me to create. I touch it. Feel the possibility. The endless hours to come. The love in the gift that says “I know you.” Once again I am five years old, beginning, warmed by the light of it all.

I suppose we’re all given that gift, daily. The day opens and we get to decide what we’re going to make of it.

Let me always see the gift. Ever be part of the giving.

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Diorama.

.

From the moment she introduced the assignment to the class, I had a plan. It wouldn’t be hard to find a shoe box to make the diorama. My mom loved shoes. She had a closet full of them.

Mrs. Bergstrom told us that we were going to make a “slice of life” — capture a miniature moment. We could do anything. She suggested scissors and cardboard and paint and crayons. Glue of course, Elmer’s. My head was spinning. Oh, how I loved to make things.

There was an hour after I got off the bus before my mom got home from work. I could have waited. I should have waited. But my seven year old self whispered, then shouted, “Don’t wait!” I opened my mother’s closet and took out the first box in reach. I took out the shiny shoes neatly resting head to toe in tissue paper. I’d like to think There was a moment I think, I hope, that I thought of keeping them wrapped in the tissue paper, but then that shouting self said it might be useful for my diorama — “If you colored it blue and crinkled it up, glued it to the box, it could be one of our 10,000 lakes.” The shoes were left naked on the floor.

I was knee deep, literally, in cuts and folds and colors by the time my mom got home. I was all smiles when I looked up at her from her bedroom floor. Holding the cut-out of myself.

She didn’t return a look of delight like I was expecting. No, it was a look I had never seen before. Deflation. I had been so busy trying to create my own slice, that I forgot about hers.

“It’s my slice of life…” I said sheepishly. She nodded. “And also mine,” she added. She helped me pick up the mess. Put it all on the kitchen table. She wasn’t mad. She even helped me finish. But I knew at that moment, it wasn’t all about me. I took special care to add lovely shoes to the figure that represented her in my tiny box. We were in this together.

I painted a bookmark yesterday of Maya Angelou. At the top are her words, “Then when you know better, do better.” It’s a good reminder for me. It’s simple, but so worth repeating. We are not alone in this life. We would do well to remember as we wander through each other’s dioramas. The word itself in French means, “through that which is seen.” My mother saw me. And I saw her. And oh, how she she made me, still makes me, want to do better.

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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.

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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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