Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: courage


by Leave a comment

On with the lesson.

He sat next to me in kindergarten, where our only source of hierarchy came from the size of our Crayola crayons box. My mom couldn’t afford the largest, but I did have a good solid 24 pack. A few in class had the coveted 64 with the sharpener included, but not many. He pulled his tiny 9 pack from inside of his desk. He barely made a scribble during the allotted coloring time. At first I thought it was because he didn’t have that much to choose from, so I offered to share. He declined. And he didn’t seem embarrassed, he just didn’t seem to care. This was most surprising! It was my favorite time of day. To be set free. To color. To create. Then hang it on the wall! Wow!  His lack of enthusiasm was doubled down with the use of only the color brown. And I must admit that there was probably some judgement in my second offer of crayon sharing, more of a “Are you sure you don’t want to try some of my crayons?” He shrugged them away. 

One day he was called out of class for a few tests. We all whispered in wonder. Well, not wonder really, but confirmation that he must indeed be stupid, like we thought. He came back to the classroom all smiles. He was colorblind. We all welcomed the diagnosis. Mrs. Strand hung his brown paper on the wall, and we went on with the lesson. 

It’s hard to see things the way other people see them. And I am just as guilty. I ask again and again, how can they not see it???? I suppose sometimes it’s so clear that it’s invisible. I would like to think we have learned and grown since the age of five, but I’m not always so sure. 

Facing the same direction, I guess we will always see things differently. And we will rarely receive the reasons why. We will be asked again and again to get from desk to wall without diagnosis, but only pure understanding. We must sit in our differences and try to learn.

The sun comes up. We go on with the lesson. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

My singing pinky.

The physical therapist for my hand wants to be a singer. I like knowing that she plays guitar. That her fingers create music. Maybe the song she’s humming in her head is traveling down into her heart, through her arms, then fingers, and into my hand. (I may have heard my pinky sing.) 

I suppose as a dreamer, I’ve always trusted those with a dream. 

My mother wanted to be a dress designer. And it was that dream that carried us from Herberger’s, to malls, to boutiques, to dressing rooms around the country. It was pure joy that reflected off of three-way mirrors and bounced from her heart to mine. Lives well designed.

Sitting at the table, drinking egg-coffee and eating home-made pastry, I asked my grandma what she would like to be. “A UPS driver,” she said quickly. “Then I could drive from house to house and sit with people and have coffee and visit.” “I think we’re doing that right now,” I said. We smiled in the moment of that dream come true. 

When we think of people not just as who they are, but who they are trying to become, I think maybe we can be a little more forgiving, a little more empathetic, perhaps more understanding, and certainly more joyful — what could be more fun that travelling along on a dream?!! But we have to be willing to dare, and willing to share. I encourage you to do both. My singing pinky is proof that everything is worth the dream. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

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. 

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

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.

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

While the purse swells with youth.

I would have never dreamed of rummaging through my grandma’s purse. But I did admire it, sitting between us on the front bench seat of the car. It weighed nearly as much as I did. We never used our seatbelts then. The two safety measures were the outstretched straight arm of my grandma, (which could surprisingly secure me, along with the purse) and the rule that I wasn’t allowed to stick my body out of the window beyond my shoulders. I had the idea that if I wrapped my foot in the purse handles it would hold me as the wind blew open my pinkening cheeks. 

The AM radio, permanently tuned into the farm report, was also blocked by her massive purse. There was a station I had heard of, out of the Twin Cities, KDWB 63. “It won’t come in,” she said, cruising down the country road. “Maybe if I held the antenna,” I pleaded. “I could just bend it through the window.” I knocked off the orange styrofoam ball that was attached to the antenna top before she pulled at my leg and secured my sweaty thighs against the leather seat. “Paul Harvey’s coming on..listen.” 

Calmed by his melodic voice and the feel of the golden metal clasp of her purse beneath my fingers, I imagined a day when I would carry the weight of the world beneath white leather straps. I would have make-up and breath mints, I thought, and quarters for the parking meters. And candy and pencils and paper. And perfume and underpants. Yes, and Kleenex. And a checkbook with pictures. The tv guide for planning, of course. And grocery lists and photographs of everyone I loved. A book for reading. Rubber bands for my hair. Band-aids, because something would always happen. And Bazooka Joe gum, for the cartoons. Before I filled my imaginary purse, Paul Harvey was saying, “Good day!” “Wasn’t that good!” my grandma said, not asking. I smiled and shook my head. It was good. I had an open window. My grandma’s attention. An endless summer ahead. Youth’s purse was filled. I had everything I needed, and just enough to wish for. I slipped my hand through the loops and touched her floral dress. It was a good day indeed. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Sanctuary.

When I went off to college, the first thing that surprised me was the noise. I had always studied in silence. I was alone for the most part. I didn’t turn on the television or stereo. I liked hearing the books I was reading, feeling the words I was writing. So the first few nights in the dorm were alarmingly loud. No one had headphones. Doors seemed to be quite optional. It was overwhelming to say the least. 

I wore a path to the library. And then I found the silent rooms. Doubled glass. No distractions. Glorious. My first sanctuary. It was there I could invent anything, even myself. I surrounded myself in words. Some lay quietly in yellowed pages. Others rearranged themselves and shot through my #2 pencil. It wasn’t the first time I heard my own voice, but it was the first I started to use it. 

I fear that some believe courage is only born out of chaos. That we must rise above all the noise with a clattering of our own. I suppose at times this could be necessary, but maybe the most bold is to listen to your own heart, your own mind. To brave the silence and find yourself.

There is a setting on my iphotos. It is called noise reduction. It takes away all the clutter to get at the real picture. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I have been hitting that button for most of my life. Sometimes I forget. I get caught up in all the clamor — “but he said, and she did, and they are!!!!!” It’s then I have to remove myself. Find my balance. Listen to the quiet. 

I whisper by hand into my sketchbook. And I am found. 

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Like a floating Ginger.

She certainly wouldn’t have been considered a dancer, my grandma, but one could make the Ginger Rogers comparison quite easily. It is often said that Ms. Rogers not only did everything that Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels. Yes, my grandpa worked hard, and he had the crops to prove it, but my aproned grandma kept longer hours, with nine children and 27 grandchildren pulling from behind. 

The thing is though, as it is with most who are excellent at their craft, the work is hidden. Like a floating Ginger, she moved from stove to sink to table to garden to clothesline to town. And I never caught a glimpse of the struggle. Of course it had to be there, but I never saw her rub her aching toes. I never heard her catch her breath while offering the love and attention we all demanded. 

There were no words like self-care then. But she was smart enough to take her personal time. And we were smart enough to know that it was at noon each weekday in front of the tv set to watch NBC’s Days of our Lives. Just as some of the Bohemians on neighboring farms were thought to be relatives, my cousins and I thought the same of the Hortons from Salem. I suppose I loved this time the most because I saw Grandma Elsie from the front. Her welcoming belly was not hidden by a steaming pot or bubbling kitchen sink. No, it was there to climb on, to hug, to rest against. We took our turns dancing with Ginger as Ma and Pa Horton looked on.

Working in my sketchbook, alone in the studio, I know these small paintings won’t sell, or even be seen, but as my hand stumbles through the pages, I know, without pressure, or even promise, it is my time to dance.  

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

In my best Malinda.


My first sleepover was in a hospital in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. I was only six years old. They wouldn’t let my mom stay in the room with me that night. I was terrified. I was armed only with my Golden Book — The Little China Pig, and my first baby baby doll, so brand new she was yet to be named.  The nurse in white cap, white dress, white nylons and shoes entered the room. She wiped the tears of my mom’s goodbye and said, “I’m Malinda, what’s your baby’s name?” Still stunned from the thought of being alone, I repeated the name Malinda. “Just like me!” She beamed. It was as if she placed her smile onto my face, and connected us, brought me to safety. That’s why I remember my first doll’s name, because of kindness.

The scrubs in the French hospital were flowered pink and blue. The language buzzed around me as I lay on the gurney.  It’s not lost on my that my grasp of this language is not a lot more than I had in St. Cloud. And my comfort level was about the same. They wheeled her in next to me, this elderly woman — who was not much bigger than I was then. She was scared, and cried out a little when the man who had just blocked my arm was doing the same to her. In my best Malinda I turned and sent my smile to her. I saw it travel across the sterile room and land on her lips.  She smiled back. And we both were saved.

I don’t know her name, but I remember her face. I look at my braced hand and feel myself smiling, in my best Malinda. 

It takes so little to give each other the “everything is going to be ok.” I, who have been given so much, hope to pass it on to you. Take my “Malinda,” and pass it on.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

The bridge to everything.

Today is a packing day. I finished my recent commission and it’s time to send it to another country. To release something, put it in the hands of others, is no small thing. But that’s what it was made for, to reach this destination. So I have to let go. Trust — the final bridge to everything, I suppose. 

Trust has always been hard for me. As a child, I gave it away freely, this precious cargo, until one day, it was damaged. Beyond repair? I didn’t know. So I kept packing. Protecting that heart at all costs. Bubble wrapped. Shrink wrapped. Permission wrapped – tightly. Even behind all that protection, I guess I always knew this was not the final destination. 

It’s not lost on me that to reach our home, you have to cross a bridge, the Pont des trois sautets. I made that choice. To cross over. I trusted my heart. His. And found myself at home.

You will be asked today, tomorrow, to keep moving forward — to cross that bridge. Not as a punishment, but as a gift. There is so much beauty that lies ahead! 

It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Flash.

It was Mr. Rolfsrud who taught us about the flashforward at Central Junior High. He stood tall, polyester suited in front of our class, and took us through the technique with great detail. He neglected to mention that it would also happen in our real lives. 

Listening to an audiobook during my walk yesterday, the author lept the characters into the future. And seemingly in that same flash, I was in this other country. It was as if this decade, this epic novel I’m writing, was simply paragraphed. Maybe that is the way with all living. 

Not at first I suppose. Summer steps in our youth seem eternal. But then, without our knowledge or permission, the pace quickens. Steps become leaps. Leaps turn into bounds. And finally, mere flashes. 

The moment of clarity in the book skipped my heart a little. The moment of clarity in my life did the same. But I wasn’t afraid. More grateful. I simply raised my hand, waited for him to call on me, and thanked him for my love of words. I promised him I would use it all. And kept walking.

Shop Now!