Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: courage


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Reattaching apples.

I have no memory of the apples growing. Each year, they were just there. The branches seemed to go from bare to weighed in just the blink of an eye. And as quickly as the green apples appeared in my grandparents’ trees, we were tripping over them in the grass, loading sack after brown paper sack to give away. 

Maybe it’s the way of all living. It goes so quickly. We move from grand point to grand point, missing all the little things along the way. The how we got heres. The growths. 

I keep trying to think of her as a young woman — the journey of how Elsie became Grandma Elsie. She wasn’t always in that kitchen. In that yard with an upturned apron full of apples. She once had to have giggled with the girls behind the school. Cursed her parents and dreamed of boys. Imagined a life. A future. 

To know the exact details, I suppose, would be like trying to reattach the apples to the tree. But I think it’s enough to know there was more. There is more. So much more to all of us. There are reasons and seasons of how we got here. And maybe we’ll never know all of it, but I think there is empathy in the attempt. Compassion in trying to imagine the whole picture. None of us are just one thing. Maybe in learning that, we come to see some growth after all.

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The telephone game. 

Not out of obligation, but there must be strings.

It’s still a lovely piece of work, but without strings, this violin plays no music. The sweet sounds lay silent in the wood. I suppose it’s the same for the heart. It needs to connect. 

I understand the meaning of the familiar saying — to give without expectation. And that’s a lovely sentiment, but then I think of the beautiful, melodic strings.

It was Grandma Elsie who first taught us the telephone game. When we asked what it was she simply said, “You know, telegram, telephone, tell-a-hvezda.” We laughed and began to string together the two empty tin cans she supplied. We spent the afternoon, through windows and doors, telling our secrets on our home made phones, Hvezda to Hvezda. Even when the sounds weren’t clear, when we got it all mixed up, we were still connected. 

It’s true today. We continue to get the messages wrong. Misunderstand. But we’re still connected. Always. Even with the tiniest of strings. This family. And when I remember, when I believe it, when I let my heart whisper the truth, I hear the sweetest music, still. 

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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.

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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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The romance of the keys.

We learned to type on electric typewriters at Jefferson Senior High. You could hear the click of the keys from down the hall. It was located on the other side of the school building from the band and choir rooms, but there was a music to it, all the same. 

I certainly don’t miss the “white out,” or replacing the ribbon. But there was an art to it. Even when we were all typing the same thing — “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” — we would make our own mistakes, different letters would be painted over, then typed over again and each sheet was an original, with it’s own look, it’s own sound. 

I type now on my iPad. It can go with me anywhere. I can correct mistakes in an instant. There is an ease, a freedom, unmatched. But I must admit, there is a tiny part of me that longs for the music. The romance of the keys.

I want to allow for this in my daily life. I want to see the romance in all of my mistakes — and oh, I am making them for sure — daily tangled in my not so quick brown foxes. I, we, need to see the beauty of the learning. 

Today’s blank sheet opens with the sun. I set off, not in search of perfection, but poetry. Click, click, click, begins my imperfect heart. 

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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!

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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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The river blushed.

I have no ownership of it. Still, I feel connected to the Mississippi River. Living in Minneapolis all those years, we got to know each other. Understand each other. The secrets and concerns I told over bridge rails. It promising not to erase them, but carry them down. Easing worry and weight. Turning flounder into flow.

I’d like to think I thanked it, this river, for carrying my precious cargo, but I’m not sure I did. Not well enough. Perhaps it is the way with all those we love. We get used to them sharing the weight beside us. Expect it. Rely on it. 

My mother was alive the last time I stood on the banks of the river between Louisiana and Mississippi.  Yesterday evening in the setting sun, she still was. The love had been carried, just as promised. Ever flowing. 

Some might explain it away, saying it was only the moon…but when I looked up in the sky, there was the smile. My mother’s smile. Telling me she knew. She always knew. I smiled back. The river blushed, telling me the same.

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Sweepstakes and Pelicans.

We were driving along the coast when I said, “I wish I could see pelicans.” Within a nanosecond, two of them landed on poles beside our drifting car. “Had I known,” I continued, “that we were in the wishes come true zone, I would have aimed a little higher than two pelicans.” We drove on. Smiling. Waiting for the next pocket of dreams come true.

I don’t remember who it was that first told me, “Be careful what you wish for…” I can tell you with all certainty that it wasn’t my Grandma Elsie. She wished for everything. Played everything. Entered every contest. It was a thrill to open her mail, with her permission of course. Eagerly searching for the ones that started with “Congratulations,” but most always receiving the ones that began, “You may already be a winner” — which personally I thought was nice too. And sitting at the kitchen table, inside the hope and attention of my grandmother, it felt more than true.

With each non-winning entry, she assured me (and believed), “We’re getting closer!” And she wasn’t wrong about this either. We were getting closer. Together, traveling to dreams maybe not come true, but dreamy still.

Dominique and I laughed about the pelicans that were now safe in our rear-view mirror. It wasn’t a wasted wish after all, because I knew, just as I had been taught, with each mile, we were getting closer.

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