Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: create


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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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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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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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When someone shows you their hope, it’s hard to unsee it.


Living in the south of France, I see the Sainte Victoire mountain daily. Each time, I give thanks for my current view, and also for the view Paul Cezanne gave us in his paintings. Would I have seen it without him? Would I have noticed the extraordinary beauty of this mountain without his vision? I’m not sure, so I give thanks with each passing step.

I suppose it has always been this way. My grandfather did the same with his farm. Without him, perhaps these fields would have just been blurs from a car window. But not for me. Not since walking with him. Holding his roughened artist hand that turned those fields from black to green to gold each year. Work. Magic. Love. I slow down the car.

We all have a responsibility to find the beauty. To share it. It’s everywhere. Poets and philosophers have tried to explain it. (Certainly smarter than me.) But maybe it’s all about hope. Maybe that’s what makes everything beautiful. So that’s what I try to create. In the faces. In the paintings. In this life. There is hope. Always, if we choose to see it, and share it with each other.

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From the cup that defied logic.


My mother started drinking coffee at 14. That probably doesn’t sound unusual now to the Starbuck’s generation. But this was not chocolated or whip creamed. Not frapped or frozen. No, this was black coffee. From the stove. Drank from cups that carried the proof of exactly how strong it was. They told her it would stunt her growth. She laughed and grew taller. Maybe it was because her mother kept having babies. Maybe it was just an old wives’ tale. Or maybe it was her sheer will to prove them and the coffee wrong.

Of all the stunt worthy obstacles in front of her, coffee was the least of them. None of the other farm girls loved fashion. And certainly not Grandma Elsie. There was no money for design school. No time for dreaming. But she drank from the cup that defied logic and carried it high within her. She dressed for the life she wanted.

People will always be quick to tell you of all the things that can’t happen, won’t happen, shouldn’t happen… Warning you of the “what if it doesn’t…”. I was joyfully raised by someone who thought, “what if it does!” Raised by someone who urged me to stand tall. Not be afraid to grow. Even when my head raced above the others in grade school pictures she said, put your shoulders back, head up.

We don’t always get to choose our obstacles. But we do make the choice of how to get around, above and through. There are a million things that could stop us. Daily. Today I am as tall as I ever was. As tall as I’ll ever be. But I must decide, day by day, minute by minute to keep growing. I want to be a better artist. A better writer. A better human. I want to believe in the best of me, in the best of all us. To forget about the what if it doesn’t. The best could happen — and what if it does!!!!

(I guess I’ll have another coffee.)


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Held in mine.

In the “wee, small hours” of the night, when thoughts can get so big, I have a practice to calm them down. She has been gone for so many years, my grandma, but she continues to walk me through those uncertain hours. And it could be for anything really, tiny chaotic thoughts, or grand concerns — she’s there, unworried (as she always seemed), as I recite the poem of her life. It’s a long poem, as is her legacy, but it usually only takes the first line or two, and I am saved… 

“She was a beauty like he’d never seen,

Elsie turned his head with a smile,

When Rueben looked back

He knew for sure

That she’d be in his heart for a while.”

These words are the hands that held my mother’s, and my mother’s hands that held mine.

I have a weird little pinky finger. I will need a small procedure to fix it. The condition is apparently genetic. He asked if I remembered my mother’s hands. My heart’s response, of course, was to say I’m still holding it, and my grandma’s too… but certainly I remembered no imperfections. How could I? Their beauty will forever be unmatched.

Maybe it’s all the imperfections that make us beautiful. Or how we use them. I only know this for sure — they held, they gave, they touched. Beauties, that I’ll ever see…

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Here.

I would always sit in the front row. I loved my English LIterature courses. I wanted to be a part of it all. My hand shot up before my mouth even knew what was going to come out. “You’ll think of something, ” my fingers encouraged as they waved in the air. It wasn’t about assuming I was right. Not about proving my point. I just wanted to be involved. To be among the words. Part of the discourse. 

I sat slunched in my chair. Sweating. Sick. My roommate had told me to stay in bed, but I didn’t want to miss out. Within the hour, my mom was on her way to pick me up from college and bring me back home for an emergency appendectomy. When Dr. Merickel gave the diagnosis of acute appendicitis, I smiled. He asked why I was smiling. “You said it was cute.” We hear what we want to hear. 

I went back to school two days later, a little lighter, but no less enthusiastic. All that learning prepared me for what was to come. Not in the way you might think. I didn’t learn any foreign languages. So when I moved to France, arms at my side, I feared the conversation. Even the most simple were acute! Trapped inside an introduction, I heard my brother-in-law introduce me as his belle-sœur, I beamed. I heard the word belle and thought “pretty.” And the word soeur meaning “sister.” It turns out that belle-sœur means sister-in-law. But once again, in this need to belong, to be a part of the conversation, I heard what I needed to hear. 

I don’t always get it right. I don’t think it’s always necessary. What we do have to be is brave. Curious. Willing to open our hearts and get involved. Be a part of it all. When I raise my hand today, it’s to wave you in. Welcome to my conversation. I’m glad you’re here.

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Find the good.

The first set of paper dolls I received was for my 7th birthday from Wendy Schoeneck. My mother had always taught me to smile when receiving a gift. I didn’t know why she had made such a point of it. I suppose up until then, I had always been thrilled with my presents. Wendy was smiling so intently, watching me tear the wrapping paper. So pleased with what was about to be revealed. I scraped the yellowed Scotch tape from the last reluctant piece, only to reveal, to my horror, Buffy and Jody paper dolls. Not only had they spelled my name wrong, but Jody was the boy. I glanced up at my mother. I knew she knew. I guess her constant reminders paid off, because I forced a smile in Wendy’s direction. She couldn’t seem to tell that it was more pain than gratitude.

We played music. Pinned the tail on the donkey. Dropped the clothespins in the bottle. Passed around the presents. Laughed and held sweaty hands in circles. All had been forgotten and forgiven.

One of my presents was a Winnie the Pooh giant story book. We all started to sing the Pooh song, when one of the girls noticed that Winne the Pooh could quickly and easily be translated to Wendy the Pooh. Others joined in. Some giggled. But not Wendy. I knew she felt bad. I opened the box of paper dolls and my mom got out the scissors. We cut out the clothes and quickly forgot about both Poohs. It was a good gift after all. Wendy was smiling. My mom was smiling. And so was I, for real this time.

Sometimes it’s hard to see life’s gifts. They often come ill-wrapped at unwelcomed times. But even the hardest day is kind enough to pass. Find the good. It’s out there.

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Love’s evidence.

It’s easy to think it’s beautiful at first glance. The perfection of the unused pastels. Pristine. Untouched. And I will admit I open the box slowly. Remove the padding. And let it sink in, all the possibilities. But for me, this is not the real beauty. No, things have to get messy to become beautiful. The pastels will lose their perfect shape as I stroke them against paper and canvas. The colors will cling to my fingers and get wiped on pants legs and on cheek bones as I bring the painting to life. I’ll be covered in the evidence of creation when I bring the finished product from the studio to the house. Viewing the colors still on my face, my husband will call me a warrior. And I proudly smile, because I am. I joyfully give my all.

I suppose it’s the same with love. With life. Some will never risk getting hurt. Never take a chance on anything. Never using the pastels of their heart. Not me. I want to get in deep. Covered in the evidence of experiencing it all. Even the shattered pastel has the ability to color. To create. To make something beautiful. Your heart is going to feel it, sure…but oh, the colors — the glorious colors of scattered love. It’s not to be missed. 

I wake to this sun, labels peeled, middles cracked, rubbed uneven, and joyfully covered in love’s evidence. It looks like an imperfectly beautiful day.

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The wayward pony.

I suppose everything is about context. It’s not like I’d normally be afraid of a pony. (I’ve even painted them.) But yesterday, when I looked up from the path to turn the corner and almost ran into one, I must say it was alarming. And he wasn’t alone. There was a donkey. A llama. Many sheep. Rams. Other ponies. I don’t know who was in charge of this gang by the river. There were no other humans in sight. Neither the sheep, nor the donkey seemed to care that I was there, but what I can only assume as the lead pony, looked at me like I was the suspicious one.

After taking pictures, I kept walking. The whole path seemed different. I felt disoriented. This path, that I could normally navigate in my sleep, suddenly felt completely strange. Had that always been there? What about this? Did I miss my turn?

I started to take inventory. I knew this rock. This tiny bridge. To walk up the slope on the left side. The smell of these trees. The purple flowers growing out of the concrete fence. I knew this path.

Life can throw you the strangest curves. And you can’t prepare for everything. And sometimes each step can become unfamiliar. When it happens, it may sound silly, but I always take my own inventory. Am I safe? Yes. Am I loved? Yes. Do I have to be afraid? No. I step aside from the wayward pony, smile, and keep walking.

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