Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: curiosity


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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. 

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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. 

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Waddler.

We’ve never had a duck in our yard before. It was a delightful surprise when I went to open the shutters. Perhaps even more surprising, “canard,” was the word that popped into my head (french for duck).

That is the very thing that keeps me coming back to the page, the canvas, the morning shutter — this belief in the unexpected. This hope that I’ll see something new. Create something new. Feel something waddle across my heart. 

And it’s never been about shock. Shock is simple. Anyone can severely rattle and create a response. But to find the beauty in the simple. To see the spectacular in life’s gentle and daily offerings, this, I think, is the extraordinary. 

It may not sound like much, but for me it was a sign of learning. A sign of growth. And without that, what am I in this for? Sure it may be at a waddler’s pace, but I am learning continuously about life. And this is hope. This is joy! 

Je suis un canard!
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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…

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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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My heart is well traveled.

What we lacked in maps, clues, or even plans, we made up for with imagination. Willie Nelson sang “On the road again,” and we were off.

Travel choices with my mother were based on song lyrics, books, catalogs and handsome men. We traveled to Bozeman, Montana in hopes of getting a glimpse of Sam Elliott; countless cities featured in the Sundance Catalog, wearing the outfits and approval of its founder Robert Redford; Galveston, Texas because Glen Campbell sang “I still see your sea waves crashing…” and even to Iowa, not so much for the covered bridges of Madison county, but perhaps the love of someone who wouldn’t let the screen door slam (if you read the book, you’ll know.)

I loved that she believed in the romance of it all. And I don’t mean just handsome men. She loved the possibility of things. It wasn’t about the finding, but the being. Living in the dream. “Carry one in your pocket,” she always told me. And I do. She didn’t give me a path. We all have to make our own. She didn’t offer a map. We have to find our own way. But she gave me the spirit. The wonder. The freedom.

Packing up to move down the road, Dominique and I have French croissants from a Duluth bakery. (There are beautiful surprises everywhere!) The only thing certain is that our pockets are full. The next dream awaits.

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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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More ideas.

Sometimes it takes me a while to get there, but I usually do.

I’m no different from the next person when it comes to packing a suitcase, if that next person is slightly neurotic and overly excited. It’s still three weeks away, but the neurons in charge of organization have already begun counting underwear and creating a capsule wardrobe. “Wouldn’t it be great,” they urged, “if we had packing cubes, and other various sorting devices for the suitcases…” I nodded inside my own head and began searching the web. The options, while infinite, didn’t seem exactly right. I searched through sizes and colors and prices. The right price was the wrong country of origin. The right color was the wrong size. The right size was the wrong price. I searched and fumbled. Added some to cart. Backed out. Searched again. After about an hour and forty-five minutes, it became clear that I could use the random tote bags given free from the pharmacy and the stash of bags my mother gave to me from the make-up counter promotions. I take a breath. I take a pause. I have everything I need. What a relief to quit searching…unless that is, I need more clothes… That’s when I play fashion show from my own closet and once again realize, I have more than plenty.

I suppose it’s true with almost everything — we don’t need more things, we need more ideas. Of course there are specific times when you require a precise tool, object, (even scarf or scarves to match your autumn overcoat), but most of the time I find, if I’m creative enough, thoughtful enough, I already have the perfect solution. And it usually feels great! To shop your own closet and create a new look. To sand and sand the abandoned wood and make a new frame. To create a delicious recipe out of the left-overs. To give the neurons a break and let my heart and hands take over.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for commerce. I bought two new books yesterday. (I will use the french bag as backing for a framed picture, but still.) And I want you to buy pictures and books and cards, even from me (insert shameless plug here). So what was my point? I don’t know…maybe Marie Kondo had it right, about all the “sparking joy.” I like that. I think it’s a good idea…I guess that was the point, after all, more ideas — more joyful ideas! Wishing you a day filled with them.

Pause, and spark!

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Security and Surprise

I don’t know who it belonged to. It certainly wasn’t my grandma — even though we found it, my cousins and I, in her upstairs closet. Digging beneath the sombrero, the military uniform and the extra bedding, we jumped back, toppling over each other on the hardwood floor. Was it alive? It had eyes! Fur! What was it??? With a pool cue from the corner of the closet, we moved it into view. A dead fox. Long straight, headed and tailed. Did it crawl in from the field for a siesta (under the sombrero on this Minnesota farm)? And then died? We kicked it down the stairs beside my grandma standing in front of the kitchen sink. (She was always in front of the sink, yet the dishes were never done — but that’s another story.) 

“It’s just a stole,” she said, “a fox stole.” Not understanding the word, we assumed the dead fox was now some sort of robber. “No, to wear around your neck,” she said. The explanations kept getting worse. It was unimaginable. We threw it at each other. Maybe she said who it belonged to, but I don’t think so. We soon grew tired of it. We would have left it on the kitchen floor, but she told us to put it back, never asking why she wanted to keep it. We loved her. So we did. 

The only accessory we knew Grandma Elsie to wear was an apron. And that was enough for us. She donned what some called sensible shoes and house dresses, which made it easy, I suppose, for us to forget that she was not just a grandma, but a woman of this world. 

Pardon the reference, but it’s hard to see “everything, everywhere, all at once.” We get bits of people, glimpses really. We grab onto the parts that serve us best, and a lot remains, well, in the closet. This is not to say we need to know everything about everyone. But I think it’s good to realize that we don’t know everything. People have riches and reasons that we will never realize. And instead of being afraid of that, we should respect it, celebrate it even. 

I don’t know if my grandma was ever in Mexico. But in my head she was. Possibly even wearing a fox stole. Or maybe it was just Great Aunt Ellen’s. Maybe she bought it at Tvrdik’s garage sale, just up the road. It doesn’t really matter. What I love is that there was a world to discover in her home. A home where we were allowed to run free. To become exactly who we wanted to be. This beautiful farmhouse, with security and surprise, that grew so much, grew so many.

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At any measure.

In the seventh grade at Central Junior High School, for approximately one week, it was decided that all students would learn the metric system. This foreign secret of measure, based in 10s and 100s, was brought out like a dirty, family secret on a Monday afternoon, and by bus time on Friday, we never spoke of it again. 

I’m not sure why we gave up, but as I struggle to convert grams to cups and kilos to pounds, I think it may have been useful. I never imagined that I would take pride in being able to weigh myself in another country, but here I am.

Through the years, the metric system became very low on the scale of “I wonder why we never talked about it.” There are so many things that got brushed under the rug. So many hurts. So many feelings. Confusions. As I stand here smiling before the scale, I imagine how many other things could have been so much easier had we only talked about them. I don’t say this in regret, but as a prompt, to keep things out in the open. Feel them as I feel them. A reminder to wear my heart on my sleeve and my face, giving it away at any measure.

Adding the flour to the bread dough this morning, I don’t use cups, nor grams. I have done it so often, I go by feel. A mixture of farine complète and farine de blé, my own special recipe. And it feels right. It feels like me. Heart wide open — this is where life becomes delicious!

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