Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: faith


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To keep our pink ladies dancing.

I used to imagine that the front stoop of my grandma’s house was only there for the family of Hollyhock dolls that grew on either side of the cement steps. I was only allowed to pick a few each season. She showed me how to pluck the flower from the stem, flip it upside down and push an unopened bud through the then top to make a head that rested above the pink flowing dress. And for the rest of the afternoon, this small gathering of elegant ladies danced outside the entrance reserved just for them.

I gave them the voices to compliment each other. “How lovely is your pink dress!” “And yours is beautiful!” I danced them together like my mother once did at the Lakeside Ballroom with her cousin Janet. And the music from the transistor radio scratched in and out as I adjusted the antenna in the summer breeze. The lessons of last summer were forgotten. I had no fear of the wilting dresses. I only played. And played, believing that all beauty on Rueben and Elsie’s farm would ever remain.

I wasn’t wrong. Yes, the flowered dresses lay almost flat by the end of the day, but decades and countries away, the beauty remains. Yesterday, in the French countryside, she showed me the one Hollyhock flower that somehow grew between the century old crack of the house entrance. I wasn’t surprised. I had enough French words to tell her of how I made the pink ladies on my grandma’s stoop. We both smiled and touched the rhythm of her little pink dress.

I wrote in a poem, “This year… let’s love like no lessons have already been learned…” Of course we have to grow and educate and evolve. But some “lessons,” like those that deal with lost love, disappointment, unreached expectations — to keep our pink ladies dancing, we have to let those go. The heart stoops must remain clear and ever hopeful.

Countless things grew on Rueben and Elsie’s farm. Again and again. And the beauty will ever remain. I wake to this morning sun, and keep on dreaming.

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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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Pulled in close.

From the age of five we began looking to see if things fit.

We got our feet measured at Iverson’s shoes, checking for the length and width in the silver contraption. After wiggling our toes inside the bumper tennies, the man on the triangle seat pinched the ends in search of our toes. If he gave the all clear we raced to the glass windows and back. And we were shoed.

In Herberger’s basement, when it was still on Main Street, we tried on pants. The clerk pulled at our waistbands to check for room. Tugged at the length and estimated the time before they would be too short. Up the stairs, past the billing department, were the dresses. Beautiful dresses that were measured to our knees. Zipped up our backs. Smoothed down the fronts.

Dr. Blanchard checked for space in our mouths. Dr. Perkins took our heights and weights. We stood in lines in the school gymnasium to check our eyes and our hearing. All, I supposed, to see if we actually fit.

I had my own checks and balances. Accompanying my mother to Olson’s Supermarket. I waited for her in front of the book section, right by the check out lines. I would pick out the words I understood. Look at the pictures. Then clutch it to my heart. Somehow my heart always knew. The woman in the red smock asked what I was doing. “Just seeing if it fits,” I said. My mother never had to ask. She knew me.

I suppose I’m still doing that. With everything. People. Places. Time. The only way I have ever been able to tell if something really fits is by clutching it to my heart. Sometimes it still stumbles over the bigger words. The tighter spots. The growing pains. But pulled in close, beat by beat, it always leads me home.

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Warm and wild hopes.

I suppose it’s always in the delivery. I can see it falling gently outside the window. The lightest snow. And I’m not sure if it’s the “good kind,” – the right kind for building. I never was sure. As a child I would thrust myself in boots and hat and mittens and stumble outside to see if it would stick. That was the true test. Grabbing a handful and cupping woolen mittens about. Pressing forming. Would it hold? Take shape? And if did, hold that is, in a tiny ball, well then, I knew my future was set. I would be making a snow man, a snow village even! The possibilities were endless.

I suppose it’s the same with living. With loving. We can’t know for sure. Will it last? Will it hold?

It never stopped me as child, this not knowing. I won’t let it stop me now. Because we can’t know everything. We can only try. We can only race with warm and wild hopes. We can only reach out our hands and hearts and try to build something. Something that with all certainty will be impermanent, but still so very beautiful.

May our hearts forever waken in woolen red, prepared to grab a handful! To build! To try! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

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Making space.


It was a cathedral I had to fill, my first solo show in France. I laughed as I made one canvas larger than the next, because it had been all I had prayed for — space.

I used to paint in my small apartment’s bathroom in Minneapolis. It was the only place that I could spill and clean. The seating was built in. Small canvases were easy. Large ones I could balance on my legs, the towel bar and the edge of the tub. I guess I hadn’t been all that specific in my prayers. I didn’t know the answer would come with a move to another country, but there I was, in the south of France, covered in paint, love, and “well, this is what you asked for…” so I filled the space with my story. Canvas by canvas.

Perhaps it is the most open I have ever been. And maybe that’s what love gives you — space. And I don’t just mean romantic love (which does help a great deal!) but also love for yourself, love for the chances that life offers, love for the answers that come as a complete surprise.

I have it now, in home and country and studio, but I still pray for it daily, for my heart That I will find the space for all those trying to share their stories, their talents, their imperfections, their lives. May I be open to them all.

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Set free

It’s ironic, I suppose, that we only played freeze-tag during our Minnesota summers. Lit only by the tenacity of the hanging summer sun, and the surrounding porch lights, we gathered in the vacant lot next to Dynda’s. It was usually Lynn or Shari Norton, being the oldest, who decided what game to play. I loved kickball. And softball. Even kick the can — though I’m not sure I ever understood the rules. The only game I didn’t love was freeze tag. If the person who was “it” touched you, you had to stop. Immobilized. Standing still. Alone. While others tripped in giggles and weeds, you had to just stand there. Excluded from the fun. Hoping that someone would come and touch you to free you. 

It was just a game. I knew, standing there, I still had cool sheets to rest in. A kiss good-night waiting from my mother. But still. It became pretty clear to me, even then, that we need each other. 

There are so many distractions in this world. It’s easy to lose sight of the lost. Those frozen in time and space. When maybe just a simple tag, a touch, a smile, could set them free. I’m as guilty as the next person. But I want to get better. And let’s be honest. It really doesn’t take all that much. A returned email. A letter. A phone call. A knock on the door beneath the porch light that waits. Maybe one day, we can all be tripping in the giggles and weeds.

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Doing Better.

It’s no secret that I read a lot. Often they make the books into movies. Often I’m disappointed. For me, the words seem to paint a more realistic picture. A vivid representation of the person or people inside the story. Not tainted or swayed by the pressures of Hollywood. I wonder when we were first sold the idea that people, in order to be a hero, or heroine, had to “look the part.” I, I say with great fortune, have lived a life to the contrary. 

I have written about so many that have saved me through the years. Mr. Whitman, the caretaker of the cemetery, dirtied and slumped from the weight of burying the people from town. My grandfather, callused hand reaching behind his stained overalls to bring me along, bring me through. Chubbied Grandmother wiping kitchen hands on apron, just to give us something sweet. Wearied teachers, still finding a way to say the words that just might carry us. Tear-stained mother who laughed with unfaltering grace. 

So it came as a surprise to me, the woman in New York standing in front of my portrait of Maya Angelou — a sage I return to again and again. She read the words and seemed to be moved. She praised them. I thanked her. She wanted to buy copies, but whispering sheepishly now, “maybe without the picture.” Whispering even lower now, “you know, maybe she could be a bit polarizing to my customers.” 

I laughed. How ironically and completely opposite of the words that she claimed to love. 

Kindness. Truth. Beauty. Wisdom. Hope. Leadership. Strength. Love. It comes in all sorts of “packaging.” Each a gift. 

Maya would have forgiven her. As she always said, “When we know better, we do better.” I put the words and paintings before you, before myself, daily, in the hopes of doing just that… better.

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Open!

I fell in love with France again yesterday. I finally received news of my visa. It should be in my hands on Monday. It was all just paperwork. I had done everything correctly. Followed all the rules. Passed the exams. In my head, I suppose, I knew it would come, but my heart… As the delay turned from months to almost a year, I was getting very anxious. Because without this French visa, I was basically held prisoner. Sure, I could leave, but I wouldn’t be allowed back in France. Back home. And it began to change the colors of everything. I walked in the shadows. How can you love the very thing that grips your ankle? Pulls at the back of your shirt?

It was just a few words that Dominique received on his phone, telling us that we could come in on Monday. I was out kicking my daily path when he passed the message on to me. I floated down the hill on tears of joy. The Sainte Victoire mountain winked at me to say, “I love you too.” And it was true, I was in love again.

This morning’s croissant tasted rich in French butter. We spoke of Paris. The Olympics will be coming here soon. The thumb that tipped my scale has been released and I feel, oh, so very light! I am in love.

I guess all love is based in freedom. It can’t be contained or held captive. No one can be forced into the feeling.

The very thing that makes me want to stay is knowing that I’m free to come and go. Love’s shutters are flung wide open! Bonjour!

“Let someone in. Let someone go. After you’ve seen it all, you won’t remember the windows and doors, but who passed through.” Jodi Hills

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Mighty.

There’s a small stack of pots resting by the side of the house. A little plastic one on top. I think I used it as a scoop when repotting another plant. I guess some soil was left behind. Were seeds blown in from the wind? Watered by the almost non-existent summer rain? I can’t be sure. And I don’t need to be. Because it’s there. Not a weed — but a real plant. And it’s not similar to the two types we have in the house. No, it’s brand new. Strong. Greening and growing without our help. Without our knowledge or permission. Coming to life. Strong. Through all the madness of this world, it found a way. 

I’m not proud of it, but I can be a worrier. Inventing scenarios in my head that may never happen. But thankfully, I can also see the signs. The beauty all around me that says, “Look. We’re given everything we need.” I smile and carry the image with me. And on the days when I feel no stronger than a seed blowing in the wind, I think, I’m going to find a way. Hope grows mighty.

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Out wandering.

“If we opened people up, we’d find landscapes.” Agnes Varda

I cannot pass a golden field in any country, without thinking of my grandfather. The breeze that blows through the harvest to come is the breath of hard labor and kindness.

I was 19 when he got pancreatic cancer. They cut him in half to assess the damage. They closed him almost immediately. When I saw the row of staples, I couldn’t imagine they couldn’t see something — something that could be salvaged. Clung to. Some hope. Because that’s what I imagined beneath the scar. This was the landscape I knew lived within him. A field that had turned from brown to green to gold. A yearly harvest to be counted on — this, I knew for certain, was inside my grandfather. A landscape I carry still today.

We went to visit Dominique’s mother at the cemetery. She rests between two vineyards. We stopped at each one. Tasting the white. The rosé. The red. Delicious. What a fitting landscape for her. The vine that doesn’t end. From the work of the fields. To the joy of the table. The French landscape I will carry too, within.

We’re not always given the answers. But we’re always shown a way. If you look for me today, be patient. My heart is wandering landscapes.

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