Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: family


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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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A love letter to my hometown.

Dear Alek,

I know you know that’s not a typo. Those who knew you called you Alek, not Alex, or even Alexandria, for we, I, knew you with an intimacy that required something familiar, a term of endearment, like Alek.

And we were intimate, weren’t we? Those hot summers, almost endless with the first sun, the first swim…rolls in that green grass. And then bundled together in the whites of winter. Yes, I knew you. I knew you on school buses, through mutual friends. and fleeing family. You made me smile, you made me cry. You heard me sing. And watched me hope.

But if we’re being honest, I couldn’t get away from you fast enough. After high school, I ran as far as I could. I hope I said something like “we can always be friends,” but I’m not sure I did. I think I didn’t look back.

There was so much to see. So much I have seen. And Alek, the world is really
beautiful. So beautiful. It has taken so much time, as I suppose all good things do, for me to see that you too are part of that. You, who knew the beginning, should deserve to know the middle – I pray it’s somewhere near the middle… Because life is good, Alek, so good, and I can share that with you now. I can tell you that I’m happy. And I can see you now, so much clearer, and I need to tell you that. I need to tell you that I hold everything dear. The good days remembered, the bad forgiven. I hope you can do the
same for me. Remember my good days, forgive my bad. Because we had something special. We gave our love, didn’t we? We even gave it big, sometimes. And that has to matter.

So, Alek, you gave me my youth, and I thank you for that. If I may be so bold, I ask for just a little more. Take care of my mother’s memory. She gave you her heart, the best heart maybe you will ever know. And watch over my family, especially the young ones, they will give you the future that you so deserve. And one more thing, Alek, keep me in your heart for a little while, you are forever in mine.

All my love,
Jodi

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A place at the table.

I asked him if he wanted to draw with me. He was still in his overalls, tired, needing to wash up before dinner. I open my Big Chief notebook wide. Folded the crease of the binding so it lay flat and spread before the two of us on the card table my grandma had set up for me. “I don’t know how to draw,” he said. “Yes, you do,” I said. “I couldn’t even draw a straight line,” he said. “But I don’t need a straight line,” I said, holding up my ruler. He laughed and picked up one of my crayons. I knew he was tired from a day of farming under the sun. I just needed to know he wasn’t too tired. For me. He wasn’t. Soon I told him it was ok, that he didn’t have to draw anymore. I would finish the picture. He smiled and went to wash for dinner.

I drew a picture of him on his tractor. I had watched him earlier in the day. Moving with precision up and down the seeded field. The rows were perfect. Straight. Beautiful. I replicated them with my ruler. 

When he returned to the table I handed him the picture. “It’s you,” I said proudly. He smiled. “See,” I said, “you CAN draw a straight line, only you use a tractor.” He gently held the proof in his hand. 

There is always a way to connect. A way to find a place at the table.

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Beyond pumped.

My brother had already left home by the time I was in the fifth grade, but there was a part of me still trying to get his attention. 

They passed out the forms at Washington Elementary to sign up for the Punt, Pass and Kick competition. I can’t say that I was a football fan, but I folded up the paper and put it in the pocket of my no-brand jeans. I had no real intention of asking my mother to sign it. That would be admitting something to her that I wasn’t ready to admit to myself. 

I found his old football in the garage. What it had gathered in dust, it had lost in air. I licked the needle of the pump for my bicycle tires (I don’t know why, but I had seen him do that) and tried to squeeze it into the ball. I placed the small kickstand under my feet and I pumped and pumped and pumped some more! The needle popped out. The ball was still deflated. And I was on my way to be. 

Ever hopeful, I decided to still give it a try. I couldn’t quite reach the regulation laces with my fingers. I cocked back my elbow and gave more of a push than a throw. It didn’t spiral. It tumbled. I had no tee to attempt an actual kick of the ball, so I decided to punt (no pun intended). I tossed the ball slightly in the air and swung desperately with my right foot. It felt like a brick as I hit my shin against the flattened leather. I tore the sign-up sheet into tiny bits and through them in the burning barrel by the driveway. 

It’s a difficult lesson, one that I’m still learning. People can only love you for who you are. You can’t force it. Or even win it. You just have to be yourself. And that’s still no guarantee that they will love you. But if they do, love you for who you are, how glorious! How beyond punt, pass and kick fantastic! 

And never is it more true, than with yourself. The thing is, there’s no permission slip for that. You have to find your own way to selfcare, to self love. 

A few summers ago, here in France, my brother-in-law found an old American football. With his son, he was playing catch in our backyard. He threw it to me. Without thinking, I placed my long fingers on the laces, and threw a perfect spiral back to him. “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked in surprise. I smiled and said, “I guess I just found a way.” 

I am loved.

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Of all things important.

Until yesterday, I had only ever heard my grandfather use the term “…and stuff.” I was listening to a podcast and this man was explaining how he got his job distributing vacation brochures at the rest stop. “Well,” he said, “the guy who had the job before me got sick and stuff…” He continued, “He got the diabetes and stuff… and then he passed away and stuff…”

As I mentioned, my grandfather used the term quite frequently, but certainly not for the important things. He would have never “and stuff”-ed someone’s death.

He was a man of few words. He didn’t suffer fools. He said the things that needed to be said, and that was it. I think he used the term “and stuff,” not to be rude, but just to end the conversation already and get back to the things he deemed truly important.

I stood by the kitchen window, looking out at the barn. I couldn’t hear the exact words my mother was telling my grandfather. I was breathing so heavily, the wind that traveled from heart to nose to ears made a deafening sound. Of course I knew. We were going to be alone, my mother and I. She was scared. Hurt. Embarrassed even. So many feelings. So many words. He listened. Patiently. He was still overalled from the field, but I could see that he had washed his hands (and I could smell Grandma’s perfumed soap). His nails were scrubbed. I suppose he already knew. Knew that he would be holding my mother’s hand. Telling her, without words, that he would be there. For her.

He pulled me away from the window. Bent down. Looked me in the eyes. “You can turn in, or you can turn out…it’s all up to you.” There was no “and stuff.” No walking away from the conversation. He would be there. That was the promise we sat in. Silently.

I learned early on that you can walk away from the unnecessary, but not the uncomfortable. The real trick, I guess, is in knowing the difference. I’m still learning, but as I look out my kitchen window at the morning, I know days can be difficult, times even, but I am secure in the gift that of all things important, I am one.

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Grounded.

In Greek mythology, Antaeus had super strength whenever he was grounded. Touching the Earth (his mother), his strength was always renewed. In combat, even if thrown to the ground, he was invincible. It was Heracles who discovered the source of his strength and, lifting him up from Earth, crushed him to death.

I always wanted to do the sleepover. But when the sun began to set, when it was time to go to bed, the battle began. It didn’t matter if it was a best friend’s house, or even in the beginning at my grandma’s house, I just wanted to go home. And home was with my mother, the source of my power. 763-5809 was the life line that grounded me. Making the call, without question, she dropped what she was doing and came to pick me up.

I suppose some would call that spoiled. I call it loved. You might think, oh she’ll never learn if she isn’t forced to do it. On the contrary. I would come to learn because of it. Secure in this love, I was able to go beyond my wild imagination. And not just physically. But emotionally. Artistically. I had the strength to dare in it all. To brave my heart and soul. To live. To love.

There are a million things, people, that try to pull us away from what we know. What we believe in. Sometimes it can even be our own silly worries that try to rip us away from the very thing that gives us strength. And I can see it. Feel it. When my feet begin to lift off the ground. When defeat feels imminent… I return to the story. I write it again and again. The love is always there. Will always be there. Invincible. And I am forever strong. 


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Flowered in the cracks.

I’m not sure it’s statistically possible, but it would seem that 90% of the time I’m at the end of the roll of toilet paper. Perhaps, like all bounty, it is hard to see until it begins to end.

I don’t know how my grandma did it. With eleven people in the house, just to maintain the necessary products must have been a constant challenge. And yet, I never saw it. And, like I’ve said before, I tried to memorize their house. I paid attention. I counted the number of steps. The paintings that hung in each bedroom. What was hidden in the closets. The sewing room. My grandma’s dresser. The damp coats hanging. The shoes leading down the basement stairs. Which cupboard held the candy. The six pack of cereal. I took it all in, so I thought. But it was only today, these many years later, it occurred to me that I don’t remember where she kept the toilet paper. And I don’t remember ever running out. Even on holidays when that house of 11 turned to 50 or more. We always had what we needed.

It may sound silly. I mention it only because what a thing! —  to count on someone like this. And believe me, I did the math. With each grandchild that appeared. Each great grandchild. I wondered would it be possible for her to still love us all, and by that I mean me. Would it be possible for her to still see me among all these arms reaching up to be held. All these toes trampling and racing. Sticky fingers. And one cry louder than the next. Would it be statistically possible to have that much love?

She was almost 90 when we were sitting at her table. Drinking egg coffee made on the stove. Grounds clinging to the bottom of stained cups. My mom and I had just been at one of my gallery shows. We told her about what I had painted. What I had sold. Sitting in this tiny apartment which now contained a mere fraction of what her house had held. (I suppose all lives get reduced down to the necessary.) She made the silent oooooh with her mouth, a sound only hearts can hear. She told me to go to the nightstand beside her bed. It was only a couple feet from the kitchen table. It was there that I saw it. A small easeled piece of tree bark, with dried flowers glued in the cracks, with the words “Love, Jodi, 5th grade,” written in Sharpie on the back. It wasn’t possible, and yet, my heart’s sigh told me that it was — she saw me, she knew me, she loved me. Still. 

It would have been so easy to get lost in the cracks of it all. But there I was. Flowered. 

I had to hold both of her hands to lift her from her chair. Somewhere along the line we had reversed roles, she now cuddled shoulder high in the warmth of my embrace. If I didn’t know it before, I knew it then, love never runs out.

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Home economics.

Enjoy may be too strong a word, but my mother did get a real satisfaction from ironing. Combining this with the skills passed along to us by Mrs. Ballard and Miss Pfefferle, our home economics teachers at Central Junior High, I suppose it’s no surprise that today I iron everything, including my kitchen dish towels.

I think it was Miss Pfefferle that taught us to weave a pot holder. We had little iron grids and multi-colored loom loops that we weaved up and down. I thought they were beautiful! I don’t know how efficient they were — at this point I wasn’t really allowed to do any cooking, even though in Mrs. Ballard’s class we did learn how to make nougat and an apple pie (not the staples in my mom’s, nor my diet). But I was proud of my potholder. And I knew just who I wanted to give it to — my Grandma Elsie. It was a slight risk though – because she was an expert. She had her own loom afterall. Not a handheld one. No. This loom filled nearly the entire bedroom, upstairs next to the sewing room in her house. It seemed to be a combination of a church organ, a giant craft, and a carnival ride. She moved with her feet and her arms. I held onto her chubby waist from behind as it jiggled each “rag” into place. Everyone loved her woven rugs. They were gorgeous. And I wanted to be a part of it. I thought if I giggled along with each jiggle, that I indeed was. So, yes, to bring my humble woven potholder to this proven expert was surely a risk. I knew it didn’t compare. How could it? But it was my best attempt. It was an effort made. It contained her every jiggle, and I hoped, I prayed, I banked on, her feeling the love in that. With my two hands held flat and outward, I presented it to her. This gift. Her held tilted a little to one side. Both of our breaths held. She took it also with her two hands and clutched it to her heart. I beamed. Then suddenly my face was pressed against the potholder that pressed against her heart. I was inside the jiggle. She did feel the love, and gave it right back to me.

Some might laugh that I iron my dish towels. That I hang them straight. But it’s only out of love. Out of respect. For all the women that took the time to teach me the real value of this living — (it makes perfect sense now, this word economics). When I see something beautiful, create something beautiful, it is these women that I see. And I know, on my very best days, when I create something that you enjoy, that you find beautiful, that you too, are seeing them. You are inside the jiggle.

I saw something beautiful, and thought of you.
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Seeing blackbirds.

I was shocked when she said it. I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked at my mother, who couldn’t hide her surprise either. What did she say? We were riding in the car together with my sister-in-law’s mother. Headed to some sort of family event that had spread to include a good portion of this small town. We were discussing the family tree. She asked about one of my mom’s brothers. Surely she couldn’t be thinking of Uncle Tom, I thought. “Oh, yes!” she continued, “he’s so handsome!”

No disrespect to my Uncle Tom. But this is not how he had been branded to me. He was the rough one. Tough one. Bold. Straight talking. Intimidating? Sure. Colorful? Indeed. And I guess, once we’re presented with something, we often stop looking, as if this were the only answer. 

After the event I went home and looked at the family portrait. I guess he was handsome. Huh! I wonder if he knew. I hope so.

I love to paint birds. You might think the colorful ones offer the biggest in painting lessons, but for me, that’s not really true. The black bird is a beauty that really forces you to see. Because to create the deep richness of the black, you have to see all the other subtle colors. The blues. The grays. The taupes. And browns. There is no depth without these other colors. And with no depth, there really is no beauty. 

But where does the responsibility lie? Within whom? Is it up to the person to show you their true colors? Or the viewer to see it? I suppose it’s both. And this is not a hardship – no, this is something! Because when you look, and you see it, it makes you feel special — you are allowed into all the beauty. You get to see beyond the shadowed wings of the blackbird and watch the glorious flight. You get to see beyond the expletives of your uncle’s mouth. Beyond the overalls and slight smell of cow, and think, wow, he really was handsome.  

I have been flawed. I haven’t always seen what is right in front of me. But I’m learning. I’m trying to do better. Be better. And like the Blackbird song says, “Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

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Magical gifts.

There is a natural magic that happens when the air is perfectly still and the outdoor temperature is just slightly above that of the pool. I can close my eyes, raise an arm out of the water, and not feel the difference. For a brief second, I am part of it all. I am a leaf on a tree. A blade of grass. A bird on the highest branch in the sky. I am not trying to fit, I just do. 

I suppose when catching yourself in this moment, in any moment of happiness, the moment does pass, but maybe it is the impermanence that makes it so special.

Everything will end. That is the very nature of, well, nature. 

There are only a handful of people who are this air to my water. People with whom I can be myself. Just be. And it works. People with whom I can fall, secure in the knowledge of being caught in these moments. 

This magic can go by many names. Love. Friend. Family. Whatever you call your magic, call it often. And when it calls to you, be it whisper or shout, go without hesitation. Be in it. Live in it. Without worry of time or loss — both are out of reach — but the joy of being, the nature of being, is right here. Right now. Shhhh. Be still. Can you hear it? That’s the magic calling.

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