Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: feelings


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Dear Bob.

She would have felt badly today, hearing the news of Robert Redford’s passing. Truth be told, my mom and I loved him more for the Sundance catalog than any movie. It was an event, receiving it in the mail. We would go to the nearest Caribou, get extra-hot skim vanilla lattes and sit in the largest of lounging chairs. After the initial sips, one of us would open to the inside cover letter. The rules were simple. If you were the one holding the catalog, you read the letter, inserting a greeting to the other —“Dear Ivy,” — and of course closing the letter with “Love, Bob.” Our lattes rested between us as we clutched our imaginary pearls to contain the heart laughter. Each turn of the page would include complete discussions on who would wear what and when. How we could have styled that better. How we could create that outfit with our own closets. Must buys. Must haves marked with sticky notes — a catalog more filled than a freshman’s introductory guide to literature. Trips were planned to the store as if an RSVP to Bob himself. 

I mention it only because of the transformation. You see my mother wasn’t always that bold. For a long time, her only certainty was that she wasn’t worthy, even in our small town. Not even a letter from Robert Redford would have convinced her. But she grew into her confidence. Perhaps outfit by outfit. But they were really only the symbols of her inner strength. Her inner beauty. And being a first hand witness, my heart smiles can’t be contained. 

So in her ruffled blouse today, I write a new letter. “Dear Bob, say hello to the giggling beauty at the gate — that’s my mother!  Love, Jodi”

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Paying attention.

She was the first to notice, the waitress in Stillwater, Minnesota. I have worn these earrings every day for a couple of years — the outline of the Sainte Victoire mountain. She brought the check to the table and asked, “What mountain is that?” I beamed, for me of course, but for her as well — being curious, paying attention. “It’s the Sainte Victoire,” I replied, “in Aix en Provence where we live.” And the conversation began, all because she was alive, awake!

These earrings represent home. Heart. Courage. Strength. They are the mountains I have, can, and will continue to climb daily. What made her, of all people, notice? Even in France, no one has asked about them. But she did. Maybe she was climbing her own mountain. Maybe she was asking her legs to carry what her heart just couldn’t bear at the moment. Or maybe she just liked them. And that’s enough too. The thing is, she asked the question. A specific question. 

We get lazy I think. Uninterested. We settle on the “how are you?”s and think we did enough. But is it? Is it enough? Is it enough to just pass through each other’s lives? Without learning? Without caring?  

Two years of climbing were wiped away in just a few brief seconds, and I was happy! It really takes so little. So I tell myself, I tell you, be curious, pay attention, — it’s not too much to ask. 

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Proper nouns.

We learned pretty early on the power of words. We began writing letters to each other during our summer vacations from grade school. Living in the same town, armed with banana seat bikes and endless sunny days, we easily rode to each other’s houses, to the beach, to main street in downtown Alexandria, but still we felt the need to connect. 

This gift that we had been given in the first grade strengthened with each letter written. Straight from the playbook, I wrote thank yous for birthday parties. Recaps of “events” attended and unattended. Who did what, said what, to whom. Wrote in solidarity of mutual enemies — never capitalizing their names because as Mrs. Bergstrom had stated, we capitalize the proper nouns to show their importance. We capitalized our friends’ names. 

It would be easy to say that we had more time then. And as hard as it is for me to admit, we have the same amount of time. Always have. Always will. It’s just how we choose to fill it. I want to get better in my choices. Capitalize on the goodness. Forget the things that aren’t really all that important — the things that don’t deserve my, our, full attention. Focus on the “thank-you”s. The “it’s great to be your friend”s. Knowing that it is worth the repeat. The writing down. The chronicling. How spectacular it is to have support. To have encouragement. To have combined laughter. To have shared experience. To have friends!  

I’m writing to you this morning. Every morning. It’s great to be your Friend! 

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In my best Malinda.


My first sleepover was in a hospital in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. I was only six years old. They wouldn’t let my mom stay in the room with me that night. I was terrified. I was armed only with my Golden Book — The Little China Pig, and my first baby baby doll, so brand new she was yet to be named.  The nurse in white cap, white dress, white nylons and shoes entered the room. She wiped the tears of my mom’s goodbye and said, “I’m Malinda, what’s your baby’s name?” Still stunned from the thought of being alone, I repeated the name Malinda. “Just like me!” She beamed. It was as if she placed her smile onto my face, and connected us, brought me to safety. That’s why I remember my first doll’s name, because of kindness.

The scrubs in the French hospital were flowered pink and blue. The language buzzed around me as I lay on the gurney.  It’s not lost on my that my grasp of this language is not a lot more than I had in St. Cloud. And my comfort level was about the same. They wheeled her in next to me, this elderly woman — who was not much bigger than I was then. She was scared, and cried out a little when the man who had just blocked my arm was doing the same to her. In my best Malinda I turned and sent my smile to her. I saw it travel across the sterile room and land on her lips.  She smiled back. And we both were saved.

I don’t know her name, but I remember her face. I look at my braced hand and feel myself smiling, in my best Malinda. 

It takes so little to give each other the “everything is going to be ok.” I, who have been given so much, hope to pass it on to you. Take my “Malinda,” and pass it on.

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Flash.

It was Mr. Rolfsrud who taught us about the flashforward at Central Junior High. He stood tall, polyester suited in front of our class, and took us through the technique with great detail. He neglected to mention that it would also happen in our real lives. 

Listening to an audiobook during my walk yesterday, the author lept the characters into the future. And seemingly in that same flash, I was in this other country. It was as if this decade, this epic novel I’m writing, was simply paragraphed. Maybe that is the way with all living. 

Not at first I suppose. Summer steps in our youth seem eternal. But then, without our knowledge or permission, the pace quickens. Steps become leaps. Leaps turn into bounds. And finally, mere flashes. 

The moment of clarity in the book skipped my heart a little. The moment of clarity in my life did the same. But I wasn’t afraid. More grateful. I simply raised my hand, waited for him to call on me, and thanked him for my love of words. I promised him I would use it all. And kept walking.

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Diorama.

.

From the moment she introduced the assignment to the class, I had a plan. It wouldn’t be hard to find a shoe box to make the diorama. My mom loved shoes. She had a closet full of them.

Mrs. Bergstrom told us that we were going to make a “slice of life” — capture a miniature moment. We could do anything. She suggested scissors and cardboard and paint and crayons. Glue of course, Elmer’s. My head was spinning. Oh, how I loved to make things.

There was an hour after I got off the bus before my mom got home from work. I could have waited. I should have waited. But my seven year old self whispered, then shouted, “Don’t wait!” I opened my mother’s closet and took out the first box in reach. I took out the shiny shoes neatly resting head to toe in tissue paper. I’d like to think There was a moment I think, I hope, that I thought of keeping them wrapped in the tissue paper, but then that shouting self said it might be useful for my diorama — “If you colored it blue and crinkled it up, glued it to the box, it could be one of our 10,000 lakes.” The shoes were left naked on the floor.

I was knee deep, literally, in cuts and folds and colors by the time my mom got home. I was all smiles when I looked up at her from her bedroom floor. Holding the cut-out of myself.

She didn’t return a look of delight like I was expecting. No, it was a look I had never seen before. Deflation. I had been so busy trying to create my own slice, that I forgot about hers.

“It’s my slice of life…” I said sheepishly. She nodded. “And also mine,” she added. She helped me pick up the mess. Put it all on the kitchen table. She wasn’t mad. She even helped me finish. But I knew at that moment, it wasn’t all about me. I took special care to add lovely shoes to the figure that represented her in my tiny box. We were in this together.

I painted a bookmark yesterday of Maya Angelou. At the top are her words, “Then when you know better, do better.” It’s a good reminder for me. It’s simple, but so worth repeating. We are not alone in this life. We would do well to remember as we wander through each other’s dioramas. The word itself in French means, “through that which is seen.” My mother saw me. And I saw her. And oh, how she she made me, still makes me, want to do better.

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In the white space.


One of the best lessons I learned as an artist was not in the creation, but in the white space. Whether it is on the canvas, or the wall around it, there has to be space for the eye to rest. The white space. To see the art, to really be able to feel it, there must be space around it, so it can breathe, it can live. When it all becomes too cluttered, then nothing can really be seen. Not even the best of art.

I suppose it’s the same with living.

There are a million books written about it. Grief. It only recently occurred to me — looking at my grandfather’s portrait. I’m living in that white space. Missing my mother. (My grandpa and grandma too.) But it made me feel better, seeing it this way. It’s all part of the big picture. This white space — this emptiness — it shows us the real beauty of life. And it’s not separate from the art of living, it’s a necessity. So I feel it. And I know that I’m lucky. What a privilege to be a part of these glorious lives. To rest in the space beside them. Knowing that we are all a part of the same work. We are together. Always.

I only mention it because maybe you are missing someone. Maybe you are resting in this space. And maybe, for a moment, you too can see the beauty of it all — the endless art of this living…

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Shopping small.

If Herberger’s was ever low on pantyhose, there was a distinct possibility that my mom just restocked her drawers.

She was always prepared. Had she been a scout, and they offered a fashion badge, her sash would have been decorated immediately. Eagle status. Not only did she have the right pair for every outfit, and any future outfit, she kept them in pristine condition. After wearing and washing, she folded them back into their original packaging and filed them neatly, easily visible by color, into her pantyhose drawer. On days when the world just didn’t make sense, I, we, could look to that drawer and find hope.

Sure, it may sound silly. And it probably was. But so what. It brought her joy. It brings me joy. Still. When I see the advertisements to “Shop Small,” this holiday season, I think of her drawer. I think of all the little things she gave to me.

I think we can all get caught up in the “it has to be bigger, grander, more expensive,” to mean something. But, I suppose, it’s always the little things. With gifts. In life. In love. It’s the small things that we will carry. That will fill us for our entire lives.

I bought a pair of green pantyhose two days ago. They match perfectly with my green dress. I wore them yesterday, with all of my mother’s pride. And I saved the packaging. My heart is filled with small mercies.

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Plain to see.


I suppose it all takes time. To see the ordinary. And to appreciate it. Those of you that follow me here, have come, I hope, to know my grandparents, my mother, my schoolmates, and teachers. Some might say “just plain folks.” And that’s probably true. But maybe that’s the real beauty of it all. To find the spectacular in farmers, housewives and receptionists. To see the extraordinary in the daily living.

And in seeing them, it helps me see myself. Helps me find the gratitude of the day given. Of the toast for breakfast. The smell of coffee. The hand that reaches out for mine.

I am reading the book, “Love, Kurt (The Vonnegut Love Letters). I have this book, only because I have a special friend. Last year, together with our husbands, we went to Stillwater, MN. My friend and I stood in the bookstore as if before the Christmas morning tree. So many gifts in front of us, we had a hard time deciding. We each settled on our present. I loved her choice as much as mine. This year, she gave her book to me. Those simple words don’t seem to give it enough meaning, but I will tell you that it fills my heart. It brings me back to a laughter filled day on brisk streets and slow choices. It, for me too, is a love letter.

In the book, Kurt Vonnegut writes with his young pen, to his young wife, “Angel, will you stick by me if it goes backwards and downwards? Holy smokes, Angel: what if I turn out to be just plain folks?” Tears fill my eyes. I imagine we’ve all had the worries. Will I be special enough to be loved?

It’s these memories, of course, that give me that comfort. That give me the yes. My heart is packed full of the love from these glorious and plain folks. And I have loved them. Love them still. And I am one. Proud to be living with these extraordinary people. It is plain to see, they, we, are more than enough to be loved.

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Friends

She hadn’t told me anything deep, dark, or hidden. It wasn’t a designated secure place. Neither church, nor Switzerland. But for some reason, on the return bus trip from an out of town volleyball game, I felt safe. In this back seat, looking straight ahead. Knees pushed against the seat in front of us, I told my friend, as I had told no other contemporary, my secret.

This friend listened. Without judgement or questions. Braced, as if I were passing her the ball. I could feel the words spank off from my overworked forearms. She took the ball. What a relief to pass it on.

We had Judy Blumed our way through Junior High, but when I asked, on this yellow-orange school bus, “Are you there, it’s me…” she listened. No solutions offered. Just release.

I don’t know who we played that day after school. I don’t know if we won or lost. But never had I felt more a part of something. I had a real teammate. We didn’t speak of it again. We didn’t need to.

It’s not necessary to me that she remembers. I won’t forget. I had such a friend.

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