Jodi Hills

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


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Pont du Gard

The most visited ancient monument in France, listed as a world heritage site by Unesco, the Pont du Gard aqueduct remains one of humankind’s great masterpieces. A marvel of Antiquity and a true technical feat.

48 metres high, it has three vertical rows of arches: 6 on the lowest level, 11 on the second level and 35 on the third and top level. Its upper part reaches a length of 273 metres (originally 360 metres when there were twelve extra arches). It served as an aqueduct until the 6th century before becoming a tollgate in the Middle Ages and finally a road bridge from the 18th to 20th century.  

Perhaps even more impressive, an olive tree lives, over 1,000 years old, next to this masterpiece — a masterpiece in and of itself.  

Nobody takes the time to plant an olive tree anymore. (Or bothers to build real bridges.) You need patience with an olive tree. You can plant it and wait five years for the olives, maybe twelve. 

Yes, twelve years of nurturing, watering and pruning. The reward is not instant. Ah, instant gratification. I know, I get impatient too. But I’m trying, really trying, with my life, to plant an olive tree. Trying to give without worrying about the pay-off, the reward. 

Maybe it’s not about the fruit. Maybe it’s about the tree. Maybe it’s just about the growth itself. I want to have the patience, the beauty, the stamina, the strength of an olive tree. And so I will put in the time to learn, to love, and to live, without measuring the sun, only feeling its warmth. I offer this to you as well. I am here for you. 

No abandonings. For you, for me, I’m planting an olive tree. I am building a bridge. I am taking the time.


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Peach

Living in an apartment most of my young life, I didn’t really understand the basement of my grandmother. The room at the bottom of the stairs was stacked with glass jars filled with fruit and vegetables. She “canned.” I didn’t really know what that meant. No one really explained it to me. I’m ashamed to say, I wondered if we, they, were poor. Did we have to save this food in these jars? Were we preparing for something terrible to happen? I didn’t know – and I was afraid to ask.


I loved my grandma. She had a twinkle that came from some inner assuredness, so my worry didn’t last long. And I forgot about it.
Peaches have begun to pop out on our front yard tree. Each year when they blossom and then give fruit, it feels like a tiny miracle. They are beautiful. A melding of orange and yellow and red. I imagine the tiny angels that come in the night with brushes and release all the colors, just for us to give a wow in the morning sun!


In a few weeks, I will pick these peaches and peel them. After I take the skin off, the fruit is almost without color, a pale yellow at best, but then when I boil them, they release into the most glorious color of, well, peach! It is stunning. And the magic continues.


As each jar is emptied, over fresh baked bread, or brioche, or just by the spoonful, I am taken on a sticky hand trip, across the ocean, chubby fingers locked in my grandma’s, walking down the stairs to her glorious basement. “I see it now,” I tell her. “It’s magic and it’s beautiful!”

My grandma came last night with the other angels. The peaches fill the tree and the morning air says, “Wow!”