Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: give


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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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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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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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Finding shine.

I suppose it’s only natural to get used to things. Even the things we dreamed about for years can become ordinary while living them. And we all want to be comfortable. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the shine, I don’t want to lose that. So I make the small changes. Daily.

It might sound silly, but for me, it’s the little things. I change the painting in my direct view from the breakfast table. And this brand new, this shiny comfort, reflects my smile, and the day begins. 

After lunch is my usual reading time. I switch up the place. Moving daily from chair, to bed, to outdoor hammock. Yesterday’s sun jumped off the pages as I swayed above the grass. 

Being my mother’s daughter, it is not only my joy, but my responsibility, to change my clothes frequently throughout the day. The more challenging the day, the more changes. I will hold the conversation in my head. Clutching my pearls, sometimes real, sometimes imaginary. Humbly offering my thanks. Accepting the worked-for shine that only a mirror and a mother’s memory can reflect.

Now some might say, well it’s easy for you, you live in a beautiful country. You have inspiration all around. Yes, that’s true. But I don’t eat breakfast under the Eiffel Tower each morning. I, like everyone else, am not given a reason to get out of bed…I (we) have to get out of bed and go find that reason every day.

I don’t know what today will bring. I’m not even sure what I’ll wear, or how long I’ll wear it. The clouds overhead say, “you’re on your own today.” I smile. “I’ve got this,” I say. And set out to find my shine.

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Laid upon the counter.

My first instinct was to save it all. Candy from Easter or Halloween. I would spread it out. Sort it by taste and then color. Count it. Figure out how many days it would last. Not wanting to run out. Supplementing with Christmas, or Valentine’s, possibly birthday…how could I keep the candy supply chain alive?

It became quite clear on our trip to Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store, that this was the furthest thing from my Grandma Elsie’s mind. The first thing she picked up was a bag of coconut toasted marshmallows. She ripped open a corner and placed them in the child seat at the front of the cart. “Grandma!” I shouted a warning. “It’s fine,” she said. “We’re going to pay for it.” “But we’ll get in trouble.” “No, I know the people here.” And indeed she did. Never hiding her joy of these sugary treats, she ate them right in front of the butcher, and the stock boy. She said hello to everyone, popping them into her mouth, one after the other. By the third aisle, it became quite clear that we weren’t getting into trouble, so when she looked at me offering, I agreed. They were delicious. “Don’t you want to save any?” I asked. She looked bewildered. “But you love them…” I said. “What am I going to do with all that love?” she smiled.

We placed the empty bag on the counter at the cash register. It was my favorite trip ever to the grocery store.

It became so clear. Nothing was worth anything, if it wasn’t spent. Candy on the bedroom floor had no taste. And it became even more true with emotion. Courage had to be exercised. Love had to be given away. Or it meant nothing. I suppose we think we’re safe or something, if we hoard it all, but I’m afraid it’s just not true.

I want to live this way. So sure at the end of the day that I’ve laid it empty upon the counter. My sacks of courage, and victories, my joy, my woes, even, and especially, all my love. So sure that there will be more tomorrow. Again, and again, I will taste this life.

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Well traveled.

I know that I am nothing new. I am not the first to have sat in her studio, stil flush from the emotion of putting paint on canvas. Not ready to let the feeling pass. Wanting to feed it. Grabbing the nearest book. Devouring word after word. Never thinking about the “all” they said we couldn’t have. 

It was Miss Green that introduced us to the “spelling trip.” Each week in our fifth grade classroom at Washington Elementary we split off into teams and randomly selected a place on the map. We learned all we could about the destination, then, as a group, wrote about our journey. We pushed our desks and minds together and began to write. I don’t remember where we were headed this particular week, but it was somewhere in the countryside. Someone said, “Let’s head for the hills!” One clever boy followed with, “And everyone jumped on Jodi!” 

Maybe she wasn’t the first teacher to think of this method, but she was the first to tell us. She was the first to open our hearts and imaginations to seeing, not all, but more. She sparked our curiousity. Fed it with paper and pencils and maps. And the journey began. My journey began.

Would I be living the same life without this start? Maybe. Maybe not. But joyfully, I’ll never have to find out. There is no closing of a heart cracked wide open. No closing of a heart that wants to roam from creative hands to flushing cheeks — a heart well traveled. 

I know that I am not the first to believe in love. I may not even be the first person to love you. But no one has loved with this very heart…this bruised and ever hopeful, beating heart…cracked open enough to let yours in. And this doesn’t make us new, but it does make us special. 

I have this thought, sitting book in hand, before the canvas, easel wide open… what if the only “all” we thought of, was what we had to give…

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