Jodi Hills

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


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What if today was our someday…

We’re all guilty of it, for sure – projecting, delaying our happiness into the someday. “Someday, if we just have more time… more money…”. “Someday, when I lose five pounds, get that promotion, change my hair, fall in love… well, then…”. How is then that different from now?

And even for the small things. Watching YouTube, I’m told I won’t be happy until I get this deskpad, or this computer, or certainly everything available at IKEA, not to mention the “must haves” from Amazon. And I will admit I have lusted after the gray wool desk pad from Grovemade – I’m only human… but my work life doesn’t depend on it. I can still create my blogs, make prints, cards, email my mother, do everything I need. So I’m happy. Today. Without that beautiful pad. Today is the someday that I celebrate.

I have to make an effort. It doesn’t always come naturally. Returning from vacation, I can easily slip into old habits, wearing the same thing, eating the same thing, but then I catch myself, and try to live better. Put on the scarf. Light the candle. Eat new things. Enjoy the view. Celebrate the day for what it is – the gift that is given. I have to remember that this, in fact, is my someday. I give thanks, and begin… today.


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Little dancer.

Two weeks ago when we arrived in New Orleans, just before the whirlwind of Mardi Gras had started, we were, for the most part, alone. Proof of this, we walked up to the Cafe du Monde and got an order of beignets in one minute. No line. Delicious in so many ways. We left New Orleans to travel the south, and returned yesterday to the crowds, donned in beads and noise and purples and greens and golds. The line for the Cafe du Monde stretched around the block. We smiled at each other, knowing, that just a moment before, it was ours. We tasted it without the validation of a long line.

While the crowds marched through the French quarter, we took a drive. I’m not sure what led us to the house where Degas lived for a brief time just before Impressionism took hold — I say I’m not sure, but I have a pretty good idea — our hearts usually lead us — maybe it was the French flag, the statue of the little dancer girl — there was no crowd to follow, no line to get in, just the feeling of creation in the air, and we pulled over immediately. This master of fine art, lived here. Here. Maybe it was just a brief moment, but we could feel it. And it was ours.

My grandparents lived in a farm house. No one will line up to see it, but I remember each door. Each entryway. I remember the smell of damp coats hanging. The creaks of the stairs. The sink full of dishes. The sign on the kitchen counter that read, “I should have danced all night.”

My mother will be moving out of her apartment soon. Some will say it was just four walls. But inside it was coffee and conversation. Wine and dreams. Fashion shows and laughter. Tears of tenderness. Home. Here – no crowds, no lines, but with hearts fully validated, oh, how we danced!