Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: lifted


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Still and again.


It was the most delightful combination of comfort and brand new. 

I made a book of photographs for Dominique’s mother. Each visit we would go through the book, again, for the first time. Her short term memory collapsed upon itself within just a few minutes, but the long term — the love of her family — this recognition remained until the end. So we turned, page by page, holding.

Maybe it’s the heart that takes over, when the brain has had enough. The brain that has warned us, urged us. Shot the warning signs again and again. But thankfully the heart seems to win — turning the the brain’s fears of “remember when…” into the heart’s gathering of “aaaah, but remember when…” 

They say memory is unreliable. I suppose if you’re using the brain, that’s true. So I write the stories from my heart, where they seem to be holding, strong. Each day turning the page, saying the “I love you’s” again, and for the first time.

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Grist for the mill.

Standing inside the Mill City Museum, you can see the Guthrie Theatre from the window, reflecting the history of all those who worked the mill, and never saw a play. 

I learned more about the history of the Minneapolis flour mill in that ten minute Flour Tower ride, than I had bothered to learn in the decades I lived here. Oh sure, I had taken the photos, but never really the time. Hearing the voices of those who worked there — those who dared the danger of the whipping wide-open belts, those who never really got the white dust from their clothing or lungs, those who thought maybe, just maybe, if they could work long enough to climb the ladder to get to $25 a week pay, that they would live like kings, but never did — the history, the story, came to life. And it became so clear, that there would be no Guthrie theatre — a place that I did get to learn, to see, to love — without the people who created this city, day by day, hour by hour, milling it to life. 

I suppose that’s why I tell you of my grandparents, my mother, my teachers. There will be no tour to visit, to learn, so I write. I show you their reflections as you look into my daily world. And you see them, in each word, in each stroke of paint. They are the ones that milled my world to life. Gave me the opportunity to do what I do, do what I love. A history that will never be erased from my hands. Nor my heart. Their love, a continuous grist for my life’s mill. 

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Mile high.

It was very subtle. I walked past the marker twice. I asked two people. Finally the third pointed it out, and still it took me a minute. Then I saw it – One mile above sea level. I smiled. Maybe it’s the way of all elevation. 

I write daily of the things that have lifted me. Lift me still. Little things my grandpa said — “You can turn in, or you can turn out. It’s up to you.” My grandma — “You’ll figure it out as you go along.”  My mother… there are not enough steps a mile above sea level to show everything that she has etched on my heart. 

As we travel, it’s always the little things that we talk about again and again. The things that we have seen — spectacular!!!! — but truth be told, I don’t recall ever saying, “Remember the Colosseum…”  No, it’s the little things we talk about, as we drive mile after mile through the prairies. Like the moment in Springfield, Illinois… when we went to the wrong library, (in our defense, both named Lincoln). We entered the public library, thinking it was the Presidential Library. It had kids’ cut outs on the wall. The front desk. Books of course. Your typical public library. Both hesitating, Dominique spoke first — “It’s not very Lincolny…”.    I bent over in laughter. He joined me. We haven’t stopped laughing since. It fills many empty miles. Lifts us.

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. It’s the little things. Surround yourself with those who see it. Feel it. Those that lift you with words, heart, laughter and action. Be that kind of person. I guarantee you, it will always be a big deal.

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