Jodi Hills

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


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Journey home.

The only creative power I know is that of what might roughly be called ‘love’; not of course a sentimental love: a far more impersonal and less individual emotion. I sometimes think that migratory birds may have it for each other. They fly in the same direction, and have never been seen to interfere with each other’s flights.” Phyllis Bottome

It’s always a bit of an adjustment, returning home after traveling. My brain is usually just a beat off, but in that beat I find myself falling in love again with my own life. What a gift that is! Everything is brand new, just for a moment. The morning croissant, just a little more flavorful. The bathroom lighting, more forgiving than the last hotel. My pillow — my pillow!! The paintings on the wall, in the studio — my heart. The candles lit. The windows open. The trees in the garden know my footsteps. The birds are singing. I am in love.

I sat down to make my first painting after this trip, this migration, and I am the bird after a long flight. I am filled with all the colors of travel, and all of the life of the familiar. My brain, still a little fuzzy, relies on my hands, my heart, for they know what to do — and I follow. Stroke by stroke. Bird by bird. I know who I am. And I am home.  

It is my wish for everyone. The sky is big, and meant to be shared, meant to be loved, knowing we are all on this beautiful and constant journey home.