Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: travel


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The golden blur.

In the springtime, when Hugo’s field began to turn golden behind our house on Van Dyke Road, and when the sun reflected off my winter white thighs, my eyes could barely adjust to the brightness of it all. For a few brief moments, blinded in the growth, I didn’t know where I was going, but I felt certain that I was on my way. 

He didn’t want us running through his field. To cut across would save only minutes in the short journey to town, and I can’t explain why we were in such a hurry, but it was so tempting. Maybe it was the promise of summer. The grain that brushed against our legs. The windowed storefronts that called to us. Come. Press against. See what’s inside. We’ve been waiting just for you. It was too much to resist, so we ran across his beautiful field toward the neverending promise.

I’d like to think we didn’t do any damage. And I apologize if we did. In this fever to outrun time — this time measured so clearly by the color of the changing field.  

It’s springtime in Provence. Purples and yellows bloom all around us, in a way that quickens the steps. My lavender legs still feel like running. But there is a moment when the morning sun comes through the window with a light that is so bright you can only feel it, and it tells me to stop. Stop chasing. Just be. Maybe it’s  nature Hugo-ing us to take the long way. I smile slowly. I’d like to tell you it lasts. But I cannot stop color, nor time. Or the need to travel through both. But I can tell you this, it’s in these brief moments, that I feel gratitude of peace, and the golden blur rests.

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Pillowed to the new.

Wide awake in the middle of the night, contemplating why jet lag is so very real, it occurred to me that perhaps the real issue is the lie to the body. I had convinced it that the time was real, only to get on a plane and tell it, no, this is the real time now.

And I suppose that’s with any change. The body, mostly the heart, gets used to the routine. And while I would never call love routine, there is a familiarity to it, usually in the form of a response — a return of a call, a hug. An awareness of feeling. 

Traveling often, I have found the best way to combat the time change is not to lie. Resting in the unfamiliar zone, I tell myself, “Yes, it’s different, this time, but not you. Your heart will keep beating. Find its step. Its new pace.” I smile softly, pillowed to the new.

There is another zone I’m living in — this world without the call of my mother. It would be a lie to say that it isn’t different. So I don’t. But the love remains. Beats strongly in this heart of mine. That will never change. So I don’t fight it. I feel it. I feel it all. And pillow to the love.

I mention it only because I’ve seen you out there — between the zones of heart, road and time. And maybe you need to hear it from someone who’s been there, rest assured that nothing will be the same, but everything is going to be ok, more than that even, beautiful. 

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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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Finding Houston.

Sometimes it’s as simple as whether the sun is out or not, but I have fallen in and out of love with cities throughout the United States. And they can change, sure, a little, but mostly I think it’s me.

Cities I thought I loved several years ago, this visit, not so much. And that’s ok, it doesn’t take away from my previous visits. I’ve also been surprised in the reverse — loving those I thought I never could. Taking the extra photos, celebrating, almost apologizing for not seeing it before. I know it’s silly. Laurel, Mississippi doesn’t need me to love it, no more than Houston was waiting for me to change my mind.

I suppose it’s the same with people. We spend so much time and energy wondering what people think. Do they like me when…will they like me if… oof, it can be exhausting. Should I change? Did they? We’re all wandering, wondering. Seeing situations and people again, for the very first time. It’s a journey. We would do well to remember we’re all on one. Knowing this, (I remind myself too), maybe we could all be a little more kind, gentle, joyful, loving, along the way. And maybe when our days and time together don’t always match up, we can smile and wave… and remember how we fell in love with Houston.


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Heaven nods.

For most things, an outfit for example, my mother’s decisions were slow and methodical, including several trips to the store, three-way mirrors, test runs with the right shoes, the accenting jewelry, the perfect shade of make-up applied in the proper lighting. Such gentle care she took to reach her destination. So it was surprising to me, on any given road trip, how quickly she could decide whether a city was the right stop for her. It wasn’t often, but it was swift and sure when it happened. Pulling off the exit, as I opened my car door, her decision would be made. “Nope,” she would say, and I knew she wouldn’t be getting out of the car. “I hate it,” she said.  And just in case her point wasn’t clear, she added, “with a passion.”  The echo of my laughter rang in the rear view mirror as we pulled out of town. 

But that’s how we did all things I suppose, with a passion. The cds turned along with the wheels beneath us and we sang! We sang as if each lyric was happening to us at that very moment. It was, we were, wild and free! So many things in this life are out of our control. And maybe that’s why she did it — say no. It feels so good. So freeing. To decide what’s right for you. Not out of spite or anger, but pure passion, passion for your own life, your own living. 

We pulled into the city yesterday (I won’t say which one – we all have our own right to decide.) I had to use the restroom. Dominique kept one hand on the car door. The words were French, and not exactly identical, but I knew we weren’t staying. I laughed as we sang ourselves down the road…with a passion.

Once again, heaven nods. 

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My heart is well traveled.

What we lacked in maps, clues, or even plans, we made up for with imagination. Willie Nelson sang “On the road again,” and we were off.

Travel choices with my mother were based on song lyrics, books, catalogs and handsome men. We traveled to Bozeman, Montana in hopes of getting a glimpse of Sam Elliott; countless cities featured in the Sundance Catalog, wearing the outfits and approval of its founder Robert Redford; Galveston, Texas because Glen Campbell sang “I still see your sea waves crashing…” and even to Iowa, not so much for the covered bridges of Madison county, but perhaps the love of someone who wouldn’t let the screen door slam (if you read the book, you’ll know.)

I loved that she believed in the romance of it all. And I don’t mean just handsome men. She loved the possibility of things. It wasn’t about the finding, but the being. Living in the dream. “Carry one in your pocket,” she always told me. And I do. She didn’t give me a path. We all have to make our own. She didn’t offer a map. We have to find our own way. But she gave me the spirit. The wonder. The freedom.

Packing up to move down the road, Dominique and I have French croissants from a Duluth bakery. (There are beautiful surprises everywhere!) The only thing certain is that our pockets are full. The next dream awaits.

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Nothing shouted.

The first time I visited New England was with my mother. I was just out of college. Up until then all of my “vacation” time had been used to have surgery. To say we both fell in love immediately would not be an exaggeration. The main street was lined with seemingly freshly painted white houses. Porched and welcoming. A street sweeper (by hand) waved us in. Washed windows revealed the contents. Clothes. Beautiful clothes for sale lived in this house. My mother looked at me and beamed. We walked the white stairs and opened the door. Was that the slight hum of angels singing? Or just my mother’s heart. 

It was all like this – this understated elegance. Lobster on paper plates. Lawns mowed. Cars washed. Nothing gilded. Nothing shouted – it wasn’t necessary, it showed. 

I visited again. Several times. I have never harbored a New England address. And though I may have never actually “there,” I have lived in it, here. 

There are so many gorgeous places around the world. I have been lucky enough to visit so many of them. And as the saying goes, “if you’re lucky enough to be here, you’re lucky enough.” 

I have, in the past, been guilty of waiting — waiting to be happy if I was in the right place. I’m learning, daily, to create those places, those feelings, that joy, that comfort, in the exact place that I am. Making the hotel breakfasts. Dressing up to go to the grocery store. Eating slowly. Seeing the day for the first time, because, aren’t we all? Today is really our vacation from yesterday. Our journey towards tomorrow. I’m going to take those photo opportunities along the way.

The electrician was here the other day. He finished his job. I don’t know his name. But I invited him inside. He vacationed for a few brief moments at our kitchen table. A cup of coffee. A plate of cookies. I smiled, hoping, for these few moments, that maybe I was his New England. He asked where I was from. And, as so many people do, asked which place I liked better, the US or France. How could I explain that I was trying to live in the best of places. That I carried a piece of it all within me. That I was a French breakfast in a New England town. A relic of Rome. Dancing to the joyful music in Spain. Dangling my feet in a summer Minnesota lake. Standing in front of my own painted “Mona Lisa.”  My heart jimbled at the thought. I could hear the angels softly sing, my mother now one of them. “I love it all,” I said. And meant it. 

I’m here. And I am home.

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Somewhere.

It’s not always easy to see it when you’re in it, but the challenge usually ends up being the gift.

Living in a country where you are learning the language, you notice everything. You have to. Even the simplest of things. The most mundane of tasks are brand new. Going to the grocery store. Asking directions. You have to humble yourself to the fact that you don’t know — a lot! “In the middle of nowhere” takes on a whole new meaning.

We were driving through this very “middle” the other day. I was fully prepared to admit that we were lost. Dominique on the other hand, was simply looking. We were trying to get to a place to picnic with friends. We were supposed to bring dessert. We wanted to wait to pick it up at a nearby place because of the heat. We were overestimating the opportunities of “nearby.” The GPS wasn’t working. In its defense, I’m not sure that there was anything to base directions on. We were running late, and later. Desperately in need of dessert and directions. And then we saw her. A human leaning against the car. In my best French I asked if there was a supermarket nearby. Dominique was mortified. She laughed — a supermarket! (We were basically in a field, a very big field. We were “time travel” away from a supermarket.) But still smiling, she did lead us to a boulangerie in a neighboring village. Which sacked us with cookies and directions.

I think about how fast life moved when I knew everything. (Or thought I did.) Which direction to turn. How long the drive would be. Where to get the best dessert. Where to buy the best paint. How to mail a package (not to mention just finding the post office.) Everything was easy. And time blurred by. This, perhaps, is more frightening than a little humility. Time moves more slowly when you have to stop and think. Stop to wonder, how in the world will I get this done.? Or what is the word for that??? Because in this stopping, you also get to see everything. In the middle of a lavender field, beside a small church built centuries before, Centuries!, eating the best cookies you ever tasted, you get to stop and say, “isn’t this something!”

We keep up the wander. The wonder. Dominique can hardly believe that I permanently have a rock in my shoe. Both literally and figuratively. I always have. I guess my whole life mother nature has been trying to get me to slow down. Here, in France, she’s found a pretty good way. I stop. Take off my shoe. Tip the gift from my sole and see where I am. Look at where I am! Isn’t this something?!

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The path.

“I walk because it confers- or restores- a feeling of placeness…” Lauren Elkin, Flâneuse

Conversations others had with my mother often started out like this — “I saw you out walking…” It always pleased me to hear it. It seemed to me like a compliment. 

I loved her stride. Long-legged purpose. Maybe it was when walking that I saw her the most confident. And I liked being in it, beside her. It felt certain and unsure at the same time. Admitting that you could be lost or found, but somehow, your feet held the power. Step by step. Place by place.

I suppose she always knew. Setting this pace for me at such a young age. Lengthening my gait, that we would soon walk side by side. And that one day, I would go beyond. But still, she encouraged it. And we walked. Walked and walked. Making maps with our feet. Promises with our heart. 

I walk every day. Promises are kept. This place becomes mine. And a little bit hers. My feet have a conversation with the gravel. Telling of how they got here. A stranger passes, and we smile in different languages, but we know…somehow we know…there is a place for us. For all of us. Here. 

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All set.

We were exchanging airport stories. She was traveling with her big family. They had made plans and lists. Organization was attempted. Even still, the best laid plans of travelers… They unloaded and reloaded, resembling more of a comedy than a dance. Nearing the end, she thought she heard the security guard say, “You’re awesome.” All smiles, giddy with delight that they had navigated through this maze unscathed, and apparently quite remarkably, she replied, “Oh, thank you!!  Thank you!  You’re AWESOME too!” He hadn’t said “awesome.”  “No,” he replied stoically, “You’re all set.” We hear what we want to hear. 

I suppose we do this a million times a day, try to translate what is said by others, even what we tell ourselves. People ask me all the time, how do you write every day. Saying they could never do it. Really, we all do it, I just happen to put it down on the page. We are in a constant state of listening and telling our stories. What is said and what is heard are often so different. This is why I love my friend’s story so much! In all the chaos around her, the story she was hearing in her head was that she, they, were awesome!  What if we all told ourselves that today? What if the voices in our head told us we were doing great? That we looked fabulous! That we were really something!  Then we would, in fact, be “all set!” 

Have a great day, my friends!  You ARE awesome!

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