Jodi Hills

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

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Dishwater warm.

It seems I always needed a little extra assurance, and she was more than willing to give it to me. I was still at the picking up and putting down phase. Old enough to walk, or at least waddle, but the need to have my grandma near was stronger than any urge to wander off, so when she placed me somewhere near her kitchen chores I stayed. I held her gaze as if with ropes. “I’m not going to leave you,” she said. I smiled. And I believed her. I’m not going to say that I didn’t test it from time to time — the speed at which she could apron wipe her hands and grab the sharp object from my grasp. I think we both knew I was too much of a rule follower to do anything drastic, but it was always worth the feeling of her dishwater warm hands around me. 

I sat in the doctor’s office yesterday, hovering somewhere between translation and nerves. Oh, it was to be the smallest of procedures. Nothing really, but yet, I needed a little of that sweet assurance. The French words jumped from his mouth to the tablet and my eyes darted around his desk, landing on nothing short of two warm hands around me. It was a small sack, probably filled with samples from the pharmacie, most certainly labeled by angels, “Elsie sante.” In the decade plus that I’ve been here, I’ve never seen this brand before. But it wasn’t really a surprise. Hadn’t she promised?  I’m smiling. She hasn’t left yet. 


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…but the climb.

It’s not that I’m attached to the shoes really, but the miles they carried me. 

I was gifted a new pair of shoes for my birthday. I’ve tried them on. Admired them in the mirror. Jumped up and down. Ran in place to see if they were fast. (The same thing I’ve done since getting my first pair at Iverson’s shoes in Alexandria, Minnesota.) They are going to be lovely, I know it, but not just yet.

I put on my old pair again today. I can see my socks through the holes above the laces. I know why they rip there. It’s from each bend at the bed of my toes as I climb up the hills of the Montaiguet. They are not flawed, but accomplished. 

I hope I can see it the same way in myself, in those around me. What if we all could? What if we could see, not the imperfections, but the climb? What if we saw the days that, in the rain, the wind, we still went to the hill? The mornings after not much sleep, we dragged those feet higher. And higher still. And if we did, see all the wind and rain and rocks and miles and steeps, wouldn’t all those shoes seem a lot more beautiful?!!! I’m smiling, because my socks are smiling through the opening. They will get their much deserved rest tomorrow, but today, once again, we open with a climb.

The trail.
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It can be climbed.

Would I have seen it — the majestic beauty of the Sainte Victoire — if Cezanne hadn’t shown it in paintings again and again?  I’d like to think yes, but I can’t be sure. Never to lose it, the appreciation, each day when I walk by the viewpoint, I stop. Sometimes I take a photo. Sometimes I just wave and give thanks. Some days I climb a little higher. Perhaps to get a little closer. Like Laura did on Little House on the Prairie, when she needed to be in voice reach of heaven. She rattled her braids and sweated her brow. Tested the very muscles of her thighs just to get a little closer. 

I don’t measure these daily steps in “likes.” I measure them in steps. How close can I get to the real beauty of those around me? The heavenly goodness of my grandparents and mother. Of teachers and friends. I can’t take the chance that they don’t know, that you don’t know. So I keep climbing. With keyboard and brush. Telling their stories. Our stories. 

I suppose we all think we’re just one voice, what could it matter? But I have to believe it does. It matters to me. And when I see you out there, thighs burning, heart racing, I tell you I can’t climb it for you, but it can be climbed. We can do this — I tell it to my own sweating brow, and yours, yes, we can.

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Still, a rose.

We went through all of my possible names at Sephora to try to find my fidelity card. Jodi Hills. Jodi Orsolini. Jodi Hills Orsolini. Even Dominique. Nothing. (We didn’t try “Goat” like they have me listed as at the winery.) It’s the second time they’ve lost it. Well, lost is probably the wrong word. My name just eludes them. And still, I exist. I could be upset about it. It’s my skin after all. And thick or thin, I still want the make-up. Thick or thin skinned, I have to stand in front of the mirror alone and apply. And I do. And, humbly, I must say, I like what I see. And I know my name. I know who I am. 

When I was little, my brother called me Tess. Tessma Luma. Tessie Trueheart. I didn’t question it. I liked it. My friends called me Jodes. Joder. Jo-Jo Starbucks. Josi Hi. Jod. And I suppose I knew it was me, not by the actual name they used, but the sound of the call, the familiarity I heard with not just my ears, but my heart. 

I remember getting off the bus at Lee’s house to play with Lincoln and Tony. Mrs. Lee was the only mom in the neighborhood to call me Tessma Luma. I walked through their open screen door and knew I was home. 

Here in France, they emphasize the second syllable. My name is Jho-DEE! At first I must admit it sounded strange. Now it swings as easily as a screen door. 

I guess it always comes down to being comfortable in your own skin. No one can give you that, you have to hear it — hear it from the filter within. I smile at the “rose by any other name” in the mirror, and decide to have a good day.

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Heart-first.

There is a painting that walks ahead of me on the trail. Normally I would be eager to pass these aging men, but my anxious feet are overruled and I slow to take it all in. Maybe it’s the hats. Or the synchronized position of hands clasped behind their backs, heading them “heart-first.” 

When I’m close enough for them to hear my graveled steps, I pick up the pace. We exchange smiling bonjours, and the day will continue down different roads. I won’t learn their names, these hatted men. Having been in their path is enough. 

Maybe it was a different time, but my grandfather wore a hat. There was something trustworthy about it. Elegant, even in overalls. I trusted it — him. I suppose that’s why I trust it still. Because what’s taught is what’s known. And maybe that’s what empathy is, what humanity is, walking in the path of others, heart-first. 


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The ample susan.

I suppose it’s always hard to see how special things are from deep within. I, like all of my cousins, took for granted that Grandma Elsie’s cookie jar would always be full, and the lazy susan in the bottom corner cupboard needed two hands to turn. (And I’m not talking about a little spinning spice rack, no, a lazy susan that could spin a small three to four year old into a dizzied frenzy.) My grandma stocked this beast of a susan with the entire Sugar family — Sugar Daddies, Sugar Mamas, and Sugar Babies. She also included the Black Cows, Slow Pokes, Junior mints, random candied corns and jelly beans depending on the season. There was not a mint or a lemon drop in sight. So when one of the girls in our jump roping gang at Washington Elementary began speaking disparagingly about her grandmother’s candy selection, I couldn’t believe it. When others chimed in, I dropped the rope to investigate further. No Sugar Babies? Not even a Slow Poke? No. Surely she offered you a rootbeer float from time to time. They laughed. 

It’s amazing what a little knowledge can do. I never twirled a jump rope the same. There was no need to flaunt it. It was my grandpa who taught me that. After arriving first in a race around the farmhouse with one of those sugar-fueled cousins, I ran to him bragging about my victory. He patted my shoulder. “It’s enough to win,” he said. 

Each afternoon recess, I quietly twirled the rope, deep in the knowledge that I was winning. 

From time to time, I can still get lost in the ample susan of my life, not seeing how special it is until life comes tripping with its little interruptions. And I see these breaks in fortune for what for what they really are — just little schoolgirls, telling me, showing me how lucky I truly am. I smile, and twirl in gratitude once again. 

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The grand torch.

I can’t say I ever followed boxing. Of course I had heard of him, Muhammad Ali. But my limited impression was mostly bravado. But then in 1996, when he appeared on the Olympic stage, fragile, all in white, I took notice. Arms trembling, he moved gingerly across the stage. No “floating” or “stinging”…but what I saw, what we all saw, was pure strength. I held my breath as the shaking flame tried to grab hold. Seconds passed. And then it took. The flame shot up to the official grand torch, and the sky lit with the power of vulnerability.

We have a tendency to ooooh and aaaah at the fantastic — at human feats of strength. And we should. But the truth is, they are happening all around us, all the time. I suppose the only real difference is the lighting. Not engulfed under an Olympic size flame, but rather within the subtle glowing of grace. Not emboldened by uniform or flag, but inner strength. Those who dare to brave the challenges of heart and body, and face the day with kindness still. 

In a couple of days, the Olympic torch will pass through our French city. A grand event, for sure, but it makes me smile, as I look at the pictures of my mother on the wall…my grandfather, my grandmother…the torch has already been passed. 

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Nestled




It’s very rare.  Maybe only three times in the last 10 years.  We live in one of the sunniest places on the planet.  So when it happens, when the clouds disappear the entire mountain, the Sainte Victoire, it is extremely disorienting. My heart knows it’s there, but my eyes send a wobble to my knees.  

Growing up in Minnesota, the seasons were very clear. It didn’t take long. I’m not sure I completely understood in Kindergarten, but by the time I transitioned from first grade to second, I got it, the seasons would change. They would always be there, one waiting to lift out of the next. I probably worried when I was only five. That was my nature. I would have asked my grandpa in the field. Then ran to my grandma in her kitchen. Then nestled by my mother’s knee for final assurance that summer would come again. And it always did. 

Each day when I make my morning walk, when I see it, the mountain, I know the love will always be there. Strong. Sturdy. No cloud or change of season can take it away. Oh, I still look, not so much out of worry anymore, no, I still feel nestled…but just to feel it a little more, with heart over eyes I see it. Love remains. Ever.

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Being there.

I think my heart recognized it even before my brain. I was certain you could see it beating through my dress as I stood before Cezanne’s painting. I told Dominique, “It feels like there’s so much blood in my heart — or love…”

“You’ve been there,” he said, smiling. And indeed we had, just a short time ago. We stood in the very place that Cezanne painted. The exact position. The same view. Others were in the museum, but for a few moments, we were inside the painting.

I don’t suppose it’s enough to just live it. It’s so important to share our experiences. Because somewhere, someone needs to hear it. They need to hear it from someone who has been there, been through it. (And oh, how I, we, you, have been through it!)

Being interviewed the other day, for the first time since her passing, I was able to speak about my mother deeply without falling apart. I could feel it – so much emotion – but in this moment, it was love, still, so much love.

It may not sound like much, this moment, but I know, today, someone needs to hear it. Someone needs to step aside from the exquisite pain of love lost, even for just a moment. Someone needs to step inside my painting and feel the hope. Feel the love. And I say to this someone, possibly you, nothing is going to be easy, but everything is going to be ok.

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…and then the beauty comes.

My grandfather was perhaps the first to teach me about color. Each year he planted in the black dirt. He worked under blue skies. Prayed under gray. And with the daily stroke of his hands turned the field from green to gold. It was the most beautiful canvas I had ever seen. Were it not for him, would I have seen it? I can’t be sure.

I often speak of the Sainte Victoire mountain. It rests in our daily view. Cezanne was perhaps the first to point it out to the world. Painting it again and again. Showing its beauty in every light. Dominique was the first to point it out to me as he drove me from the airport. Would I have seen it? Would I have felt it? Would I have painted it without either of them? Probably not.

Georgia O’Keeffe had her own mountain. Her own “Sainte Victoire.” She painted the big mountain (as she called it) again and again. Braving the heat and the cold. The solitude. The doubters of women. All to show us the beauty of what was around her. The beauty of what she saw.

I suppose all of it was unlikely. Seemingly almost impossible at times. But this is what gives me hope. This is what enables me to put my grandfather, Rueben Hvezda, alongside Paul Cezanne. Alongside Georgia O’keeffe. To write about him. To write about my grandmother making kolaches and quilts. My mother dressing in the crispiest of whites, even on her most crumbling days. OH, my beautiful mother! Were they artists? (…a rose by any other name…) They took what was in front of them, inside of them and made it beautiful. Not only showing me, but showing me how.

So I make the pictures with paint and words. Each daily stroke, with brushes of Rueben and Elsie and Ivy — my open fields, my sturdy mountains. What are we here for, if not to show each other the beauty? The beauty of living.

You have something. Right here. Right now. Live it. Something beautiful will come. The world is waiting to see.

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