Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: Arizona


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Roadrunner.

I spent every Saturday morning in front of the television set (and it was a piece of furniture then). Not too close of course, because we still believed, or were told, that we would go blind. Still in pajamas, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. With each cartoon, I leaned forward. Closer. Nearly bent in half. My belly resting on my legs. My head in my hands. Still remaining in the safety zone, but believing I could will the roadrunner just out of reach from the coyote. And I always did.

All the glorious colors of Saturday morning danced in my head and made their way to my feet as we walked (me almost skipping) the Saguaro National Park. Having the luxury of living beyond the “fashion” of camouflage, I was well aware that actually seeing one of the animals they posted would be a stretch. So far I had only seen a woman in full Lycra step out of the shade of the sign posting “beware of the javelinas.” The timing was perfect. I could feel my mother’s wink from heaven and we both began to laugh. It was near the end of the trail, maybe only 20 feet from the car, when I saw it. My finger pointed as if to shout. I could hear the people behind me say, “She’s pointing out something.” Then the people in front of me, saying the same. A roadrunner I whispered, but pointed more loudly. And when it moved, they saw it. My first thought was not to grab my phone, but give thanks that I had remained five feet away from the television set. I hadn’t gone blind! (Those behind me probably sat too close.) I smiled and took the photo. I could hear the beep-beep (or was it meep-meep) in my head.

Sometimes, I think it’s all going too fast. It feels like time’s coyote is right at my heels. But in the glorious moments when I catch myself between decades, one foot on VanDyke Road and one foot in the desert, or even a country away, I can gather it in, and I slow it down, lean in just a little closer, and give thanks for all that is to be seen.

Let me always see the gift.
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Rouge.

It feels like an embrace, these red rocks that surround us. It doesn’t always happen, with cities, nor humans. But here, in Sedona, I feel it, like no time has passed. Like time doesn’t really even factor into the equation, just the warmth of its arms around me.

I’m watching the sun light up the rocks this morning. One of the things that I appreciate the most is the care of those living here. The houses are part of the nature. They don’t boast, nor distract. They exist within the beauty. Along. Beside. And maybe I love it because my mother always taught me to love like this, to find a love like this — and I have. A love that supports in the nature of all. A love, not eliminating the jagged edges, because love will always have them, but resting me within. Among. Beside. Without boast and distraction, just simply beautiful. 

One day after our 10 year anniversary, I once again forget about the time,  and nestle into the assurance of this embrace. Surrounded in rouge. The color of love.

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Almost purple.

When we got to the end of a bag on a road trip, my mother always, with a grin, suggested we give the purple jelly beans to the birds by throwing them out the car window. So it’s not surprising that yesterday, in the Petrified Forest National Park, when the crow made no attempt to fly away, even after taking pictures, that I went to the back seat of the car and picked out a jelly bean. (Of course we have them, mostly only purple left, it’s a road trip after all, and I am my mother’s daughter.). I walked right up to the big black bird. Gave the jelly bean a little roll, and the crow plucked it right from the ground. I think he loved it. I watched. You know, just in case. I wasn’t sure a crow could eat a jelly bean. (I was prepared to do cpr.) But he pecked it smaller. Ate it up, like everything in my history told me he would. 

I promise I won’t make a steady habit of feeding the birds jelly beans. But how could I miss the opportunity to bring my mother along on our trip?

Gazing out over the painted desert, looking at the trees that now were made of stone, time could have seemed too big to imagine. But maybe there is no time at all. Maybe everything is, all at once. Trees are stones. My mother is with me still. The black wing of the crow, shines blue, almost purple.

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