Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: beautiful


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The Chorus Effect.


Leave it to music, the universal language, to teach us how to live better. Long before technology, it was pretty clear that people sounded good when they sang together. There are many explanations — strength in numbers, an averaging of tones, bad singers influenced by the good ones (a raising of the bar), the pleasing sound of imperfection. They probably all can be true at the same time. So much so, that they invented a way on instruments to create this same tonal pleasure. It’s called the chorus effect. 

Hammond introduced the Model B-C in 1936 to lock in true organ tone once and for all. A Hammond Model B-C organ. Using a second tonewheel system with slightly detuned notes, the B-C’s onboard chorus generator fulfilled Hammond’s vision of providing a richer, harmonized sound. Thus, chorus as an effect was born.

I can feel it in my sketchbook. One bird is nice. But a page. A flock! I can feel the chorus of the birdsong. And therein lies the wow! Even with the inevitable smudge, the handprint, the slight splatter, I think it adds to the beauty. This coming together. This gathering. I hope we can do it in our daily lives. Oh, how we need to gather. To find ourselves in the universal song. With all of our imperfections, we are still capable of “a richer” more “harmonized sound.” I want to be a part of that greater song. Can you hear it?

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Trying it on.

In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.

I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”

It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.” 

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A moment.

Being allowed to use the can opener was almost as freeing as learning to ride my bicycle. I went to great lengths to enjoy my five minute lunch alone in Hugo’s summer field behind our house on VanDyke Road. Perhaps it was the responsibility I displayed with my two-wheeler that gave my mother the assurance I could handle the responsibility of staying home alone. She taught me to tear off the label from the Campbell’s can of chicken noodle soup before I brought it anywhere near the burner. I poured the noodles into the pan. Then turned it on — I was only allowed to use the lowest temperature (You have more time than money she would tell me. No need to burn the house down.) I warmed it to luke, then poured it into the styrofoam thermos I had painted in stripes. I Tupperwared a stack of crackers. Filled another thermos of ice water. Put them all in my corduroy book bag that my mother had sewn for me. Placed that into the wicker basket of my bike. Kissed good-bye my dolls and stuffed animals as if going off to war. Then rode the five minute trail along Hugo’s field. Sat down in the smallest clearing just off the edge. Emptied the book bag. Made it into a tablecloth. Drank my soup. Drank my water. Relished in being my summer self. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. 

Here in France, I learned to bake the worshiped bread. Normally I do it in the afternoon. Freeze it for our toast each morning. But once in a while, I have the desire to start the day with fresh break. That means making the special recipe before bed. Getting up early. Then finishing the kneed, the roll and the baking. Washing the dishes while it bakes. Our house becomes a boulangerie. My fingers dance on the crust, as I cut the pieces. The butter melts without urging. Even the honey and jam feel special. It is only for this breakfast. There will be additional bread, but only this one moment, eating in the waft of this happy morning. 

Some might say it wouldn’t be worth it. But then they wouldn’t have can-openered their way to magic. I guess that’s for all of us to decide. Me, I hope I will try to make the most of each moment. What else do we have? 

Here comes another, what will you choose?

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Gravel weeds.

Returning to France, our driveway was full of them. At first glance, I may have thought – ugh — but I had to remind myself, that for so many years, growing up on Van Dyke Road, I was one of them, joyfully one of them — these gravel weeds. 

We blossomed wild on this dusty road. As strong as the earth below our kicking and pedaling feet. As free as the cloud that tried to keep up behind our tracks. And maybe we found such joy in our status because anchoring us all was the tallest of the Van Dyke Road weeds, Jim Norton. Lanky and strong, ever, he gave us, me, a reason to believe that we were something special. That we had a place here. A purpose. Almost willing us, daring us, to stand tall. 

Certainly all of his girls did. All five of them that popped up at the end of this gravel road. I thought they were beautiful. I thought nothing could stop these glorious flowering weeds. Nor me. So we all kept growing. 

It’s not even gravel anymore. But it lives on, in my heart. In my daily direction. And so will he. I’m proud of where I came from. And I’m grateful for those who gave me a reason to be. Thank you, Jim Norton. Heaven joyfully just kicked up a little dust!

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The view.

You have to work at the romance of it all. Loving, sure, but for living as well. Even the most beautiful of places can dim when you’re not looking for the best croissant, but instead going to your dentist appointment.

Maybe it’s too literal, but yesterday, to improve the view, I started washing windows. Will that guarantee a rainy day today, even in one of the most sunny places on earth? Most probably. But I would do it again. And will. Because that moment of clarity in which I see it — really see it — the beauty all around me, without the dust of ordinary, this view is priceless. So I make the effort.

That is not to say that it doesn’t often come with condition and complaint. I’m not proud of it, but it does happen. But if I’m going see the beauty through the imperfections of a streaked window, then I have to allow the same for myself. Because these “streaks of imperfection” show the work put in, the effort made. And there is beauty in this. Perhaps even me.

So I ask of those around me, near and far, when I make the smudged attempts at beautiful living, even when I fail, perhaps, fingers crossed, heart hopeful, you will see the love in it all. Through the streaks of romance, beyond the damage and the dust, we all, I suppose, await the sun.

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Dancing between alarms.

I’m not sure any of us believed there would ever be a fire. Still, when the blare of the alarm sounded, pencils shot across worksheets, books fell from desks, shoes that dangled from heels were shoved back on, and we all jumped to attention. We lined up at the door and serpentined down our designated hallways, our feet moving twice as fast as the group itself. The front doors of Washington Elementary were flung open. We sniffed the air and scanned the streets for big red trucks. When the threat was certained to be just a drill, the thrill of being outside took over. The air was so fresh on a Tuesday at 1:15 in the afternoon. We jumped and waved our arms in this new found freedom. Maybe we didn’t learn the seriousness of what could happen, and maybe we weren’t supposed to. But I know we appreciated the gift of the unexpected. These moments, ever so brief, when we were released to dance on the sidewalk, two hours ahead of schedule.

The thing is, we think we’re prepared. But in between all the alarms, our shoes still slide from the backs of our heels. We’re surprised when something bad happens. We dance in something good. Needing both, to tell the difference. The only certainty is that the doors, will, and always can be, flung wide open.

Nothing prepares you for this day. Your heart is cracked open. So you cry. The world keeps turning. So you live. No one tells your heart to stop beating. So you love! Nothing prepares you for this beautiful day.

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Wild tulips.

We have a lovely bed of roses at our front door. When in bloom they are, of course, spectacular. My husband takes good care of them. Weeding. Watering. Pruning. Getting rid of the pests. And in return they reward us in sight and scent. 

I only mention it because each year in the pre-spring, as the roses lay dormant, something else happens (I would argue just as beautiful, maybe more.)  Without our knowledge or permission, without our planting or care, a bouquet of wild tulips pops through the earth in the corner of this sleeping bed. So confident. So strong. They have the audacity to bloom orange at half the height of their soon to be red-headed neighborhood. Seemingly without comparison or worry, they open each morning to the sun. 

It’s easy to envy the roses of this world. But I think for me, I am more than happy being a wild tulip. If I can wake each morning, petals to the sky, grateful for what I have, and bloom, bloom without need of praise or vase, bloom merely in hopes of gathering up the sun, then my life will be so much more than a bed of roses — my life will be — is — beautiful!

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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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A little wild.

Most of the time, we leave the wild flowers in our yard. They seem to thrive outside. On the occasion that I bring one or two inside, I’ve noticed something special about them. Just as if they were outside, when the lights go out and it gets dark, they close up for the evening. When I open up the shutters, letting in the morning light, they open themselves up again. 

At the moment, we have a bouquet of florist lilies received as a gift in our salon, and a couple of wild lilies from the garden. True to form, the wild lilies open and close, and the florist lilies stay open. All are gorgeous. 

I have been guilty throughout the years of trying to be an indoor lily. Thinking I could only be loved if I was like the others. Nature has a way of sorting things out, and I have learned. I’m still learning. There is so much beauty in being yourself. I am not perfect. I may not even always be chosen for the center bouquet, but in my wild and glorious way, I have a place at the table. I am beautiful and I am loved. Please know this. Please learn this, again and again if you have to. The wild lilies know. And as they open and close, it feels like a secret wink in my direction. A wink, to say, “You belong beauty, just stay a little wild.”

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Pull over

Cezanne painted the Montagne Sainte-Victoire again and again. Living near it, I understand why. Every day it looks just a little different. Clouds, sun, sky, even my mood, can change the colors, change the view. But always, it is beautiful. Cezanne was lucky though, there weren’t the obstructions of today. Electrical lines, buildings, bridges and freeways can really distort the lines of vision.


I am always looking for that pure view. When I paint it, I can take out the obstructions, but it’s very difficult to see it, in all its majesty, without something clunking up the line. We have pulled the car over many times, thinking, this might be it, this might be the view, and then I take out the camera, and there it is, in the camera lens, that wire, that pole, that rooftop.


Yesterday, we were driving to Vauvenargues to see Dominique’s mother. On the way there, I caught a small glimpse of “maybe…maybe it’s the view…” So on the way home we did the ever hopeful pull-over, walked the side of the road, jumped over a ditch, and raised the camera. A sea of lavender rolled into the mountain under a sky of blue. Wait, what? No lines? No obstructions. Just nature. Just purples and violets and greens and blues and whites and grays. It was beautiful. And we got to see it. Smell it. Feel the lavender breeze against our skin, and the strength of the mountain, holding us together. Simply amazing.

I guess it’s the same with people. There are so many distractions. So many things that block our view. It’s so easy to turn away. Just pass by. But maybe if we took the time – really took the time – to see people in their own natural light, we would see what makes them amazing. We would see the beauty of all their changing days, both sunny and dark, and we would be gathered in.


What if I did that for you, and maybe you did that for me? Simply amazing. Again and again.

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