Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: begin


by Leave a comment

Shelved.

I didn’t paint them at the same time. Nor did I even think they belonged together, that is, until I randomly placed her portrait next to the bird already on the shelf. Now I can’t imagine them apart. She, in need of being lifted, and the bird, so ready to take flight. I don’t know anymore if everything is random, or nothing is random, (or if there is even a difference), but for some reason, I’ve always believed that we are given the tools needed. 

My first book of real significance was The Little China Pig. My mother gave it to me when I was six years old in the hospital. They wouldn’t let her stay overnight with me. This seemed impossible to survive. I couldn’t be that little china pig, alone on the shelf. Waiting. But we read it again, and again. All afternoon. Heart pounding, every time we reached that last page, the little china pig was found by the boy and taken home. Safe. Loved. You will never be left alone on that shelf, she assured me. She would be back in the morning. There when I opened my eyes. I had everything I needed.

Research on living arrangements (such as dorms or housing blocks) and group pairings (like NASA astronaut assignments) shows that people frequently become friends simply because they are placed near one another. My mother and I were friends. We were astronauts (fashion astronauts). Even in different countries, we were shelved, together. Still.

Sometimes it takes just a simple placing to remind me. Even through the seemingly impossible, I open my eyes, and I have everything I need. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

In on it.

I said, “I know.” But I didn’t know. I wonder why I thought that knowing would dull the information given. As if this claiming to almost be in on it, would make it hurt less. 

“The house sold,” my mom said. Not “we sold the house,” like we were a part of the decision making. Like we wanted to leave the comfort of Van Dyke Road and move to a small apartment in town. “I know,” I said, after nearly falling from my bike when I saw the real estate sign in the yard. That cold metal sign with the big “sold” sticker placed across, almost like a smile, like it was laughing at us…so I said I know, not because I did, but simply not to give that smiling vacate notice any more power than it already had. 

With the last boxes packed, she said, “It’s going to be ok…good…you can decorate your room.” “I know,” I said. (Neither of us did.)

But the defense of this “I know” gradually turned into reality. A certainty of trusting in each other’s heart. It was no longer for the metal sign, but for us. And with each other, there were so many things that we did know, mostly love, some tears shared, but soon laughter, and the joy of really being anywhere together. 

I walk by her picture now. Photographs. Paintings. I can hear her say, “I’m still here.” I smile and whisper, “I know.” (And I do.)

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Becoming.

She wrote to me, in French, that this portrait reminded her of her older sister who was no longer with them. She said she could see the sadness that she carried, (tristesse), but it also gave her hope (l’espoir). 

One thing does not disappear the other. We live in between. And maybe that’s where all the beauty lies, if we choose to see it, in the transitions. In the state of becoming. I often have to remind myself, as I’m hurrying to “get through.” As if the furious speed held the answers. 

There is no finishing. The woman wrote of her sister as “no longer with them,”…but yet, here we are, talking about her, in two languages. So isn’t she here, hovering between the sadness and hope, with just the slightest turn of head, turn of lip, her message ready to wing on, and on…

L’espoir.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Sharing the ride.

It doesn’t sound like a lot, 15 minutes, but the year they extended our bus route beyond the tanks, we had to get up earlier, or go to school with wet hair. (This was often my choice, and for most of the Norton girls at the end of Van Dyke Road.) I didn’t think of it then, but I’m sure it felt as invasive for the Frier’s as it was for us. Maybe they had been first on their route before. I’m sorry to say I didn’t ask, but merely wished that they would hurry up their own gravel driveway so we could get to school. 

It’s funny how we claim things. Our bus. Our route. We were all just trying to get to our destination. To be with our friends. To swing our feet under desks while the teacher read aloud. To laugh at lunch without snorting milk out our noses. To learn, sure. To drop permission slips and backpacks with wild abandon and run into our mothers’ arms. 

There will always be roads and worlds between us, but the road that runs beneath us, this remains the same. 

I wait at the top of the hill. Mailboxes at my back. Gravel beneath my feet. Ready to share the ride. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Let go the forest.

I found it next to the trash bins on my walk yesterday. A small shelf made out of wooden slats — perfect for making a framing brace behind a painted panel. I walked it home. Took out the screws.. Pulled out the nails. Sanded each piece. And made my first frame for an existing panel. 

Maybe it’s silly, but I feel like the wood is alive. Even after being cut. Even after supporting shoes in a French closet. Even after being discarded. Even after sitting by the bins, thinking there was still a chance to be of use. Didn’t it say, just take me home. Knowing that wasn’t back to the closet, or even the forest, but just somewhere to be valued. To be loved. 

There has been a world of places where I’ve felt it. A variety of hands and hearts that have reached out, and taken me to places that I’ve never been, but walked me home all the same, with the gift of purpose, the familiar of heart. 

We can do this for each other. Let go the forest, and be the pathway home. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Apron up!

Unlike her delicious pastries, most of my grandma’s ideas outside the kitchen were, as one might say, half-baked.

Even the successes that she served were a little hard to understand. They were given names that I didn’t realize were made up until in later years trying to Google a recipe. And if there were in fact recipes, they were never followed. When asked, she would laugh and puff the flour from hand to aproned belly and say, “Oh, I started in the middle.”

Not really understanding, I still found it unconventionally delightful. As were the chinchillas in the basement. The Publisher’s Clearing house magazines spread across the table. The various plots of land underwater or undeveloped purchased from a roadside gas station. The grab bags from Ben Franklin. The constant thrill of simply playing, neither winning nor losing, just in the game.

In front of my newest sketchbook, I understand. I never start at the first page. I always begin somewhere in the middle — where the pressure is off, only the joy of being in it. I’m trying to allow myself more of that freedom in my day to day. Not worrying about what was or what will be, just allowing, just being… aproning up and dancing in the kitchen.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Something sweet.

We weren’t allowed to use words like, “But she got…” or “But he gets to…” on my grandparents’ farm. Maybe it wasn’t a rule, but it was certainly ineffective. With 27 grandchildren, Grandma Elsie had neither the time nor inclination to keep track of who got what. So we learned quite early on to not waste our time either, but to celebrate when you did indeed get the last Slo-poke from the Lazy Susan, or the much sought after Sugar Babies. Life wasn’t fair, but it sure was delicious. 

When the two women came to my studio yesterday, their beautiful relationship of mother and daughter floated through our open gate. And to my joyful surprise, (I had been taught well), I didn’t feel jealousy or longing (for hadn’t I been given more than my share with my mother), but I felt truly happy for them. So I floated along. 

I can’t say the lesson came easily. Last to take the spin in the bottom candy cupboard, there were only Black Cows left. I hadn’t yet developed the attraction to the darker covered caramel. Not one to hide any emotion, even then, I suppose it was clearly written on my face. My grandma called me in with her two open arms. I went reluctantly. Not wanting a hug, but something sweet — I was too young to understand the irony of that. I kicked my bumper tennis shoes against the floor and made my way into her aproned embrace. How could I help but smile? Feeling better and letting go, she pulled me in tighter this time, against her pocket. Something square pressed against my face. A box? Was it? My smile turned to surprise, and she pulled out a box of Sugar Babies. 

Last night, in my pocket of something sweet, I spent two glorious dreams with my mother. Life is, in fact, delicious. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Bread and quilts.

It’s more of a joke really, but not untrue. I make the bread so “we’ll feel safe.” There is comfort in the scent that wafts through the house. And I can feel it, like a cartoon hug that wraps around my shoulders. Not to mention the healing power of the toasted breakfast. 

My grandma wasn’t a painter, but she did make quilts. And it’s not lost on me, having them here still, I can feel, not just the warmth they provide, but the hug that wraps my wanting shoulders – shoulders that are the conduit for the heart, and I am saved. 

I didn’t think about it then, mostly because I was given the gift of not having to, but wasn’t she doing the same thing? When she made the quilts, kept the Lazy Susan stacked with candy, bought the individual cereal packs — it was more than just fun, it was our safety net, our assurance that we could count on her. It was the steady of her Thom McCann’s beneath her aproned belly. And we weren’t just safe, we were saved.

Bread is rather sacred here in France. Just as the quilt would be to a Minnesota winter, I suppose. At the breakfast table, I wrap myself in it, this small taste of blessed assurance, with just a hint of blueberry. 

Good morning!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Charly, Chuck and Charles.

I hadn’t noticed it until the other day. I brought the painting of Charly inside from the studio. I set her beside another painting. It wasn’t until the next day I thought, “Oh, Charly is with Chuck.” And then I realized that Charles was just below them downstairs. These three sharing a name couldn’t be more different — not similar in age, gender, nor hobby, yet they were all connected. (A rose by any other Chuck…)

I was on a painstakingly long phone call with the bank. We went through my account number, my social security number, my PIN number, the code sent to a separate phone, and then finally she asked me, “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Deep in the annoyance of trying to prove my identity, there I was, still connected to all that I loved the most. My grandparents. My mother. I laughed, and spelled it, nobody ever understands the silent H of Hvezda.

I don’t know if Charly, Chuck and Charles will ever meet. But I’d like to think they know. I’d like to believe they feel something bigger than themselves. A connection with a silent C, but connected just the same. Perhaps we all are… roses.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Plump and generous.

It wasn’t obvious. Nor was I looking. And I wasn’t supposed to. I only saw what a child needs to see. A root beer float. 

There were no visible sharp edges to Grandma Elsie. She was round and approachable. She was the scoop (or two) of Schwan’s vanilla ice cream in her frequent afternoon root beer float. I can see it now — that it could have been more than just a sugar craving. It was simple. An easy decision with a consistent result. There were no maybes or what ifs to it. And didn’t she need that? In her world of uncertainty — all those kids (because even old they were) and grandkids tugging, and the farm, would it rain, would it sell, would he ever make the walk from field to kitchen — all umbrellaed under the certainty of a root beer float.

I never liked the combination. I always no-thank-you-ed out of it. Grabbing a pack of Sugar Babies, or a Black Cow from the Lazy Susan — a whole corner cupboard of my own certainty.

Without my knowlede or permission, I adopted the habit of giving myself an easy decision. Some days I can tackle a whole portrait, others, simply a tomato. Both victories. There is comfort in that. In a world of how could this possibly be, to simply hold something plump and round and sure is a gift. It is the soft edge of an afternoon scoop, the embrace of a grandmother’s plump and generous love that ever holds.  Of this I’m certain. 

Shop Now!