Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: belong


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The magical gifts.

It was on the par three seventh hole at the Alexandria Country Club, the vending machine. It took two of the three quarters I earned each week for cleaning the house to buy a Gatorade. There was only one flavor then (or should I say color?) It was hot under the summer sun. And I wasn’t allowed in the clubhouse, like most of the girls I was playing with. I was on a summer “local youth” pass, but that pass ended with the final hole. I carried my green bag of five clubs and sat in the parking lot, waiting for my mother, finishing my Gatorade. For me it was the taste of “I still belong here.” It was the taste of “I still won.”  It was the taste of “my mother is coming soon, and she loves me.” 

Maybe it had that power, or maybe I gave it that power, so on the days when I couldn’t quite get there myself, I let it take me. Carry me. And I am grateful for all of it.

Would I have believed in the magic, if I hadn’t washed the mirrors, wiped them with a newspaper for that no-streak shine, to earn the quarters, to buy the drink, to sit outside the clubhouse? Maybe. I don’t know. But I’m so happy I did it. Because I carry that magic still. From state to state. Country to country. 

Yesterday at the Walgreen’s in Tuscon, after hiking in the National Park, I bought two yellow Gatorades. I still live in the magic. It’s where I belong. 

I, we, barely more than air, hold the most magical gifts.
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No membership required.

It wasn’t everyone, but one could say more than plenty, to make you feel unwelcome. And that’s a strange thing to feel in your hometown. I loved to golf. I got a starter set of clubs from my mom for my birthday. The two drivers had heads of turquoise blue. When I practiced driving from our back yard into Hugo’s field, using the sliced and abandoned balls my mom found in the rough of the local golf club, I felt powerful. A streak of blue seemed to follow the damaged ball, the damaged ball that was still able to fly after a crack from the sweet spot of my inexpensive, but priceless, golf clubs.

Under a certain age in the summertime, you didn’t have to be a member to play. My mom would drop me off and I would golf all day. I didn’t know it until I was grouped with the vacationing members, but I was in the wrong shoes. The wrong clothes. I only knew it because they told me. I had a choice to cry, or swing harder. I often did both.

We all tanned quickly under the summer sun. We hadn’t been taught about sunscreen. There were so many things we hadn’t been taught — like how to get along with others who weren’t in your group. Like how to welcome members who weren’t really members at all. But don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not the point. I outdrove every one of those girls because I could go home to a mother who loved me — a mother who “teed me up” behind the garage, and whooped and hollered, arms raised to the sky, as I cracked the imperfect balls into the field. No membership required.

I suppose you could think that I was so afraid of belonging that I never joined anything. That’s not true at all. I don’t have membership cards or passes. But I do join in every day. I step outside the door and I am a part of it all. Here and everywhere. With an open heart, an open field. I belong. I keep swinging!

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It’s 3:15 somewhere.

I adored playing on the team. Any team. For all the usual reasons, of course. It was fun to hit a ball, spike a ball, shoot a ball. But there was so much more. Having a place to go at 3:15pm, instead of an empty apartment, this was something! The largest room in the school said, “welcome,” as my sneakers squeaked across a polished floor. Passion and practice swirled from gym to bus, as we sang our way to each competition. Wins and losses forgotten. Conversations turning to bedrooms postered with dreams, and unrequited loves. I wrote poems for seasons beginning. Seasons ending. Heart forever on my uniformed sleeve. And I was home.

If this sounds less like sport and more like therapy…maybe it was. I learned pretty early on, that you don’t have to blend to belong. I suppose we all had our reasons for coming together. The thing I appreciated the most was that we didn’t question it. Never said, “I wonder why she’s here???”  I wish we still did that — concentrated more on the welcome than the motivation. What if we said, “Well, it’s 3:15pm, why wouldn’t you be here?!” 

We all have a need to gather, but that doesn’t mean we all have to be purple. We can play together. Work together. Mix our passions and practice. We can unlock the gates and fling open the doors, smile and say, “Here comes Aubergine!”

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Shadow a pear.

She was so popular. We used that word a lot in high school. I guess you can add it to the list of things we said and did without any real knowledge or permission. Even typing it now, I question the meaning. We said it like it was a good thing. Something to be desired. But why really? I looked up the definition. It gave a little of the what, but not much in the form of why or explanation. 

I’m questioning it because I recently found out how little she thought she fit in. How could it be? She even wore the official uniform of fitting in each Friday night as she led the team in cheers. 

I suppose we never really know. We can get so consumed with thinking of ourselves as the lone pear in a gathering of apples, that we forget we are in a constant rotation in position and place. And it’s funny, because it’s actually quite appealing. I can honestly say I like her so much more because of it, this one time pear. It’s what brings us together. 

These differences that we’re so afraid of, so determined to hide or shake, they really are what connect us after all. Maybe if we just spent a little more time being grateful for even having a place at this glorious table, this life, we could all be a little more gentle with each other, even ourselves. 

Just a thought, as I shadow a pear on the wall. 

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From the front.

It was only the handle that stuck out of the back pocket of our jeans, but it was enough, this plastic curve of the comb, to tell everyone who we were. Enough to tell everyone we had seen the movies, read the magazines, understood about the proper hair style (for both boys and girls). 

My mom bought it for me at Peterson’s Drug. The light blue plastic was easily seen, but not too showy. The widely spaced teeth of the comb feathered my bangs perfectly, and inserted me smack dab in the middle of the hope that “I belong here too.” 

The level of things that would have connected us more deeply were reserved for secret poems written while lying beside the stereo — poems that only my mother and Casey Kasem understood and were privy to. 

It would take years for me to gain my voice. Find the courage to use it. It’s joyfully ironic, when I stopped thinking about belonging and concentrated more on becoming, only then did I gain both. I did belong. To myself and to this world. The heart that I wear on my sleeve is decisively more connective than any comb I wore in my back pocket.

We’re given the tools we need right from the start. It takes a lot of growing, a lot of courage to use them. But it is what connects us. This sharing. It’s so delightful when I offer up an experience, and then you share yours.  More delightful even than running together wildly down the halls of Jefferson Senior High! Today I see you! From the front! 

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On Walking.

I was in the fifth grade when I did my first Walk for Humanity. I’m not certain I knew what it meant, but I took the pledge sheet and walked around our neighborhood to get signatures and promises. Maybe it was a nickel a mile. Ten cents. A quarter. Maybe this was the most “human” part of it all. This neighborhood knew me. Knew the strength of my legs. Had watched me run the field, ride the bike, and so they said things like, “Of course you’ll make it, I know you’re going to do it.” And if I’m honest, it was the only humanity I was thinking of when I walked the miles that Saturday morning. These were my people. They knew my bedtime. The call of my mother. My wave from the bottom of the hill to the top. How my blonde hair whipped in the wind. And I didn’t want to let them down. 

It was a rainy morning. I was fueled with Captain Crunch, and no knowledge of how far ten miles actually was. I had flat bumper tennis shoes and jeans purchased from Herberger’s basement. I was soaked from rain, puddles, and possibly a few tears at about mile eight. I had no idea where we were, but for the marked signs and groups of teenagers that I followed. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I was too shy to enter any house that offered those services for the day. I didn’t know them. This wasn’t Van Dyke Road. I had no idea how to even get back to Van Dyke Road. All I wanted was an open screen door that I recognized — like our resident neighborhood Grandma Dynda — a grandma that no one was related to, but who’s door was always open to kitchen and bathroom. What would she think of me if I quit? I couldn’t quit. I kept walking. Even Mrs. Muzik pledged for me. We couldn’t walk on her lawn, but she was paying me to walk across this new humanity. I kept walking. 

I wet my pants around mile nine. But no one noticed because I was already soaked. I never told anyone. People were so proud of me when I went to collect the money on Sunday that I forgot about it. They tousled my hair and filled my pockets with change and a few dollar bills. I don’t know if the tiny bit of money I raised made any difference at all to the cause, but for me, it was a fortune. I was rich in my neighborhood. This sea of humanity. 

My pledges are different now. Along with my neighborhood. But I keep walking. Hopes remaining ever high. 

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Uff-da, y’all.



Two of my mom’s sisters ended up in Texas. Being a child in Minnesota, that seemed about as foreign as it could get. (Little did I know…) When my Aunt Sandy returned on her first visit, she already sounded different. I didn’t have the word for it then, but she definitely had a drawl. How strange, I thought. But I wasn’t that worried, until years later when my mom and I took my grandma down to Texas for a visit. Tired from the drive, I didn’t really notice when we arrived, but the next morning, there she was, my full-on Texas aunt, asking my grandma — the one that her northern children only called “mother” — “Mama, do y’all want to go for biscuits and gravy?” Wait! Mama? Y’all? Biscuits and gravy? What was happening???? Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the word mother when they returned and my mom asked her, “Did you like the biscuits and gravy, Mother?” I was already smiling when she answered, “Uff-da, y’all…”

I can see now how it happens. Living in France. They say I have an accent. There, of course, and even when I return. We all want to belong. Be a part of something. And we gather ourselves in, word by word, bit by bit, to make ourselves whole, to find a place at the table.

Visiting the Starbuck’s in San Antonio yesterday, they were all out of the butter croissants, so I said “I’ll take the pain au chocolat.” She looked at me so strangely… Uff-da, y’all, I thought. “I mean the chocolate croissant,” I smiled. I am a part of it all.

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Chamade.

I spend a good percentage of my life lost in translation. That seems reasonable, living in another country, but it has actually been the case for most of my life.

And I don’t mean this in a bad way. Maybe because my mother was so different from her siblings and not only survived, but thrived, it made it all seem possible. She spoke a language of fashion and make-up, of poetry and romance. A language I understood. A connection so familiar that it turned this “other” into something spectacular. I didn’t need to be understood by everyone, because I was understood by her. A safety net I count on still.

Perhaps it was this security that set me free.

This French that I think I’m speaking, is mostly understood by my husband. I often hear him repeat to others the very thing I heard myself saying. And I could let that bother me, or I can choose to see it for how special it actually is, to have this one human really understand me.

I stumble upon new words every day. Not ones I hear in conversation. No, those are rare. So often when I ask what does that mean, I get the response, “it really doesn’t translate.” And I must admit that is a lonely feeling. To be left hanging, alone, with no connecting words. But the other day, I found one. Such a gorgeous word. Chamade. Even without knowing, it sounded familiar. I looked up the meaning. Chamade — a wildly beating heart. It was my “jimbly.” My racing, excited, almost nervous, anticipating, open, risking, love-filled heart. Inside this word, these beautiful letters, I was not lost in translation, but found.

I shared my glorious discovery with my husband. He smiled and said that his mother loved that word. I was, am, connected, still and again. My heart beats wildly!

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Welcome

“You have to dare to give of yourself, as freely

as the gift was given. As freely as this gift said yes to you, you

have to do the same. You have to say, yes, I see!

You have to be bold enough to embrace it, even when others will

tell you it isn’t there. That YOU aren’t there. You have to be bold

enough to say, I have been given a gift. I have been given a life

that is worthy of being seen. I am here. And that is something!” Jodi Hills

Dominique received a wine refrigerator for a gift. It arrived on a pallet. That was a gift for me. I took the pallet apart. No easy task. The extra long nails put up a fight, as I imagine they should – it’s their job. On a rainy afternoon, I separated each piece of wood. I cut the boards into equal lengths. Put them in my handmade square (also made out of scrap wood), nailed them together, and secured them with equal lengths on the back. It was strong. I sanded the new piece, smooth, but still revealing it’s beautiful flaws. It had been through a journey to get here, so why not show that? I gave it a light stain, then began to paint. And she arrived. Slowly, hair, eyes, a comforting smile. She would be my welcome into the studio. She would be my, “Well, we’re open. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You have to claim it.  This is my special place. I want anyone who enters, literally or virtually, to know it. And I need to remind myself of it, every time I pass through that beautiful door to my studio. I have been given a gift. I used to be afraid to say that – like maybe it sounded like I was bragging – but no, it is exactly the opposite. I have been given a GIFT – and what a gift – to be able to do what I love!  This is life! The thing is -we all have – we’ve all been given a gift!  But we do have to claim it. We have to be bold enough to live it – pull at the dirty nails and shape and form and glue and paint! We have to be bold enough to live it. 

So I welcome myself to this day. I welcome you to this day! We are here!!! And that is really something! (Oh, and I almost forgot – there’s also the wine.)


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Harmony.

Harmony.Jan was always first chair of the clarinet section. From the fifth grade, through senior high, I don’t remember a time when she didn’t sit proudly in the first row, right in front of the conductor. I don’t know if she felt the competition. I’m sure she practiced. A lot more than the rest of us. For some reason, I never saw band as a sport. For me, it was about the collective music. As individuals, (but for the exceptions like Jan) we really didn’t sound that good. But there is a phenomenon in music when people perform together, even if not everyone is in tune, or in sync, collectively it just sounds better. And that sound carried us. Held us. Gathered us in. I didn’t think of myself in the second row, I was part of the band. I belonged.

Yesterday, at our Easter table, we gathered. American, French, German. Through the years, we have navigated to our respective chairs. My husband at the head, me just next to him. Grown children – their children, in-laws, all around. It is not lost on me that when I jump from my chair to gather something from the kitchen, more bread, more water, a bigger spoon, I pass by my clarinet that rests in the corner of the library. The music here is sung in many languages, (it doesn’t matter that my French is not that good, their English, not much better). In my own rhythm, I have found my place in the band. It is not a competition. We gather around, we gather in. Conversation and laughter play in tune, and the music gives us a place, a place at the table. The band plays on…