Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: birdsong


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In the birdsong.

Maybe nature knows, how the gifts are only borrowed. From nest to song, how it’s all impermanent. We’re given everything we need between sky and tree, but it has always been for the sharing. We were meant to live in the birdsong.

I think all creative ideas (and I’m including love here, perhaps topping the list) are like dandelion seeds floating on a summer breeze, with the bravest of barefoot children chasing them, stretching to pluck them from the blue, knowing if they don’t, there are countless chubby legs running behind and beside, willing to make the journey. And just as the summer child borrows the fleeting day, I gather the words and the paint, into the shape of love, and hope and try and pray it makes it to the next season.

Painting in a new room yesterday, brush in hand, I sang along with each stroke, the Christmas songs so generously lent to me, to us, each year. Within the music, somewhere on the canvas, I am suspended in time, in the gift of the moment. No doors of advent are opening. No rushing toward the next. I’m catch myself in the song of the bird, in a moment of happiness, and I find myself in the most wonderous gift of all. I know I won’t keep the painting. It must be shared. Chubby summer legs will be waiting.

The gift we only borrowed.
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Into the bird song.

It’s so often the case. Looking back. Seeing that we did actually bear the unbearable. 

On my walks I frequently listen to the podcast “How I built this” — delightful stories of success in business, arts and industry. All with their own challenges. (No story is complete without them.) I suppose just enough time has passed — I’ve noticed a large percentage of the stories began during Covid. People suddenly had the time and the urgency to create something. And it’s beautiful to hear the good that can come.

It was during Covid that she decided to learn how to play the ukulele. Not the obvious choice, but as they say, we all have to make our own kind of music. And she has it now, the thing I think we all look to do when going through something — make the proof that we did in fact survive — And didn’t just survive, but thrived! We awakened the “good that can come.” She not only woke it up, but put it to music. 

The bird book is my ukulele, my “How I built this.” And the most glorious thing is when our stories merge. When her music seeps on to my page, into the bird song, I know that we are thriving. I know that together, no matter what, we can do anything. 

I suppose the real heroes don’t need the “proof.” But still it’s nice to see. It’s nice to hear. All the good that can come.

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Beyond the nestle.

I’d like to think I was aware of each twig. Each stick. The constant effort it must have taken, with damaged, sometimes even broken wings. Just to build something that I would be certain to leave. But I’m not sure that I saw it. Does anyone see it while nestled? Mostly, I suppose, I just took comfort. 

Seeing it now, for the gift that it was, continues to be, I can only wonder, am I singing enough? I sing. I know this. But is it worthy? Is it heard above all the noise? Sometimes I hear the humming along, and I think, I can feel it, the gathering of new sticks. The building of new nests. And I think we can build something. Build it together. Joyfully. We who have been given all the tools, all the luxury and comfort, all the support of those who came before us, we have to sing. Sing and gather, and risk each thorn, because the world is listening. Watching. So in need of a nest, an impermanent nestle that holds us, lifts us, and sets us free.  

We must be the gatherers. The inconspicuous gatherers, preparing the nest. Allowing all the comforts unaware, tucked within the improbable verse, the impossible song. It’s all we’ve been given, it’s all we need to hear.

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Cross-legged on the gymnasium floor.

I don’t know the origin of the question, but it seems we humans have a big need to get to the answer, right from the start. 

He couldn’t have been more than five or six. I was reading to an elementary school in Minneapolis, class by class, starting from the sixth grade to kindergarten. Without exception, even down to this youngest boy, before I began to read from my book, someone asked, “What’s it about?” In true teacher form, the only person seated in a chair would reply, “Just listen…”

Of course I have been guilty as well, in response to: “I just started a new book…” or “I watched a documentary…” Needing to get to the answer. And so often for the bigger questions. What is the suffering about? Why did this happen? 

Some will tell you that everything happens for a reason. But I think there may be danger in even this…all that is, is just a longer version of “What’s it all about?”

There is a pattern, I think, when I’m in a struggle, looping through the question, “Why are they like this?”; “Why do I have to?” “How come?” …and for me, it never feels good, this spiraling… Experts of all kinds will tell you what to do. I’m not an expert. I am just another child sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, looking up for the answers, but instead I’m given the song of the birds. They call me with the starting of this new day, telling me to unfold my legs, get up, open your heart…and just listen. 

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