Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: bookmark


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Of time and feathers.

I don’t think it’s an accident, this walking up to the things we didn’t know existed, we didn’t know we needed. On our last trip to the US, I was strolling Linden Hills. I saw the bookstore. Already knowing my suitcase was full, I knew I couldn’t add the weight of more books. And yet, my feet shrugged my shoulders and I walked inside. Forever drawn to little things with feathers, (hope itself as Emily poemed us), I saw it on the table. Flat bookmarks with pens inside. It was if they saw me coming. 

But maybe that’s always the way with hope, if we pay attention, it will lead us to where we need to be. 

Is it hope I’m painting daily? Surely it is peace — this meditation of time and feathers. And perhaps that is where hope best lives. Not in a flurry — even birds know to rest. Secure in the flights to come. So too, I mark the daily hope, with the gentle stroll that led me here. And I am saved. 

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Doing better.

I have purchased them, found them, painted them even — these bookmarks. This way to signify where I’ve been, where I’m headed. This perfect way to keep moving forward. If only I, we, had the same way to mark our every day lives. 

I think of how many times I have learned lessons again and again. Going back in chapter to retain the information. Oh, yes, I think, I’ve learned this for the last time, and yet…here I am thumbing backwards. Worrying the same old worries. Replaying the words someone said. Until my heart finally says, as loud as it can, over the words written on brain, “Move on. Read on. There’s so much more!” And it’s always sweeter. Life. My story. When I do. When I take the mark from the page, lay it beside me, just out of reach, and continue the story. 

I’ve said it before, it’s good to rest. To place the bookmark gently. Breathe. Sleep. Smile. Dream even. But we must never give up. There’s so much more to learn. To see. To love. To share. So much of the story awaits. 

I painted this bookmark of Maya Angelou. She says, “When you know better, do better.” Yes, I smile, and turn the page.

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That’s enough.


They did the best they could to fill our minds, but it’s a longer path to the soul.

I’m sure we had a section about her — Rosa Parks. But to be honest, I’m certain we spent more time talking about our own bus rides to and from the very school that was trying to teach us.

In these desks, I had always assumed the word “enough,” was used in anger. Exasperation. “That’s enough!!!” — the teacher might say, often accompanied by a book, ruler, pencil, anything slammed against the desk. And we could be, well, exasperating for sure. We heard it from the bus driver who just couldn’t take the noise anymore as he drove us to Van Dyke Road, where parents, tired from a day’s work, said the same at the dinner table.

It was much later that I learned a new meaning. A calm, gentle enough. An enough that says farewell to the hurt, the anger, the torment, whatever it is pulling down on you. I suppose it takes a while to find this inner place. This inner peace. No bus can actually take you there, you have to find it from within. And when you do, you can say, just as Rosa Parks did, in the most graceful of ways, enough. To say with all of your mind, heart and soul, in a whisper that shouts louder than any slam, “Oh, but it is my place…” and take it.

We all have to learn it. But I’m so grateful for those who give us the examples of how it is done with grace. I have heard it from my grandmother. My mother. Rosa Parks. I painted the bookmark as a reminder. There is still so much to learn. So much to let go. But we CAN do it with grace. Enough of the name calling. The bullying. The fighting. The soul crushing, spirit limiting behavior.

Enough.

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Finding place.

We were taught that it was sacred, right from the start. “Children, be quiet,” she urged, as Mrs. Bergstrom walked us from our first grade classroom to the library. I don’t remember asking why. I guess I always assumed it was because the books had so much to say, we needed to listen.

With this opening of worlds, it became necessary from the start to mark our places. The librarian told us, pleaded with us, never to “dog ear” the page. Imagine, she explained, if every time you walked into your home, your mother grabbed you by the ear and folded it over and pulled you in to show you your place. We all agreed that would be terrible. I know some still did it. I can’t say who for sure, but I had my suspicions. And the proof was often there in a big crease going diagonally down the story. I didn’t do it. I still don’t. Not because I was so perfect. No, it was because just down the hall, in art class, it was Mr. Opsahl that taught us paper had a memory. When you folded it, it stayed. Everything we were being taught at Washington Elementary told us that these books, these pages with words, were alive. And it was here, that I found my place.

I still live there. Here. In the word. It’s where I find my truth. My hope. My joy. It’s here I can find company. Comfort. I can welcome you in, and with any luck, give you the same. Because I think that’s what they were always telling us, as we raced to make our mark — to listen, to be kind. We can do this. For each other. We’re all hear to tell a story.

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