Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: celebrate


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Frosting and cake.

I don’t think it can be forced or planned. Some people just fit. It was that way, right from the start with my mother. 

It took me several years to understand that her birthday was not the same as mine. That she didn’t come to life the minute I was born. That I didn’t come to life the minute she was. Maybe there should be that day. But how would I choose? We have anniversaries for marriage. Graduation days for classmates. Even the Fourth of July for America – the 14th for France. But the exact day I don’t remember, when first my head fit into the crook of her elbow, the other hand cupping my back, when she called me by love’s name. The first day she dared to sing to me. I smiled and sang along in coos that weren’t words, and I became that tune that everyone said she couldn’t carry. 

And the soundtrack of our years went faster than days. As the song says, “How do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume?” Thank them for the bandages sealed with kisses. Tears wiped with hands that pointed straight to the giggle in the other side of the room. She, who loved the frosting and I the cake. It was all so easy to share. Everything. 

Today is her birthday. And joyfully, I hold a piece of it for myself. And she would like that. She would like it if you bought the birthday cake from Elden’s grocery store and ate it right out of the pan, even in the parking lot. She would encourage you to get two lemon boats at the bakery, with a side of cream horn. To order the latte. Drink the wine. To celebrate, because of her. With her. Every day! To sing out loud (not with our mouth’s full) with the tune that she gave us, the song she let us all become. 

Happy Birthday, Mom! 🎵🎶🎤


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Bonne fête!

I had no idea that people in France celebrated their Saint’s day, as commonly as their birthday. To be honest, I didn’t even know I had one. Of course I knew of St. Patrick’s Day — I have walked alongside the green river in Chicago. I even have the medal for St. Catherine – the patron saint of artists, hanging from my desk lamp. But Saint Jodi? 

So when Dominique asks me, what would you like for your “fête”, I still am surprised, but I must say, quite willing to go along with the celebration. Is he the only one who knows? Probably. Did he just insert my name into the calendar of saints? Quite possibly. Does it matter? Not at all. 

I was pretty young when my friend David told me that it’s all a decision — to love someone, to let them love you. And my youthful heart worried about the magic. The grace. The beauty. But I have come to learn, and agree, that deciding does not take away from any of it. It is in addition to. You have to decide to see it. Allow yourself to feel it. Daily. Sometimes minute to minute. And the magic, in those seconds, are filled with magic. Filled with grace. And so much beauty!!!

So I will celebrate my fête! Because I can hear it call to me. In the lavender honeyed toast. The deep rich coffee. The embrace of my husband. The sun rising over the trees. “Bonne fête!” And my decision is made.  

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Choosing wisely.

We were all assigned to read Lord of the Flies, and yet, once a week, we managed to reenact the pages on the gymnasium floor.

Once a week, we (the 10th grade girls) were teamed up with the Senior boys’ gym class, apparently for lessons in humility. The games changed names but most inevitably involved rubber balls and a mat. Each started the same with team selection. Two captains — the two largest boys — chests out as if displaying their earned varsity letters. They quickly manned their teams, easily making their way through the list of boys. Each one jogging over quickly to their respective side, amid slaps and cheers. Then they moved somewhat reluctantly to the girls. I was lucky. I was usually taken in the first round of “I guess I’ll take”s. That’s the way they “chose” us — needing to let us know that it was, at best, a sacrifice. “I guess I’ll take…” and then they just pointed, not bothering to learn our names. The last chosen were all the same. And not even chosen really…the gym teacher usually spared them the long pause and just paired off the two remaining.

Of all the things we got right in the Alexandria Public School system — and the list is long — I’m not sure this was our best work. But I suppose that’s true with every school around the world. Then again, maybe it showed us the importance, the luxury, the beauty, of making our own decisions.

Because there are choices to be made daily. And along with the help of my mother — my best teacher of all — I made one that has changed everything. Never to wait around to be chosen. Even beyond the “I guess I’ll takes”. Because that isn’t good enough. And on this day, this Thanksgiving day, I can’t think of a better time, nor a better choice than to choose to be happy. Sure, there are tables we won’t get invited to. Places we won’t be allowed in. Meals that won’t make the Hallmark list, nor the Rockwell painting, but we get to choose our own teams, our own places. And it’s right here that I choose to be happy. To give thanks. Never as a sacrifice, but as a celebration.

You are the captain of your table. Stand tall. Choose wisely. Give thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

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Donned and feathered.

We were in the car this morning. Dominique said something about used pickup trucks… or cars, or something… I don’t really know. When I didn’t respond he asked what I was thinking. I said, “I was thinking that Meryl Streep was the first to perfect the linen blouse and and khaki pants ensemble in the movie Out of Africa. And I was thinking that perhaps no one has done it better…until today…” I gave the Vanna White motion over my outfit, and smiled. “We really are wired differently,” he said. I smiled, because now I was thinking that no one ever used Meryl Streep and Vanna White in the same sentence. Off we flew to the grocery store.

We are all so different. But isn’t that the real beauty? We should be able to see it. To live it. Not fight it. No more square pegging in round holes. It’s exhausting. We can do that for each other. Be loving. Be accepting. But first, I think, and maybe most importantly, we have to do that for ourselves. I wrote many years ago, “What a relief to be myself.” I hope you can feel that. Truly feel it. Then you can celebrate it. Find others, in the relief of being themselves, and we can all truly enjoy the company — the company of all those strange, wonderful, possible, joyful people — donned and feathered with hearts on sleeves and smiles on faces!

This new day is here — how are you going to wear it?

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Dinner Theatre.

We were waiting to be served. And waiting. Dishes were clinking and clanking from the chosen few that already had their meals. The Chanhassen Dinner theatre was filled in the dim theatre light. Table by table people were delivered their pre-play food. Of course all were appeased with a complimentary glass of wine. And then another. The kitchen must have been having a problem. No explanations were brought forward. We were getting so hungry, my mother and I. 

We loved going to the theatre. We saw almost everything. It wasn’t just about the performance, we had a production of our own. The pre-shopping at Ridgedale or Southdale. The getting dressed while sipping skim vanilla lattes. Make-up. Hair. A dash of perfume. The excitement building. The drive to the theatre. Walking from the parking lot without wrinkling. Everything building toward the peak of receiving this meal. So the additional 30 to 40 minute wait seemed like a lifetime. The extra glass of wine was not in the schedule, and it started to take hold. My mom was getting chattier. Looking over this shoulder and that. “What could be taking so long?  Are they ever going to serve us?  I don’t understand. This has never happened before…”  She couldn’t get the next line out without laughing — the “Don’t they know who we are???” line. Oh how we laughed. Laughed with wine. Laughed without worry. Laughed with the knowledge that we WERE important – the most important of all (at least to each other). 

When the plates finally arrived, my mother napkined her lap, (a napkin that was already filled with laughter-tears). I did the same. She sat up straight. I followed. She smoothed out the sleeves of her ultra-white ruffled blouse. She was pure elegance, I thought. She balanced the fork in her polished hand. Lifted the vegetable to her mouth. She nodded in approval as she chewed. Swallowed, and said, “These are the best damn peas I’ve ever had!” I flung my napkin to my face to keep the laughter from snorting out of my nose. 

I don’t remember which play it was. I’m sure it was good. But I will never forget those peas. My mother.

We think it’s the big things we will miss. I suppose it never is. Today, share something small with someone you love. A bit of your heart. A giggle. It may just last a lifetime.

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Worth saving.

The summer months off from school, we called vacation. And they were. We didn’t go anywhere. No hotels or restaurants. No fancy monuments. No positioning for a selfie – I didn’t even own a camera. But it was vacation. A celebration every day. 

I still feel it. Waking up each morning with the summer light. But I have to make an effort. Certainly. Because that feeling can easily get lost in a pile of laundry. 

Yesterday was a beautiful summer day. Blue sky. Green grass. Birds singing. Sprinklers watering. But there was work to be done. Washing. Ironing. Beds to be made. Fighting with the duvet covers, I could feel the “vacation” slipping away. And we’re not given that many. It had to be saved. It was worth saving. 

So I grilled the shrimp. Sauteed the peas. Boiled the fresh pasta. Cut the homemade bread. Let the cheese breathe beside the wine. And we ate slowly in our summer kitchen restaurant. Our vacation was saved. I was saved. 

I was certain after every grade that my summer would never end. Even returning again and again to school, I believed in the eternity of summer. I guess I still do. The magic of my heart’s vacation — that is something to hold on to, something to be saved.


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Rabbits and bells.

I still get excited. And why not!? Everything is in bloom. There is candy on the table and kindness in the air. Eggs of many colors. Family soon to arrive. Everything feels like hope.

My first Easter in France was so different from that of my childhood. There is no Easter bunny here. They have bells. Bells deliver the candy and hide it. Not in baskets, but behind trees and throughout the garden. Bells, I thought, how ridiculous – everyone knows a rabbit… I know. I heard it too. And so I joyously rang the bell, and let myself believe. It made no difference how the magic arrived. It was there, filling the trees. 

My mother used to change the words to Peter Cottontail. As she skipped through the house with a basket of candy she sang, “Here comes Peter Cotton-fuzz, best little bunny that ever was…”  Different words. Still magic!!!

There is room in the sky for all of it. All of us. Whether you celebrate Passover, Easter, or Ramadan, or just the bloom of spring. I think we all want to believe in the best of us. The renewal of goodness. The spirit of kindness. The lightness of hope. Let the message be delivered in every way possible – even on wings!

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