Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: Change


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Gravel to pavement.

It’s easy to imagine that everyone is experiencing the same weather. The sunny and 80 degrees are beginning to drop as we head out of California. I have to admit, I often forgot that it was still winter. While I was wearing shorts, most were bundled. 

And that’s the thing, I suppose, we adapt to our surroundings perhaps just a little too easily. We come to believe that everyone is having the same experience. Living the same life. The same wants and needs as our inner circles. But it’s just not true. 

It becomes more clear when you roam the country. The variances from state to state, from city to city, from neighborhood to neighborhood are extraordinary. It doesn’t always make clear why people make the choices they make, but it does explain why the choices are different. 

Has it always been this way? I think I first noticed the difference when I was in grade school. My world, of course, was Van Dyke Road. I was aware of the change from gravel to pavement. I had ridden my bike beyond our road, onto the tar, around the lake, over the railroad tracks, past Big Ole into town, a million times. But it only became truly clear when I went for a sleepover to Barbie’s house in Victoria Heights. Was it the move from road to heights? The change from Van Dyke to Victoria? I wasn’t sure. But it was different. They called it a development. I didn’t have the words for it then, but it sounded important. And my mental vocabulary told me that it was different. But that different to me, never meant bad. I wore my gravel like a badge, and I rode on.

When did it become bad — this different? I’d like to think it hasn’t for me, but am I paying attention. I have to pay attention. We all have to pay attention. We all change and grow at different times. And some don’t get the luxury of either. The weather is changing. The very climates of our being. 

I don’t have the answers, but I do believe in the randomness of it all. Life is constant change. In this we can take comfort. I am reminded of the quote by Hal Borland: “No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.”  I’m counting on it. May we all. 

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Out gratitude’s door.

“If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the brook.” If she said it once, she said it a million times, enough to fill a brook, I suppose. We’d pull at her apron. Wishing we had this certain candy, when the lazy susan of the corner cupboard was full of sugary treats. Wishing we had the newest game, when an endless adventure waited for us in a yard filled with apple trees and cow gazes. We sucked in our cheeks, breathing like fish, filled our pockets with Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies and swam out into the summer sun.

Not truly knowing what it meant, I think we wished around her, simply to play our own fish game. As she sent us off with this string of words, we would swim for hours in a wheat field. On a gravel road. And this was one of the greatest gifts we received — the gentle shove out gratitude’s door into all that we had!

It still makes me laugh sometimes. I say under my own breath, puffing my frustrated lips, keeping my teeth clenched, “Well, I wish I had… then, I’d be… and the words puff from my angry mouth, and it sounds something like a fish. I shake my head, and realize how silly, stupid really. Then I swim through my list of everything I have, buoyant once again.

It’s so easy to get caught up in what we don’t have, and the crazy thing is, that only takes us away from the wonders that we do. I can still hear her voice as I head out this morning’s door. I am ever thankful.

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Waving away the donkeys. 


I turn the same corner every day to go for a walk. I’m reminded what century it is, as I pass the giant recycling bin, while listening to a podcast through earbuds. And yet, there they were. I heard the bells first before my eyes could focus on the image — a man leading two pack donkeys and a dog. They say time changes everything… well, here was proof that maybe it’s not about time at all.
If you’re waiting for time to do the work, I’m afraid you’re in for a long wait. Time really does nothing. It’s what you do with the time. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again — it’s about the choices we make in the time, the people we surround ourselves with, the life we create and share. The love in our hearts and the hope in our minds, at any time, can heal, create, inspire and change 

almost anything…you just have to take the time to realize it.

I’m grateful for the reminders. Sometimes I see a photograph, or read a poem and I remember that I did in fact, bear the unbearable. We’re all asked to do it from time to time. I smile, because I can recall the certainty of how this thing would never pass. And sometimes it seemed to linger at donkey-speed, but it did indeed pass. We get through.

That thing you’re in right now, this difficult time. I’m sorry. But hear me over the sound of the bells, it will pass. You will get through. I’ve walked that road. I’m still here, with a smile in each step, waving away the donkeys. 

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Pinky swear.

It took so little to show that we really meant it when we were young. Just a simple reaching out of a pinky finger to wrap around another’s. We swore it to be true, and our curled pinkies confirmed it. 

I suppose it was fitting that our weakest of links, these tiny little fingers exposed like this, showed our biggest strength — a vulnerability, a trust. It was never with clenched fists or raised arms. Just our hearts exchanging beats. Pinky to Pinky.

I don’t know when we stopped doing it. Who was it that suggested a shaking fist deserved more attention? When did we start exchanging “vulnerable” for “sure”? Why did we think all that certainty would connect us? 

The truth is, I’m rarely sure. I think I lean more on curious. To what if. To what could be. I have garnered more there — not necessarily the answers, but I have found challenge and creativity, fulfillment and reward, friendship, even love.   

So take these daily words as my pinky promise, my reaching out, my hope for connection. I will give to you, not always “the best,” but it will ever be “my best.” This, I swear. 

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In the Sunday evening.

I had already seen it several times, The Wizard of Oz. I had it almost memorized. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say it changed from black and white to color. We were about to leave my grandma’s house when it came on the large console tv set in the living room. Recognizing the music I ran in and plopped directly in front of the television. “Not too close,” my grandma urged. We were still of the belief that the screen could make you go blind. “We’re leaving anyway,” my mom said as she tapped on my shoulder, reminding me it was a school night. I knew it was a Sunday evening. All the good shows were on Sunday night. “I just want to watch a little…” I said, staying cross-legged on the floor. “It’s getting late,” my mom continued, purse in hand. “You know I’ve never really watched it before,” my grandma said. “Oh, look,” she continued, “it’s in black and white.” “She doesn’t even know,” I screamed to my mother. “We have to stay until it turns (I then whispered the rest behind my cupped hand) to color. Or else she’ll be afraid.” That is what sealed it for my mom — this not wanting anyone to be afraid. My grandma sat down in the recliner. I backed away from the tv and leaned against her legs. My mom put her purse down and sat on the organ bench. It was only a moment, I suppose, but a rare one, where three generations sat together, waiting for the change to come.

I mention it only because I’m afraid we’re losing it. These moments. The changes never stop, but we often forget to. Maybe it would be better if we faced them together. Leaned against one another, in the Sunday evening of all that is to come.

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Without fuss or fury.

If the truth has to come at you like a ton of bricks, maybe it really isn’t the truth at all.

Grandpa Rueben didn’t say a lot, but when he did, we believed him. He was one of the hardest working people I ever knew, (other than Grandma Elsie), yet I never saw him labor with the facts. There was a quiet certainty that rose from his overalls. His right elbow raised from the table. His open hand began with the slightest of beats. Like a conductor, his rhythm held our eyes. Chosen carefully, the words, without fuss or fury, slipped into our hearts and minds and filled them.

I suppose that’s why today, if it comes at me too hard, I can’t let it in. It’s only noise. There are some who think if you say it loud enough, repeat it again and again, then it must be true. I still am of the belief that the real work has to remain in the fields. The truth, when balanced on the uneven legs of the kitchen table at day’s end, should come lightly, easily, ever without harm.

It only just occurred to me — they often say before you speak, take a beat. I smile. I see Grandpa’s hand gently keeping time, and my heart knows what’s real.

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As I come clean.

I suppose it was at my grandparent’s house that I first learned to come in clean. Winter snow or summer dirt was wiped from shoes in the entryway before climbing the couple of steps into the kitchen where grandma wiped her floured hands inside of her apron pockets and brought you in for a loving belly hug. After the apron imprinted your cheek, there was nothing to do but come directly with the truth. The truth of what you had been doing outside. What you touched that maybe you were told not to touch, like the electric fence, or a baby bird from a fallen nest. Maybe it felt safe, because it had been proven safe, time and time again, with wiped shoes and warmed cheeks…so we told all, and she loved us still. 

If I come to you with that same truth today, I will tell you that I have battled it throughout the years — love and trust. Maybe we all do. But it has yet to change. The only way any of it seems to work is when I come in clean. When I come clean. When I tell you my truth, and accept the same from you. It’s not as complicated as I, we, often like to make it. 

I grab the straw broom from the corner and smile. It has never needed instructions. Nor does my heart — its screen door swings open, and I dare it all again. Safe. Welcomed in the loving arms of home. 

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Coo-coo and hum.

I have know idea how they got them in the house. It never occurred to me to think of those things — the logistics of moving an organ, a clock. And just as I assumed this clock that coo-cooed on the hour was called a Grandfather clock because it was his, I thought it was a Grandma organ, because it was hers. 

But it must have been fairly spectacular – this finding of an organ mover, a clock mover, to a farm house just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota. And they must have come through the front door – a door we never used, never even considered. And even if they came through this front door, there would have been a stoop to be navigated. A tiny hall before reaching the living room. But as I said, I didn’t think of it, how they got there. But I did count on it, them being there. 

And that was the gift, I suppose. It was all an assurance. One I didn’t ask for, or prayed to keep, I just had it. I knew, without a doubt, what would be found in this house. Coats and overalls hanging in the entry. A kitchen table with uneven legs. Candy in the corner cupboard on the lazy-susan. Sugared cereal beneath the silverware drawer beside the kitchen sink, a kitchen sink that was forever filled with dishes. Something on the stove. Publisher’s Clearing house magazines on the dining room table. The hint of pipe tobacco and baked goods. Television on. A ticking clock. The hum of the organ at the ready. And a love, no matter how many doors or windows were left open, would never leave. 

So it continues to be spectacular — this never knowing how it all got in — mostly the love. I just remember always having it. I still have it. And what a thing to move! To carry throughout a lifetime! Enough to make a heart ever coo-coo and hum.

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Only perched.

I suppose it is when I am most certain that it’s necessary to loosen the grip a little and just perch. 

I can reach a conclusion pretty quickly in any situation. But I’ve learned that giving myself an extra hour, sometimes a day, or longer, to really think it through, is quite useful. Most often the solutions are a little less dug in. A little more flexible. A little more reasonable.It’s no secret that I love to paint birds. But it was only just the other day that I saw it. I had to put it on paper to really get it. I love the way they perch — just lightly place themselves on the branch. Never burrowed in with false certainty (which is usually just pride in disguise.) That doesn’t mean a lack of commitment. No, just a willingness, a readiness, to adjust to the situation. Giving themselves a chance to do what they were meant to do — to really fly!  

I won’t be perfect at it. But I think in the attempt, I will get better. I am getting better. And that in itself lifts my spirits, lifts my wings. I guess what it comes down to, (or up really), is I’d rather soar, than be sure. 

I don’t know what the day will bring, but I’ll see you up there!

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Pillowed to the new.

Wide awake in the middle of the night, contemplating why jet lag is so very real, it occurred to me that perhaps the real issue is the lie to the body. I had convinced it that the time was real, only to get on a plane and tell it, no, this is the real time now.

And I suppose that’s with any change. The body, mostly the heart, gets used to the routine. And while I would never call love routine, there is a familiarity to it, usually in the form of a response — a return of a call, a hug. An awareness of feeling. 

Traveling often, I have found the best way to combat the time change is not to lie. Resting in the unfamiliar zone, I tell myself, “Yes, it’s different, this time, but not you. Your heart will keep beating. Find its step. Its new pace.” I smile softly, pillowed to the new.

There is another zone I’m living in — this world without the call of my mother. It would be a lie to say that it isn’t different. So I don’t. But the love remains. Beats strongly in this heart of mine. That will never change. So I don’t fight it. I feel it. I feel it all. And pillow to the love.

I mention it only because I’ve seen you out there — between the zones of heart, road and time. And maybe you need to hear it from someone who’s been there, rest assured that nothing will be the same, but everything is going to be ok, more than that even, beautiful. 

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