Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: choice


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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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I choose bloom.

“In April, millions of tiny flowers spread over the blackjack hills and vast prairies in the Osage territory of Oklahoma… In May, when coyotes howl beneath an unnervingly large moon, taller plants, such as spiderworts and black-eyed Susans, begin to creep over the tinier blooms… The necks of the smaller flowers break and their petals flutter away, and before long they are buried underground. This is why the Osage… refer to May as the time of the flower-killing moon.”  David Grann

We didn’t study the Osage, or perhaps I would have thought it was May, the “cruelest” of months. No, at Central Junior High, Mr. Rolfsrud had us studying T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, touting “April” as the cruellest month.” Maybe we were too young to understand either one — the cruelty of April or May. We, barely into living our collective Februarys, still believed in all things good. All things possible.

I’m reading Killers of the Flower Moon now. I’m a bit embarrassed to come to it this late, but I am here, now, learning. Maybe that’s all any of us can do. I am but a tiny bloom, for sure. And while some may find that terrifying, I see it as a yearly victory. Resilience. There are parts of me that have been trampled by the largest of Susans, but I’m still here. And each time, there comes a decision, bloom again or stay buried. I choose bloom. May we all choose bloom. 

As we keep springing forward, maybe it becomes easier to see. (I hope. I pray.) Empathy reveals our constant struggles and beauty. We’re only asked to keep growing. To not be trampled by the understanding, but set free. 

The sun begins to warm our spring day. The cool of early morning offers my heart just a hint of February, and I still believe.

“And each time, there comes a decision, bloom again or stay buried. I choose bloom. May we all choose bloom. “
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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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The bridge to everything.

Today is a packing day. I finished my recent commission and it’s time to send it to another country. To release something, put it in the hands of others, is no small thing. But that’s what it was made for, to reach this destination. So I have to let go. Trust — the final bridge to everything, I suppose. 

Trust has always been hard for me. As a child, I gave it away freely, this precious cargo, until one day, it was damaged. Beyond repair? I didn’t know. So I kept packing. Protecting that heart at all costs. Bubble wrapped. Shrink wrapped. Permission wrapped – tightly. Even behind all that protection, I guess I always knew this was not the final destination. 

It’s not lost on me that to reach our home, you have to cross a bridge, the Pont des trois sautets. I made that choice. To cross over. I trusted my heart. His. And found myself at home.

You will be asked today, tomorrow, to keep moving forward — to cross that bridge. Not as a punishment, but as a gift. There is so much beauty that lies ahead! 

It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
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Beach or Store.



Like a bird surrounded by shiny objects, I could often get myself overwhelmed with choice. So many things to do. So many possibilities. Too much, and I would render myself immobile. I’m not sure why it took me so many years. My grandfather had given me the answer early on. Standing, almost dangling from the perch outside my grandmother’s second floor sewing room, struggling with the choice, he simply called up, “Jump, or go inside.” He saw things so clearly. I jumped. 

Even now, there’s a little part of me that will argue the point, “yes, but, what if…” and I catch myself dangling. So I break it all down. Give myself the option, this or that, sometimes even the smallest of choices, and then I jump. Oh, and I stumble. I fall. I walk away. Nothing is perfect, but I have found, always found, even the hardest of choice has always been better than dangling. 

And being the distracted bird that I am, the universe has to remind me, often and again. Walking in Cottagewood the other day, I saw the signs nailed to the tree, again and for the first time. One arrow pointing to “Beach.” One arrow pointing to “Store.” My grandfather would have liked this directional tree, just as if he planted it — and I suppose in many ways, he had.

Today’s path may not be clear, but my heart is, so I greet the sun, and jump…

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If it’s the beaches…

Waking up to the clank of cousins eating cereal from the variety packs grandma bought, I ran down the stairs to the kitchen. There was no need to change from pajamas. Summer shorts and t-shirts were the pajamas we wore straight into the day, and back into the night. Even though we believed our summers would never end, this did save valuable time.

Maybe it was because of the example my grandpa set — he went out to work no matter the weather — or maybe it was our springing youth, but we never asked what it was like outside. Never questioned if we should go. It was expected, from them and us. We wanted to. If it was sunny, we ran until the sweat drained from our t-shirts. In the rain we hopped from barn to coop.

Wearing my smallest pair of bumper tennis shoes from Iverson’s in town, I asked my grandma during a rootbeer break if she was having a good day. “Of course,” she said, “I already decided.” I raised my eyes and shook my head in agreement. So it was like that, I thought. Just decide. I wiped my rootbeer mustache with my shoulder, and went back out into my decision — it was a good day.

The landscape keeps changing as we drive the country. This morning we wake to the white sand beaches. If it’s the beaches, I think, it’s going to be a good day, I already decided.

Once again, heaven nods.

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Heaven nods.

For most things, an outfit for example, my mother’s decisions were slow and methodical, including several trips to the store, three-way mirrors, test runs with the right shoes, the accenting jewelry, the perfect shade of make-up applied in the proper lighting. Such gentle care she took to reach her destination. So it was surprising to me, on any given road trip, how quickly she could decide whether a city was the right stop for her. It wasn’t often, but it was swift and sure when it happened. Pulling off the exit, as I opened my car door, her decision would be made. “Nope,” she would say, and I knew she wouldn’t be getting out of the car. “I hate it,” she said.  And just in case her point wasn’t clear, she added, “with a passion.”  The echo of my laughter rang in the rear view mirror as we pulled out of town. 

But that’s how we did all things I suppose, with a passion. The cds turned along with the wheels beneath us and we sang! We sang as if each lyric was happening to us at that very moment. It was, we were, wild and free! So many things in this life are out of our control. And maybe that’s why she did it — say no. It feels so good. So freeing. To decide what’s right for you. Not out of spite or anger, but pure passion, passion for your own life, your own living. 

We pulled into the city yesterday (I won’t say which one – we all have our own right to decide.) I had to use the restroom. Dominique kept one hand on the car door. The words were French, and not exactly identical, but I knew we weren’t staying. I laughed as we sang ourselves down the road…with a passion.

Once again, heaven nods. 

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Tiny miracles and small underpants.

If you find a pair of underpants that you love, it’s nearly guaranteed that they will stop making them. The same is true for bras and any kind of make-up. I’m sure there’s the male equivalent, but this is about me. 

Being nearly out of my well advanced stock from Herberger’s (my mother saw to that), I recently went to Target to try something new. I picked out a pair. There was a good deal if you bought three, but who needs three if you don’t end up liking them. I bought one pair, with the idea that after a test run, (and yes, running would be a part of the test — if you read about the airport disaster of 2022, me running, dragging carry-on with one arm and holding up underpants with the other, then you know), I would return to get my deal on three more. 

Holding their place on waist and in my heart, I did return to Target, only to find two. The clerk on the floor folding baby clothes in the aisle across the way on Christmas Eve was certain they were out and really had no interest in helping me look for the third, the last wiseman of my Christmas miracle. I searched through all the sizes, no more smalls. Only two. I bought them at full price.

I mention it only because life is about change. When Herberger’s left years ago, so did I. Not for the same reasons, but still…  

We get to choose how we see things — No, I didn’t find three together… but I did find two! And one before. And I like them.

It’s the 26th of December. That could be a letdown for some. I remove the tiny hangers from my new underpants, and get ready for the day. The house is still filled with love. The possibilities are endless. And I can move about, run even – hands free – this is my tiny miracle. And I choose to celebrate! Happy 26th!

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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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