Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: climb


by Leave a comment

I climb.

Spring arrived not only on the side of the hill, but also in my step. I can buy it at the grocery store. In fact I did just a few days before. And it was delicious. But it can’t match the thrill of finding asparagus, petite stalk by stalk, just off the pathway. 

And when I say hill, mountain would be closer to my leg’s truth. It is quite steep. And can be challenging. But while searching for the wild asparagus, I noticed on my second trip up, I hadn’t heard a thing from my thighs. Now, I’m sure they didn’t feel any different from the day before, but I think they knew the task. I think they knew they were as much a part of the hunt as my eyes that scanned, my back that bent, and my hands that grasped. I think to complain would have set them apart, so they marched silently up the hill, and joined in the victory when the asparagus omelette was made just hours later. 

It was my grandfather who always told me whenever I was in deep struggle, (often self imposed), to focus on someone else. And I’m sure I struggled with that as well, screaming like an angry ascending quad, but he was right. He was always right. It’s a lesson I keep learning. Sometimes more quickly than others. But I still celebrate in the victory. He would like that — because in doing so, I am also thinking of him. 

He comes the day. I’m about to join in. I climb. I hope. I reach. I pray. I curse. I kick. I laugh. I rest. I climb. I hope. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

…but the climb.

It’s not that I’m attached to the shoes really, but the miles they carried me. 

I was gifted a new pair of shoes for my birthday. I’ve tried them on. Admired them in the mirror. Jumped up and down. Ran in place to see if they were fast. (The same thing I’ve done since getting my first pair at Iverson’s shoes in Alexandria, Minnesota.) They are going to be lovely, I know it, but not just yet.

I put on my old pair again today. I can see my socks through the holes above the laces. I know why they rip there. It’s from each bend at the bed of my toes as I climb up the hills of the Montaiguet. They are not flawed, but accomplished. 

I hope I can see it the same way in myself, in those around me. What if we all could? What if we could see, not the imperfections, but the climb? What if we saw the days that, in the rain, the wind, we still went to the hill? The mornings after not much sleep, we dragged those feet higher. And higher still. And if we did, see all the wind and rain and rocks and miles and steeps, wouldn’t all those shoes seem a lot more beautiful?!!! I’m smiling, because my socks are smiling through the opening. They will get their much deserved rest tomorrow, but today, once again, we open with a climb.

The trail.
Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Up there.

I credit my grandma for my love of climbing. I suppose it was her apple trees that first took me up. Low branches provided an easy first step. Of course it was no problem then to bring my knee to my chin and hoist myself up. My bumper tennis shoes slid up the bark and after arriving on my first branch, one so easily reached by my mother’s long arms, it was still my proudest moment to hand her that beautiful green apple prize. 

Each year I could go higher. Even higher than grandma’s basket on a stick that she used to pull down the apples on the tippy-top. And it was a thrill to say, “I’ve got it, Grandma,” — to show her that I could do it, I could go higher. To show her that even though she had rescued me so many times, from dark nights of sleep-overs, from the fear of grandpa’s snoring, from the dark closets of the upstairs bedrooms, from the unwanted covered dishes at the potluck, from the hidden aisles of Jerry’s Jack and Jill, and all the unknowns of Petermeier’s Funeral Home, I could climb higher. 

I could fill the paper sacks with apples. I could write Ivy in magic marker on my mother’s and give to her her favorites, the tiny sour ones from the tree near between the electric fence and the road. 

The ones who really love you will do that — help you reach higher. Maybe the only way to thank them is to keep climbing. And to help other’s do the same. 

I smiled when climbing the rocks at the Joshua Tree National Park. Not because I was getting closer to them, but because they are still lifting me. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Des Moines’ Sainte Victoire. 

It wasn’t in any color that I had seen before. The Sainte Victoire mountain hanging at the museum in Iowa was bolding in oranges and reds and yellows — everything but the colors of Provence — and yet, we knew in an instant that it was home. 

That’s the beautiful thing about “home,” it can come in so many disguises. I have seen it in fields. On sidewalks. On sand. And snow. In front of a painting. In the embrace of love. From state to state. Now country to country. 

I used to think one had to search to “find” it.  But it became clear that it was more about seeing it, feeling it, wherever I was. Inside. The heart has the most magnificent filter, if you use it. It can process through any color, any distraction of pain, hurt, confusion, and find its way home. And, oh, how the world, we humans, like to distract — with all of our “look at them,”s or “look at that!”s — when really, all we need to do is look within. 

We stumbled joyfully through this world of an orange provence, and we were happy. All differences can be navigated, when your heart is in the right place.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

In the light of the moment.

I had nothing more of less from the day before, but for the green light signifying that my iPad was charging, and I was extraordinarily happy. 

It turned out only to be an exchange of the power adapter, a simple fix, but in those 14 hours, as I was losing unreplaceable power, I had conjured up a scenario where not only my iPad would have to be replaced, but generally every electronic item in the house. 

I made her (the young woman at the Apple Store) check it three times, but I wasn’t completely convinced until I plugged it in at home. Only then, as the light shown beside my bed, did I allow myself the celebration, as if I had made it across the deep water that separated me from the Gatsby mansion. 

Everything seemed special. Not just my iPad. My phone, my earbuds, the new spring in my step. The path that I walked on, listening to a repeat podcast — all brand new. And I suppose the funniest part was when Joni Mitchell, on this podcast, sang her song from decades past, with a meaning relevant to my very second, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” 

Climbing the Montaiguet, I made the same promise to myself (that I have made and broken a hundred times) not to make the same mistake again. Sure this time, that my gratitude would last. Maybe it will. At least a few steps longer up the hill. And I can see the victory in that. So I keep on singing. I keep on climbing. In this moment, I know what I have, and I give thanks for this beautiful day.

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

It can be climbed.

Would I have seen it — the majestic beauty of the Sainte Victoire — if Cezanne hadn’t shown it in paintings again and again?  I’d like to think yes, but I can’t be sure. Never to lose it, the appreciation, each day when I walk by the viewpoint, I stop. Sometimes I take a photo. Sometimes I just wave and give thanks. Some days I climb a little higher. Perhaps to get a little closer. Like Laura did on Little House on the Prairie, when she needed to be in voice reach of heaven. She rattled her braids and sweated her brow. Tested the very muscles of her thighs just to get a little closer. 

I don’t measure these daily steps in “likes.” I measure them in steps. How close can I get to the real beauty of those around me? The heavenly goodness of my grandparents and mother. Of teachers and friends. I can’t take the chance that they don’t know, that you don’t know. So I keep climbing. With keyboard and brush. Telling their stories. Our stories. 

I suppose we all think we’re just one voice, what could it matter? But I have to believe it does. It matters to me. And when I see you out there, thighs burning, heart racing, I tell you I can’t climb it for you, but it can be climbed. We can do this — I tell it to my own sweating brow, and yours, yes, we can.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Welcome to the garden.

They stand ready in the garden at the bottom of the hill, these two mannequins clothed in silk dresses. Had she been a gardener, my mother would have done the same. No scarecrows for her. And maybe she did have a hand in it. They were never there before. I have walked past this garden for years. It would be easy to explain away the magic. New tenants perhaps, but I prefer my own explanation — both my mother and mother-in-law passed within a year’s time — now, together, they are dressed to the nines in the ease and rest of the bottom of the hill. 

You can say it’s foolish to believe such things, but don’t tell my legs. Each day when I see them, the ease and strength that springs me back up that hill can’t be denied. And that’s what I choose to believe in. Maybe that’s what we all choose to believe in — whatever gets us back up the hill. 

I have a tiny mannequin behind my desk. I bought it years ago and gave it to my mom as a symbol of the strength she gave to me. Whatever she was going through, she got up, got dressed (beautifully) and faced the day. Who am I not to do the same? Sure I stumble. I get wet, and muddy, and tired, and scraped in life’s bloom, but then I see the signs, I see them, and I am welcomed to the garden. 

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Ponies and dragons.


The star attraction on the playground of Washington Elementary was the jungle gym with the giant green dragon head. I could hear the call from the street level where the bus dropped me off. “Climb me!” It shouted from above. I raced up the stairs. Dropped my homemade orange corduroy book bag and rung by rung, began my ascent. Up and around. Getting higher. Closer. Of all the gifts they gave me in school, and there were many, this one, beginning each day at the top, was one of the finest.

As we wander the country, I can still hear the call. From the World’s biggest Bowie knife, to Longhorns frozen by the river, or horses statued and waiting for Wee-chi-tah! Their words ring in my heart’s ear, and I have to climb!

I suppose that’s why I write every day. Each word a rung. Maybe today I will turn that perfect corner, step up just a little, climb the perfect sentence, and reach higher. I owe them that, the teachers that gave me the chance, the desire. I owe it to myself. Not to waste any of it. Some days I may only ride the small pony. But one day, the tallest dragon! There will be joy in it all! And so I climb…

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

On the promised land.

I have climbed the Sainte Victoire mountain twice. Quite an elevation for these Minnesota legs! I suppose most people would think the hardest part is going up. Maybe I did too. But it wasn’t the case. Sure my muscles struggled, strained, even sang out a little, but it was on the way down that I cried, both times. Maybe it’s the weight of responsibility. This having “been to the mountaintop.” This knowing what it took to get there — not legs, nor muscles, but the heart, the will, the courage of all those that carried me before. Grandparents and mother, teachers and friends. Poets and preachers. Teammates and competitors. Painters and authors. Stories in every every voice and color. We don’t get anywhere alone. So I cried on the way down, fumbling, stumbling toward grace — not sad — it’s just that view, that view from gratitude is pretty spectacular!Dominique’s grandson had a paper to write on Martin Luther King. In English. Finally, I thought, I could be of assistance. I had seen these mountaintops. It’s difficult to find your worth in another language. When the children around you have a larger vocabulary. But this was my territory. School. Writing. An American story. In English. We worked through his paper together. Word by word. Step by step. He did well. What a view!

I think we focus so much in this life on how to climb up. And yes, that’s important. But we must not lose sight of what needs to be done once we get back down. What do we give? What do we share? Whose hands do we take as we turn around to make the climb again? 

I stumble through this language, this life, certainly, even scrape my knees on this promised land, but oh, the view, this glorious view from top to bottom, spectacular!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Pink tornado.

I have sat cross legged on cement basement floors many times, waiting for a tornado.  I have heard sirens. Nestled against transistor radios. Imagining flying cows and houses. Everything in black and white. Waiting for the technicolor of the Wizard of Oz’s ending. Sweaty hands folded, I stayed until given the all-clear. Then climbed the stairs to blue skies. 

I never saw one – a tornado – until last night. It was pink. In my dreams. It sped toward the house. Terrifying, but almost beautiful. In full color, right from the start. I waited in the corner. Holding my breath. Wanting to close my eyes… watching. A pink blur passed by the house. I survived.

In moments of imagining the worst, I have been my own tornado. The wind twirling and blowing in my chest. It’s too full. Too much air. I can’t breathe. I blow and I blow, praying to slow it all down. Breathe. Just breathe. Praying for the all-clear. Please give me the all-clear. Eventually I give it to myself. I suppose Glenda was right — “You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.”

So I learn again and again. To just breathe. To be patient with myself — amid the winds of change. Within my heart’s tornado — it’s almost beautiful — it IS beautiful! I breathe, and climb the stairs.

Shop Now!