Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: connect


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Room for clovers.

But for the scheduled softball games twice a week, in the summertime in Alexandria, Minnesota, no one was ever waiting for me. But it never stopped me from going. I had no destination. Certainly no plan. And yet, the basket on my banana seat bike was packed high with hopes, a thermos of water, a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup which I would have no way of opening, two quarters — in case I stopped in at Rexall Drug for a frozen Milky Way bar, a Golden Book, and one stuffed animal. 

I didn’t have the word for it then, nor did I have the need for one, but I was wandering. Never thinking of the limitations of my travel. A mile from home was new in every direction. And who even knew if it was a mile or not. I didn’t measure my journey in distance, but flowers and four leaf clovers. Screen doors and unrelated grandmas welcoming me in. Rocks in shoes and grass stains on knees were better than souvenirs, they were proof of a day well spent. 

As we travel now, of course we have to think of things like gas mileage and flight times, but the best moments really have very little movement at all. Mostly at the waist, when we are laughing we friends, struggling to catch our breath within the waves of joy. You can’t plan that, only experience. Stumble into it. Wander about.

So if you ask what is our plan, I will tell you, I’m filling the basket, leaving room for four leaf clovers. 

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Coiffed and caffeined.

Getting to know each other, she asked me what books I had written. It was my publisher who had referred me to this hair stylist. As I listed them off, she said, twice, “Oh, I have that book!” Both delighted, we began to wander freely in each other’s story. I knew my hair was safe in her hands. 

At any book event that my mom attended, people would say, “Oh, this is so me,” or “You must have written this about me,” or “It’s me!!!” — to which my mom would reply, “Actually it’s about me!” We would all laugh, knowing that everyone was actually right. 

We all want to be seen. We need it to survive. There is the ineffective shortcut of shock, that so many want to rush into, but this is not sustainable, nor fulfilling. No, we need to be seen joyfully, gently, heartfully. With empathy and wonder. Kindness. Slowly.

I saw them on display as I made the coffee this morning at my friend’s house. My cups. My story. Resting next to the Lefse recipe of her mother — her story. I suppose that’s what friendship is, the combining of our stories. Newly coiffed and caffeined, I smile out the window, ready to write a new page. Will you join me?

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On fishing.

When he commissioned me to do the portrait, he was explaining how we were connected. The wife of his deceased brother ended up marrying my divorced cousin and living in my grandparent’s house. Did that make us related? Probably not, but somehow there were strands. Strands enough to fill a brush, to collect the paint, to make the portrait of three brothers, fishing at a lake, a lake that I would swim in a few years to come. None of us knowing in the time that this painting captures, all that we would survive. All of the living. All of the love. Never expecting that heartache and difference would be washed clean in the common waters of Lake L’homme Dieu. 

Barefooted and fishing — maybe it’s the metaphor for how we all begin. Innocent and looking. Docked, but never tied down. Hopeful. Curious. Maybe in returning here we can find the hope we so desperately need. The simplicity. The beauty of what really connects us. 

I suppose the words I type are merely a strand on a pole, flung out to open waters, but maybe it’s enough. I pray it’s enough. So I keep writing. I keep painting. I keep hoping. I keep living. I keep loving.

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Three pounds of Twizzlers.

I suppose we always want what we can’t have. So when she asked me if she could bring me anything from the US, I said red licorice. We don’t have it in France. Nor jelly beans. This shouldn’t be a surprise when you know that Hershey chocolate bars are in the exotic aisle of the grocery store, along with the peanut butter. 

I kind of forgot about it. They had been here for hours, my American friends, before she brought out the gift bag. As she placed it in front of me, I saw the tip of red sticking out. Twizzlers! A two pound bag! I said, “If there are jelly beans in there as well, I might just pass out.” There were, and I didn’t. And then he said, “I brought some too. It’s my go-to travel candy.” He went to his suitcase and brought out at least another pound. “The bag is resealable,” he said, both thinking that seems highly unnecessary, and I knew I was with my tribe. 

If we remembered the countless things that connect us, maybe our country, our countries, wouldn’t feel so divided.

My mother loved jelly beans. Red were her favorite (mine as well). Then yellow. Orange. Green sometimes. White in desperation. Purple, never. She gave purple to the birds and sometimes her mother in the back seat on long car journeys. Driving, I would never have to wonder or even ask what color she passed back to my grandma, be it jelly bean or Tootsie pop. Before her hand even reached over the seat, we would begin to laugh. It’s not like she didn’t know. Even Helen Keller would have seen the lack of randomness in candy choice. It didn’t take many miles for her to join in. Cupping her hands around the sugared treat, she said, “You know I like purple.” I’m still laughing. 

What a thing it is to know someone. Without labels. Only by experience. To know my mother needed narrow shoes. My grandma, wide. Yet, their hands were surprisingly similar. Maybe no one “needs” three pounds of Twizzlers, but as the weight dwindles day by day, I am reminded where I come from. My joyful red heart beats wide open, never to be resealed.


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My measure of heart.

It’s only been a couple of days since our microwave died. It also served as the clock in our kitchen. I can’t tell you how often I look at the empty hole for the measure of the day. From the table, the stove, coming in the back door, I look. I “eye roll” my own eyes — how accustomed they were to this time. 

So how could I not think of calling you? How could you not be my first thought when I finish a painting? When I start one for that matter. Wanting to send you my progress along the way. How does my brain not look for your email responding to the morning blog? My outfit. My hopes and dreams. My damaged pinky. Or bruised feelings. Because you were my measure of time. My measure of heart. And this I can’t forget. Won’t. Don’t want to. I suppose it’s only a change of direction. I can no longer look over, but I can look up, look up and know you are still there, Mom. Here. 

Tomorrow they will deliver the new microwave. It will take a minute, but my eyes will adjust to the new normal. It will shine in the corner of our kitchen, and I will think to call you.

Forever connected.
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The wax and the walk.

It was an Italian woman who sent a message to me in France,  after purchasing a picture of mine in the USA — the piece, “On her way.” There are no barriers of language or obstacles of distance, when we speak and listen with the heart. 

Yesterday I bought wax to seal envelopes, with the symbol of a laurel. Knowing the words are indeed the laurels, the symbols of triumph, that we must never rest upon. It’s easy to forget about the handwritten letter, when it’s so simple to text, to email, or to do nothing at all. And I am just as guilty. Oh, I still wish for the letter each day as I head to the mailbox. But it’s rare that I send one. But I was fueled by the words in Italian and French and English and I was indeed on my way. Laurels at hand and heart.

I need to do it more often. It feels so good. To take the time. I smiled seeing the dancer on the front of my card, picturing her at her recital. Tickled when I found the purple marker, recalling the color of her bedroom walls. Writing slowly without distortion, knowing she would be sounding out the words in English, her newly second language. Heating the wax. Pressing in the laurel. Walking to the mailbox, just after the untimely rain. My heart was on its way.

I like it when you tell me that you sit down each morning with your coffee. Open your tablet or phone, and read the words I have written. In a sea of posts that are meant to offend and humiliate, to separate and push, please know that my effort is always meant to include and gather, to connect and lift. I may not always succeed, (“get there” as they say), but if you can see me, within the wax and the walk, you will know my heart is on the way. 

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The connecting strand. 


It always comes down to millimeters. The curve of an imperfect lip. A slight squint of one eye. Raising an eyebrow by seemingly a hair. When painting a portrait, it’s these infinitesimal adjustments that can change the image on the canvas from just a person into someone you know and love.


But I suppose it’s always been the way. these little things that I looked to for comfort. The nyloned leg of my mother. The pinstripes of my grandfather’s overalls. The cursive Thom McAn of my grandmother’s shoes.


It was at one of her neighbor’s garage sales. At best I was waist high of all the scavengers. And it wasn’t long before I was lost in a sea of card tables covered in dishes, rags, tools and knick knacks. My grandma had let go of my hand to pick up a sausage grinder, and the waves pushed me out of her sight. I could hear her laughing – perhaps at the price, or the details from the last card game played on one of those tables – but I couldn’t see her. My gerbil heart began to panic and race. Tears welled as I weaved my way from shoe to sensible shoe. I searched for the lines of the capital T that would form a string and gather me in. Off brand. Off brand. Where was she? I touched polyester pants and dangling laces. One tear fell, leading into two, three. Dropping quickly now. I got on hands and knees. And there they were — Grandma Elsie’s Thom McAn’s! I grabbed each ankle and she squealed like she had a “winning hand” — and I was safe. 


It’s what keeps me working. Sitting for hours in front of the canvas. Painting. Trying to get it right. Attempting to form the perfect strand that will unite us. Knowing these connections, they are the only way we are saved.

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Knock, Knock, Jodi at the door.

It wasn’t just the jumping rope that I enjoyed, it was also the singing. On the playground of Washington Elementary each day before class we took turns twirling and jumping. The two twirlers would go around a few times. Set the pace, while the other girls stood in line behind the rope, matching the turns with hands raised like conductors. And the song would begin…”Vote vote vote for (insert name here)…” and she would jump in. “Knock knock (next girl in line) at the door…” and she would jump in. “She’s a better woman, she can do the wibble wobble, so we don’t need (first girl) anymore.” The first girl would jump out and the song began again. Whenever someone tripped or stopped the rope they had to become a twirler. I’m not going to say it was great theatre, but we thought it was quite a production!  So we sang! We laughed! We jumped! Together!

Of course I had jump ropes at home. Singles as I called them. The length for one person. And it was fun to jump solo. The smooth garage floor added speed. I timed myself. Jumps per minute. Lengths of the stall. But one Saturday, walking through Ben Franklin to get to our car parked in back by the library, I saw them. Full length playground jump ropes. “Oh, please! I need one!” I begged my mom. “You have jump ropes,” she said. “Not the long one. I promise I’ll use it. I promise.” They were only a dollar, so it wasn’t a big fight. 

My mom was about to pull in the garage. “No, wait!” I said, knowing I would need the full floor. She shrugged her shoulders and walked inside. I took off the tags. Tied one end to the garage door handle and walked it back. Making sure to clear the ceiling with each turn. I set the pace. The door complied. I began to sing. I “voted” myself in and kept jumping. Raced around when I, myself, “knocked at the door,” and became the better woman, never missing a beat. 

The dust flew up from the cement floor — the floor that went unswept because I could always find something more important to do, like the wibble wobble for instance. 

Of course I could have just jumped using the solo rope, but it felt good to be connected, even when I was alone. I feel like these words that I type each morning do the same thing. Sending out little songs. Little invites. For us to be connected. Even with those who have long stopped turning, but with whom we continue to sing and to jump and to laugh! Together!

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The telephone game. 

Not out of obligation, but there must be strings.

It’s still a lovely piece of work, but without strings, this violin plays no music. The sweet sounds lay silent in the wood. I suppose it’s the same for the heart. It needs to connect. 

I understand the meaning of the familiar saying — to give without expectation. And that’s a lovely sentiment, but then I think of the beautiful, melodic strings.

It was Grandma Elsie who first taught us the telephone game. When we asked what it was she simply said, “You know, telegram, telephone, tell-a-hvezda.” We laughed and began to string together the two empty tin cans she supplied. We spent the afternoon, through windows and doors, telling our secrets on our home made phones, Hvezda to Hvezda. Even when the sounds weren’t clear, when we got it all mixed up, we were still connected. 

It’s true today. We continue to get the messages wrong. Misunderstand. But we’re still connected. Always. Even with the tiniest of strings. This family. And when I remember, when I believe it, when I let my heart whisper the truth, I hear the sweetest music, still. 

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Hearts on the line.

I guess they could be in almost anything — these signs of hope — if that’s what we want to see. And I do.

I pass by this particular house on my twice daily walks, a total of four times. Coming and going, I see the clothes hanging on the line. And it’s not like they forget them, or abandoned them. No, they are different each day. Even as our weather begins to change to the cool humidity of autumn, the clothes are pinned  to the line. Ever hopeful. On the days that the wind blows against my face and I tuck my chin to heart, I think, well, their clothes should dry today. When the sun hides behind the mountain and the clouds, I see her arms raised to the line and think, just as she must, the sun could come out today. 

I have never met her, or them. But it’s not essential to our connection. I’d like to think the hope that bounces back and forth is our daily conversation, and we are united. I also humbly hope the same is true, when someone up the hill, from their unshuttered window, sees me passing by daily, in summer’s heat, or autumn’s damp, that perhaps they smile and think, “maybe I could do the same.”

We never really know what connects us. But make no mistake, I believe we all are connected. If you could see the hope in me, my daily actions, and I could see that in you… Maybe with our hearts on the line, we could do anything.

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