Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: connection


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My place.

It was only the most trusted friends who held your place. They lined us up for everything at Washington Elementary. The lavatory. The drinking fountain. The library. And it continued onto the playground, at the monkey bars and swings. At the Dairy Queen. The movie theatre. But urgencies arose, and we asked our closest friends to hold our place as we navigated from the middle of the ticket line into the back of the bathroom one. Darting back without missing a step. 

We had special languages then. Phrases and words. Tattoos from Cracker Jack boxes. We wrote on each other’s hands. Pricked our fingers. Braided our hair. Anything to connect. To hold our place. 

I suppose we’re still doing that. I know that I am. I can leave the country for six months, and before I’ve changed my internal and external clock, I am mid conversation with the ones who pinky-sweared to be there upon my return. Always making room for me. 

It’s not lost on me that I gave her my hand painted bookmark. We Wordle daily, long distance. Share silly thoughts and emails. And we are tassled together. Even as life throws us from line to line, beyond the grumbles of those waiting, those checking their watches and throwing hands in air, we smile, knowing, repeating, “Oh, but it is my place!”

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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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Exposed wire.

When our house was built, long before I arrived, it was still legal to burn things in the backyard — hence the firepit that rests next to my studio. I use it for display. It has a glorious texture that no doubt came from use. Cracked. Wired. But still strong. Still beautiful. Maybe I’m only able to see it because of my own exposed wires, those holding together all of the cracks that make me, well, me.

I was listening to a psychiatrist explain this so elegantly on a podcast yesterday. Human need is what really holds us all together. We so often confuse these needs as weakness. But in reality, these needs bring us closer. Crossing our experiences like a trellis, thus connecting, strengthening all of us.

The first painting I hung on our pit and then photographed for my website sold almost immediately. The fire never died.

I hang each new creation on the challenged wire that holds together the pit, that holds together my heart. In fact, nothing rests cold. And we are connected. We are stronger. Together.

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Forever Connected.

I hate that someone else has her phone number now. Our phone number. The phone number I memorized since I was five. Carried with me. Still do. I hate that they won’t take the time to memorize it (nobody does anymore.) No, they’ll just plug it into their cell phone’s memory and forget about it. It won’t be held in their hearts and brains like a safety net. It will just be one click of a button. It won’t be dialed. Written on papers. Given to friends. Friends’ parents. It won’t be given the reverence so deserved. Our sacred phone number. My mom’s phone number.

763-5809. That number was the reason I dared to attempt my first sleep-over at Cindy Lanigan’s house. The same number that told my mom to come and pick me up the minute it got dark (outside and/or in my imagination.) These were the numbers that erased miles and distance. Allowed me to go to college. To get a job. To quit that job and begin a life. To become. These were the numbers that allowed me to fall in love. Move to another country, and still have my mother within reach.

They weren’t just numbers. And to think of someone just casually dialing them now. Or not bothering to dial at all…

These numbers were birthdays and holidays. Meetings and come find me! These numbers were “I need you,” and “I love you,” and “I’m right here.” I guess if you know this, you can use these numbers. And that will be OK, good even. Use them in the same respectful way. Know that there was love in that connecting line. Real love in every number.

If you are lucky enough to now travel in that line, please be open, be kind, be there. She would like that. That’s who she was. I guess I’d like that too. I’m dialing right now. Forever connected.

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Covered in giggles.

To be honest, I don’t really even know his name. But I know his face, his smile — our butcher.  We see him weekly. He always seems happy to see us. Greets us with a joke, sometimes a few attempts in English. This is not common here in France. At no other store, grocery or bakery do we find this human connection. This exchange of, more than pleasantries, but joy! 

Before we left for the US this time, we asked “Can we bring you something from America?”  “Oh, no…” he blushed and smiled, and we knew right then that we would.

It cost almost nothing. In fact we had fun shopping for it — the right hat. A baseball cap that no one else in France would have. Yesterday we went to restock the refrigerator. I was excited. My heart was beating gerbil quick, as I reached the bag across the counter. He looked stunned. “Oui! Ou! Yes, it’s for you!”  He couldn’t believe it. He peeked inside at the hat and in a language that can only be described as joy, he called over his coworkers to see. “They brought if from the US! For me!”  None of us could stop smiling. He held his hand over his heart. He told other customers. The counter was covered in giggles. 

We talked this morning over breakfast (my husband and I, not the butcher). What a gift this was!  And I don’t mean the hat. I’m not even talking about our giving of it — the real gift was this exchange of joy. This moment of happiness. We gave it to each other. 

Perhaps this is the best part of living — why we are here. To be kind. To notice people. To see them. To reach across every counter. Every wall. Every obstacle. And find a way to connect. Reaching out my hand today, I tell you, “Yes, Yes! It’s for you!”

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The line.

We stood in the long line. I didn’t want to be there. I glued myself to my mother’s leg. We got closer and closer. There was a long table of food. An indecipherable melange of flavor. I peaked around my mother’s hip. All I wanted was to find her dish. I knew if I could find it, I would be saved. I didn’t want something from another kitchen, another mother. “What did you make?” I asked. “What color is the bowl again?” We were taught not to hate, especially in this place, this church, but I strongly disliked the occasional pot-luck lunch. I didn’t have words for it then, but I knew there was something about “the making.” To know the maker meant something. It was important. I knew the maker, my mother. I knew her hands. And that was love. And that’s what I wanted. The only thing I would stand in line for. 

After visiting the Museum of Modern Art in New York, I walked around the gift shop. So many beautiful things. It was hard to focus. And then it caught my eye. So small, almost indecipherable, but oh, so familiar. I moved immediately across the aisle. I held it in my hand. “Made in France,” it said. It was a magnet of the skyline of New York, including the Statue of LIberty. A line. A connection. It was familiar. It was mine. This maker, this France, I knew it. It was as warm, as familiar, as the dish my mother made, and I was saved.

Trust the line that connects from hand to heart to others. These are the makers. This is the love worth standing for.

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