Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: cow


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The direction of home.

I never noticed how much it looked like a little nest, the tuft of hair on top of a cow’s head. I guess the bird knew before I did, and it showed me how to find its way home. 

I’ve never lived on a farm, nor even in the country. Yet, I’m trying to count, this morning, the amount of times I have been connected to another human, simply by a cow. Of course, my grandparents. Uncles and overalls and electric fences. I’ve sold four original paintings of cows. Three in Minneapolis and one in France. After finishing this cow yesterday, I sent it to my friend in Minnesota. She told me how her father, the week before his passing, wanted to simply watch and listen to the cows on his farm. He was showing her, how to find his way home. 

If a cow can do all that, certainly we could do that for each other, be the nest, or at least the direction of home. 

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Those Pacific Coast Cows!

I guess somewhere between Washington Elementary and my grandparents’ farm I must have learned it. It does sound like something my grandpa would have said, between sparring cousins or in front of an unyielding field  — that life simply wasn’t fair. But I suppose it was the luxury of being loved enough that allowed me not to think about it that much. I knew what I had, what I have, and it was more than enough. 

I mention it only because I saw them yesterday, the cows at the beach. The most gorgeous views in front of them. 77 degrees and sunny. It made me laugh, wondering if my grandpa’s cows ever knew, ever gave them a thought, shook a hoof in the air and thought, “those Pacific coast cows….!!!!!” As ridiculous as it sounds, we humans do that every day. Fisted hooves! Shaking. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the answer seems to still be  — love.  If you are loved enough — and I mean both giving and receiving it — then maybe someone’s extra five minutes taken at lunch time won’t really matter to you. Maybe someone’s good fortune could be celebrated instead of envied. Someone’s win wouldn’t be your loss. I don’t know. I suppose you could say, well, it isn’t fair, your mother loved you… and that would be true. I am still heart-deep in that luxury. When it comes to my husband, my family, my friends, I am wandering in a grassy field beside the ocean. I know this. All I can do is give thanks and return the love. 

The view from gratitude is pretty spectacular.

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To pastures new.

Grandpa Rueben explained that he had to move the cows or they would keep eating until their stomachs burst. My cousins and I would laugh. What a sight! “The cows bursting in air!” We thought they were so stupid. How could they ever let that happen?And yet, I find myself in the rockets red glare of a dwindling bag of Twizzlers, wondering who will move me to pastures new. 

The thing is, we think we know. So certain that if it happened to us we would do it differently. And then… knee deep in the situation, things become a little more clear. Maybe we didn’t know. Maybe we understand a little better. Maybe we judge a little less. 

I’d like to think we only had to learn that once. This empathy. But no. I suppose the best we can hope for is a faster journey to pastures new — that we can come to the understanding a little quicker each time. And perhaps in this new field, “they” becomes “we”, and kindness is the only thing that fills us. 

To pastures new.

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Inner Buffalo

I have a secret hope when painting cows, that perhaps they’ll see what I see, their inner buffalo. 

When a storm approaches, cows run away — which ultimately means they spend more time in the worst of it. Buffalo, on the other hand, face it directly. By running straight through it, they minimize the time and the pain suffered.

I remember him telling my tear-stained mother, “The only way out is through.” I’m not sure I understood exactly, but when my grandfather said something, I listened. I think they found their way in, these words. I still carry them, pocketed, tumbling through my fingers as I make my way through on the “least traveled path. In work, in love, and in living. Not to abandon the herd, but to offer another way. 

When I painted my neighbor’s portrait, she said it was the first time she saw herself as pretty. When I painted my mother’s portrait she said, “That woman doesn’t look like she needs to be afraid of anything, maybe I don’t either…” 

I think we all have it, the inner buffalo. I think if I see it in you, in myself, I have a responsibility to share it. And I do see it! Don’t you? We can do this. We can face it all together. Directly. Head on. Will it be easy? Not always. Will we run away? Never. 


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Dress up.

I asked my grandpa, “Where do they keep their coats?” He looked confused. “The cows,” I said. 

On the way to my grandpa’s place, we passed many other farms. Some of the cows were black. Some black and white. Some brown. Maybe it was because I watched my mother in a constant state of wardrobe change. Maybe because we played dress up. And fashion show. I assumed the cows were putting on their outfit of choice before they went to the field. Wasn’t that what the barn was for? The stalls? To hang their coats at night?

I’m not sure how long I believed it. But I remember he didn’t correct me the first time. Some magic should remain for as long as possible. I think he knew that. 

I love that I have no recollection of the truth being revealed. Not for this. Nor Santa Claus. Or the Easter Bunny. None of that magic was jerked from my heart. It was allowed to wander at a cow’s pace in the changing fields of color. 

It was my mother who always wanted to be a fashion designer. Some might say that never happened. I disagree. She taught me well. And just ask any Herberger’s shopper. She was always more than willing to lend her hand in design. She taught me that dreams don’t necessarily have to “come true,” to be valuable. The mere act of dreaming — believing in the sometimes unbelievable — saved us repeatedly.  It still does. 

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A passing moo!It was the first language I ever tried to learn — cow. 

Of course the car windows weren’t automatic. We had never even heard of such a thing. You had to turn the handle round and round to make the window go down. (I think I still make the cranking motion to indicate opening a car window.) 

There were lots of fields en route to my grandparent’s farm. Sitting in the back seat of the chevy Impala, I waited to see them — the giant black and white beasts. If I caught a glimpse at 55mph, I cranked the window and urged my mother to slow down. I sucked in a giant breath and mooed out the window. They stopped chewing for one brief moment. Staring at me with such confusion. Almost bewildered by what was coming out of my mouth. 

I stare into that same look quite often here in France. With deep breathed delivery, I converse in what sounds to me like perfect French, but I understand what they are hearing — a passing moo. 

Some days, I really have to crank to return to that childlike confidence. That willingness to open myself to the world around me. To be brave. Vulnerable. Present. 

I suppose we all have to do that for varying reasons. Every day. 

The sun is up. I crank my arm round and round with youthful vigor! I am ready! I am here! Mooooooo!

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The kitchen cow.

You could see a cow from almost every window in my grandparent’s home. Maybe it was just too many reminders for my grandma on this particular day. I never thought of her having a middle name. I barely thought of her first name. She told me while sitting at the kitchen table – it was Gladys. Her middle name. She said she liked it. I could see a bit of a twinkle in the eye that rested above her curled lip. She was thinking about something…  And I suppose it was the first time I saw her not just as a grandma, but a woman. A woman of this world. And she looked beautiful. “But Elsie is nice,” I said. “Ah, it’s a bit too much like a cow…You can call me Gladys if you like,” she said. And her apron started to disappear. I smiled, knowing I had witnessed something so very special. She slapped her hands on her thighs. The apron reappeared and she went back to the sink. I grabbed her from behind, and I hugged, again, and for the first time.  

At our kitchen table here in France, I sit at the chair that faces my little cow. I painted it years ago. It rests just over Dominique’s shoulder. All of my worlds, open, with each morning croissant. The radio was playing Cabaret this morning. Liza sang “I used to have this girlfriend known as Elsie.” My heart grins. For, I too, for just a brief moment had, not just a grandma, but a girlfriend…who let me in, well beyond the kitchen, inside her private twinkle.

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By name.

Maybe it was because of the pink nose. Maybe my name selection was limited to cartoons. I named him Bozo – the first cow that wasn’t afraid to come to the fence where I stood with fallen green apples.

No cow had come on his own before. I had stood by that electric fence so many times. Afraid one would never come. Afraid one would. And on this day, this beautiful clown came toward me. Lumbering. My heart beat so quickly. My eyes moved from my hand, to the fence, to his face. Then I started to call him by name. “Come, Bozo, come…” The pink of his nose came closer. My hand reached over the fence. I was terrified, or excited – sometimes I think they are the same. I may have closed my eyes when I felt it, the roughness of his tongue that slurped the apple from my hand. “Bozo!” I screamed in delight.

I have always named everything. And everyone. I still do. The trees in our yard. The plants in our house. If I feel the connection, I name it. To be named is to be seen. And we all want that. I can hear Mrs. Bergstrom, my first grade teacher, call out my name — perhaps the first non-family member to do so. I was seen in the world. From that day on, I suppose, I wanted to hear it – my name, again and again. I want to give that gift in return.

So I dare reach over today’s fence, and call to you. I am terrified and excited. It means something. To be vulnerable. Willing. To put ourselves out there. To call each other by name. To really see each other, and connect! To give each other this gift – again and again.

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A cow’s shoes.

My grandfather had cows. The herd had to be moved often. He explained that if he didn’t move them out of the grassy field, they would eat until their stomachs exploded. I don’t know if that’s true, or something he told us to keep us quietly watching the herd for hours, just for the chance to see one of them rocket into space.

I remember judging them. How stupid could they be, I thought. I still sometimes do, until mornings like this one. Mornings when I cross the line of just enough lavender honey to make the toast delicious — cross the line into wow, my racing heart and sleeping brain. That was a lot of honey!

It’s these humbling repeated lessons that keep my judgements at bay. (Not as much as I’d like, but I’m working on it.) We never know what the others are going through. And why they are going through it. Why something that is so easy for you is hard for them, and vice versa. I guess the only thing we can do is remember to be kind, to them, and to ourselves, because the roles will continue to reverse from day to day.

I won’t pretend to know what you are going through today. But I will tell you, whatever it is, I care. From the bottom of my honey-filled heart, I do care. And I’ll walk with you to the next field.

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Growing the herd.

I first learned about herds on my grandfather’s farm. He had a herd of cows. “Why do animals need to be in a herd?” I asked him. “If the herd doesn’t pull together, it can be in danger. The herd knows its survival is dependent on the herd.” I shook my head. It made sense, but it also made me nervous. We, my mother and I, were in trouble. We had lost our herd. He could see me doing the math in my head, subtracting all those who had gone away. “How many does it take to make a herd?” I asked, hoping, pleading, begging with my heart for it to be a small number. I’m sure he could see my desperation for a clear and concise answer. “Two,” he said, and took my hand. Looking back, I’m not sure if he meant him and me, or my mom and me, but either way I was happy. I was a part of something. I would survive.

I’ve heard it used, and overused, the phrase – “We’re all in this together.” (I think I’ve used it myself.) But are we? Humans are herd animals. We do need each other. In a perfect world, I guess we would be – one human race – one herd, helping each other live a little better, a little stronger.

Each day I reach out my hand with words and paintings in hopes to strengthen the herd. You reach back by telling me your experience. And we find out a few more things about one another. My mom exclaimed in delight the other day, “I didn’t know Lynn Norton liked Jeopardy!” And we are all a little more connected.

The herd is as strong as we make it. Reach out your hand.

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