Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: daily


by Leave a comment

But the choir.

We weren’t supposed to eavesdrop. And I could understand for the phone, the party line. No one wanted to hear the wringing of our sweaty hands around the mouthpiece, or our muffled giggles. But sometimes, we were just there, in the thick of the conversation. Running in through the screen door, jumping straight into the debate over the current episode of Days of Our Lives. Hearing words like affair and betrayal. Not knowing the meaning, nor the context, desperate to work them into the next conversation with cousins. My grandma, giving me, us, the “zip your lip” signal from across the kitchen. 

So I knew the routine. But sometimes, my curiosity got the best of me, and I risked it. Surely something about church couldn’t be so bad. “What did she mean about the choir?” Now I knew my grandma, she went to church, but she wasn’t the minister. So why did the neighbor lady, sipping egg coffee from her stained cup, say it to my grandma? “Say what?” Grandma asked. “She said you were preaching to the choir?” “Oh, that’s just an expression,” she replied. “But what does it mean?” “It means ‘you’re telling me something I already know.’ You know, like the choir is always there hearing the message…and maybe the ones who need to hear it the most aren’t there.” “So why do we do it? Why do you do it?” I asked. She wiped her hands on her apron, picked up her ever present cup of coffee, brought it close to her lips, grasped it with the other hand — like it was the thought itself she was holding — lowered the cup a little and smiled, “because the choir keeps singing.” I smiled in return. I knew I had heard something special, with no constraint of the zip it sign. I ran out into the summer song. From what I could hear, all was well, would be well, on Reuben and Elsie’s farm.

Each song has wings.
Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

With a bang!

I don’t remember not having a crayon in my hand. At least one in the pocket of my jeans purchased in Herberger’s basement. An unsharpened pencil (because why wouldn’t I use it?). Paints in the nightstand by my bed. Big Chief notebook pads everywhere. Coloring books stacked in the closet. Inside my book bag. Pencil cases from every theme park within Minnesota and Wisconsin. I suppose the scene was set from the start, in this my first act. 

The famous writer Anton Chekhov said, “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.”

I may never be famous. Nor rich (in the monetary sense). None of this has ever been the worry. But I fire my “pistol” daily. I write. I paint. I create something. Anything. Because I know what I’ve been given. I’ve always known the value. I have peeled the paper from every Crayola and used it to the end. I have sharpened the #2 until my fingers were at risk of getting caught in the sharpener that hung by each classroom of Washington Elementary. I fill the pages. Each canvas. It is my privilege. My duty. My responsibility. My joy. 

Whatever it is that you’ve been given, use it. Fire the pistol. Play the piano. Weed the garden. Care for the children. Teach. Reach. Run. Use your gifts. There is a reason that they were put there, on your set, in your hands, within your heart. 

I type the words for you this glorious morning. Read them with a bang!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Every sublime thing.

“Only then (nearly out the door, so to speak) did I realize how unspeakably beautiful all of this was, how precisely engineered for our pleasure, and saw that I was on the brink of squandering a wondrous gift, the gift of being allowed, every day, to wander this vast sensual paradise, this grand marketplace lovingly stocked with every sublime thing.” ― George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo

I don’t have any videos of my grandparents. None of my mother. I barely remember having a camera, but for the one I ordered from Bazooka Joe. It was plastic and I ran over it with my bicycle only a week after receiving it in the mail. And maybe this is why I remember everything. It was only my heart recording. (And I don’t say everything here, as if mine the only truth, but rather that it was, is, my everything. What else could it be?) I suppose I knew, that we all knew, running (chasing really), barefoot in summer’s grass, that we were indeed forever on this “brink,” so close to missing out on the daily gift. 

It was just the other day that I told Dominique about how I never see birds on my morning walk. Flocks fill the trees in our garden, but when I get to the gravel path, they all seem to disappear. The valley that I wind around each morning is filled with green. With trees and bushes. But not birds. I don’t know why. And just a day after this “other day”, I was walking the same path, listening to a podcast with George Saunders, and there it was, birding about my stride, a lovely, fluttering gift of sublime. My path was stocked.Even on this graveled path, socked and shoed, I could feel my youthful toes wiggle in summer’s youth, still joyfully chasing this beautiful earth, this beautiful day, this beautiful moment. Having need 

to stop it in photo or video, not even if I could… 
I’m nearly out the door now. Just a few more words to type before I step into the sublime…

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

This becoming.

They didn’t make it clear when they bent over to get face to face and asked the question, “What do you want to become when you grow up?” They made it seem like it was a one time thing. I never dreamed it would be daily.

The easiest thing would be to just let them all fall to the ground, the wild plums from our garden tree. But that’s not who I am. So I stand bucketed beneath the limbs and pluck and shake and fill. Wild plums do not give it away easily. Skin and pit are prepared to put up quite a fight. I could just smash them all together, and it would be easier, but again I answer, possibly with less conviction, but still, that’s not really who I am. So I peel each tiny fruit. One by one. Put them in the colander to let the juices flow. Smash them by hand, struggling to release the pit that hangs on, and on…but I can’t blame a pit for being a pit. The juice and sweet pulp that remains gets sugared and boiled into the most beautiful rouge — prune rouge. 

We had it on our homemade bread for breakfast. The day becomes, and I begin.

Maybe there’s no way to be warned. And maybe it’s better that we aren’t. It would be a little overwhelming to hear that you are going to have to become, and become and become. Every day you will be asked to become the person you want to be. For me, it’s from canvas, to paper, to table. From person to person, customers online, strangers en route, family in house…who am I to each of them, to myself? Of course I fail, but therein lies the beauty of it all, I get to become again. We all do. 

That’s not to say it’s easy. Tears and sweat will need to be wiped away constantly, but when you get there, to the sweet prune rouge of it all, it is beautiful, this becoming, so I face the mirror and ask myself, still and again, to become.


by 1 Comment

Waddler.

We’ve never had a duck in our yard before. It was a delightful surprise when I went to open the shutters. Perhaps even more surprising, “canard,” was the word that popped into my head (french for duck).

That is the very thing that keeps me coming back to the page, the canvas, the morning shutter — this belief in the unexpected. This hope that I’ll see something new. Create something new. Feel something waddle across my heart. 

And it’s never been about shock. Shock is simple. Anyone can severely rattle and create a response. But to find the beauty in the simple. To see the spectacular in life’s gentle and daily offerings, this, I think, is the extraordinary. 

It may not sound like much, but for me it was a sign of learning. A sign of growth. And without that, what am I in this for? Sure it may be at a waddler’s pace, but I am learning continuously about life. And this is hope. This is joy! 

Je suis un canard!
Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Folds of worth.

I found ten euros on the path yesterday while out for my morning walk. I picked it up. Smiled. Looked around. There was no one in sight. I folded it neatly and put it in my pocket. It was at the beginning of my walk, so I had almost an hour left to check it repeatedly. Like a five year old with birthday money stashed in my shorts, I clutched it in my chubby fingers again and again. It’s not that I needed ten euros so badly (although it’s always a treat!). What I really needed was not to lose the proof. I was so excited to show Dominique that even though out of season, I still had the “asparagus” eye. Out of all the people that strolled the path that morning, with dogs and phones and step-counters, I was the one who spotted the surprise! It made me feel special. I patted my pocket to feel the folds of worth.

My grandma was the first to give me a five dollar bill every year for my birthday. It continued well into my thirties. While the currency lost value through the years, the envelope that arrived each March 27th, addressed with her handwriting, became priceless. Opening the mailbox, I clutched it in hand. Forever a five year old, held heart-close in my grandma’s attention. I still have the last envelope she sent. Framed, it stands next to her picture. She loved me. I will forever feel special. Worthy.

“Guess what I found!” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Guess! Go ahead and guess!” I said, while unfolding the bill.

“Ohhhh!” he exclaimed, “You have the asparagus eye!” I am loved. You can’t put a price on that.

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!
Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

My heart beats in red.


We used to differentiate our toothbrushes by color. It was something if, for the lifecycle of your toothbrush, you had your desired color. Mine was red. I suppose it was because red was also my favorite flavor. Red jelly beans. Red Jello. Red popsicles. To brush my teeth in the same “flavor,” seemed quite the event.

I was listening to a podcast yesterday with two tech guys. One was laughing because he was receiving a text on his watch from his toothbrush, informing him that it was time to replace the brush heads. Yes, his smart toothbrush was communicating with his smart watch.

Perhaps thinking that my toothbrush was smart if it matched the sugar on my tongue pales in comparison. But not for me. Because I thought I had everything. Standing waist high next to my mother in front of the bathroom sink, singing the happy birthday song for timing, with pink foam around my lips, my world was complete. My brain, my heart, felt so very smart.

This is not to say that technology isn’t fantastic. I’m using it right now to tell you this story. But I am sure of one thing, nothing will ever replace relationships. To start and end your day with someone who knows your every flavor, and loves you because of and still — this is an irreplaceable knowledge.

So if you ask me, “You think you’re pretty smart?” I can only answer, “Well, I do wake up with the one I love…”



Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Banked.

I’m not sure if the tellers were elevated, or if it was just my five year old vantage point, but everything at First National Bank of Alexandria seemed important. I held my mother’s left hand as she struggled to remove the deposit slip from her purse with her other. I needed her to balance me as my head circled the high ceilings. Everything smelled of wood and dollar bills. When the transaction was finished, the teller thanked my mom by name. She knows her, I thought. I was so impressed! She handed me a yellow safety sucker from the bowl behind her desk. (Red was my favorite, but I still said thank you.) 

I was taught that it wasn’t polite to stare, but I couldn’t look away. I could see just the tip of it. It was a flattened cardboard pig with tiny slots filled with coins. “Would you like one,” the teller asked, “to start saving?” More than anything, I thought, and gazed up at my mom to see if it was ok. She was smiling, so I agreed. She handed me the empty cardboard pig and I thought my heart would explode. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was part of the transaction. And I felt as high as a First National ceiling.

My little pig got heavier with each dime and nickel slotted into place. Months later, when it was full, (from the random couch coin, or my weekly allowance), my mom asked if I wanted to put it in the bank. The real bank. I did, but I wanted to hold it for a while longer…feel the weight of it, the beautiful weight of my transactions. “Hold them as long as you need,” she said. 

It feels the same with memory. Each day I place one in a heart slot, and hold on. Banked. Feeling the beautiful weight of all the joy of my days. All the hands held. The smiles exchanged. The love passed back and forth. The comforting weight of my transactions. “Can you still feel it?” they ask. “More than anything,” I reply…”more than anything!”

Hold everything dear.

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Sur la table.

It’s instinct now. I suppose I’ve done it for years, but for some reason I noticed it this morning. When making something on the stove, like this morning’s coffee, I have to tilt my head down and to the left. It’s no surprise that I’m taller than the last French generation, and the hood over the stove is a good reminder.

But I don’t really think about it. My head just seems to know, and makes the adjustment. Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but what a marvelous creation — this brain!

This brain that worked for years and years processing one language. A brain that knew the signals and prompts. That navigated the grids and grins of one culture, now being asked to learn it all again, (and bend over a little if you don’t mind.) Even in the face of tears, and fears, and the I don’t want tos and the I cants, somehow it keeps going. Marvelous! And maybe it’s the heart that tells it so. Who can be sure who’s leading. That heart that got more than knocked by a kitchen corner and still keeps beating. So pained by love, still knowing there is nothing better. The heart that only smells the coffee brewing and looks forward to the day.

I mention it, not as a reminder of the struggle, but a reminder to give thanks. To take a moment and tell this brain, this heart — thanks for getting me here. For making the adjustments when life knocks us around.

I sit at the morning table. My cup is full.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Worth saving.

The summer months off from school, we called vacation. And they were. We didn’t go anywhere. No hotels or restaurants. No fancy monuments. No positioning for a selfie – I didn’t even own a camera. But it was vacation. A celebration every day. 

I still feel it. Waking up each morning with the summer light. But I have to make an effort. Certainly. Because that feeling can easily get lost in a pile of laundry. 

Yesterday was a beautiful summer day. Blue sky. Green grass. Birds singing. Sprinklers watering. But there was work to be done. Washing. Ironing. Beds to be made. Fighting with the duvet covers, I could feel the “vacation” slipping away. And we’re not given that many. It had to be saved. It was worth saving. 

So I grilled the shrimp. Sauteed the peas. Boiled the fresh pasta. Cut the homemade bread. Let the cheese breathe beside the wine. And we ate slowly in our summer kitchen restaurant. Our vacation was saved. I was saved. 

I was certain after every grade that my summer would never end. Even returning again and again to school, I believed in the eternity of summer. I guess I still do. The magic of my heart’s vacation — that is something to hold on to, something to be saved.