Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: dare


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The audacity of plaid.

By the time I met her, she had already full on grandma-ed into her Elsieness, (the aproned belly, the Thom Mcann shoes) so to catch glimpses of her just being Elsie is such a delightful and necessary surprise.  

We’re all guilty of it I suppose, seeing people from a single vantage point. But the full story is never really just the single page we plop ourselves into. These softened grandmas that we rest our youthful heads against were once sharp and angled women of the world. 

I look at the few photos that I have. There is a girlish mischief from the start. So young and beautiful, with side-eye glances that said she probably knew, but didn’t feel the need to actually come out and say it — no, that was reserved for her smile. And then in middle age, already rounding, she still had the wide eyed willingness, the joyful audacity, to wear plaid. Head to toe. Vested and pantsed in full-on, still daring, still hopeful, youth-angled plaid. 

I mention it because I want to paint her soon. And I want to capture it all. She was so much more than the woman in front of the sink. In front of the stove. And I have to laugh, because looking beyond the keyboard where I type these words, I see my plaid pants. And I can honestly say, it only just occurred to me, that this is what she gave to me, the “audacity of hope.”  The little angles that say, she is relevant still — I am relevant still. Isn’t it what we all want? To be seen? To still be possible, with all of our softened edges?

So I offer you this — be bold in your choices, bold in your love for others and yourself — with all the certainty of today’s angles, dare the plaid!

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Without nets.

I’ve heard it said that we operate out of love or fear. And I believe it’s true. But that’s not to say when you choose love that you will never be afraid. Perhaps quite the contrary. It’s almost guaranteed when you follow your passion, your heart, that fear will be lingering somewhere close behind. That’s normal when you’re vulnerable. When you’re open. But this is living. 

Probably the closest I ever came to being a Wallenda was in the girls’ gym at Central Junior High during gymnastics week. Out of a class of thirty prepubescent girls, maybe one or two knew how to work the apparatuses. The majority of us, without nets or knowledge, flung ourselves from beam to floor, along to the music on the phonograph extensioned with an orange cord that ran from the gym teacher’s office through the locker room down the stairs into our pink basement gymnasium. 

It was the hour just before my English Literature class. After 45 minutes of heart racing stunts, a five minute shower and a four minute walk to the other side of the building, I was home. With words and books and meaning. And that’s not to say it was safe. No. It was daring. Every day new words. A new lesson. New books. We were expected to risk seemingly life and heart’s limb when asked to explain the text. To put it into our own words. Most kept their heads down. As if the motionless spider on the wall defense actually worked. I, on the other hand, shot my my arm in the air. Not because I was brave, but because she (our gym teacher) told us to run through the pommel horse. If we slowed down, if we hesitated, we risked injury. So when Mr. Rolfsrud asked us to recite our poems assigned from the night before, I ran at full speed toward the front of the class.The things in my life that have been the most meaningful have come with the biggest risks. In work and love, I have lived by the words of Karl Wallenda — 

“Life is on the wire, and everything else is just waiting.” 

It is not without risk that I share with you my victories and stumbles. It is my heart on the daily wire. But if I am going to be hurt in this life, it is not going to be because I hesitated. I will run at love with full speed. And I will be alive. 

I’m ready. I’m scared. I want to. I can. I… I… I am flying!

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From the front.

It was only the handle that stuck out of the back pocket of our jeans, but it was enough, this plastic curve of the comb, to tell everyone who we were. Enough to tell everyone we had seen the movies, read the magazines, understood about the proper hair style (for both boys and girls). 

My mom bought it for me at Peterson’s Drug. The light blue plastic was easily seen, but not too showy. The widely spaced teeth of the comb feathered my bangs perfectly, and inserted me smack dab in the middle of the hope that “I belong here too.” 

The level of things that would have connected us more deeply were reserved for secret poems written while lying beside the stereo — poems that only my mother and Casey Kasem understood and were privy to. 

It would take years for me to gain my voice. Find the courage to use it. It’s joyfully ironic, when I stopped thinking about belonging and concentrated more on becoming, only then did I gain both. I did belong. To myself and to this world. The heart that I wear on my sleeve is decisively more connective than any comb I wore in my back pocket.

We’re given the tools we need right from the start. It takes a lot of growing, a lot of courage to use them. But it is what connects us. This sharing. It’s so delightful when I offer up an experience, and then you share yours.  More delightful even than running together wildly down the halls of Jefferson Senior High! Today I see you! From the front! 

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My singing pinky.

The physical therapist for my hand wants to be a singer. I like knowing that she plays guitar. That her fingers create music. Maybe the song she’s humming in her head is traveling down into her heart, through her arms, then fingers, and into my hand. (I may have heard my pinky sing.) 

I suppose as a dreamer, I’ve always trusted those with a dream. 

My mother wanted to be a dress designer. And it was that dream that carried us from Herberger’s, to malls, to boutiques, to dressing rooms around the country. It was pure joy that reflected off of three-way mirrors and bounced from her heart to mine. Lives well designed.

Sitting at the table, drinking egg-coffee and eating home-made pastry, I asked my grandma what she would like to be. “A UPS driver,” she said quickly. “Then I could drive from house to house and sit with people and have coffee and visit.” “I think we’re doing that right now,” I said. We smiled in the moment of that dream come true. 

When we think of people not just as who they are, but who they are trying to become, I think maybe we can be a little more forgiving, a little more empathetic, perhaps more understanding, and certainly more joyful — what could be more fun that travelling along on a dream?!! But we have to be willing to dare, and willing to share. I encourage you to do both. My singing pinky is proof that everything is worth the dream. 

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Story books.

I don’t know when it changed — the moment we dropped the word story and just started calling them books. A part of me wants to bring it back. 

The story books were in the basement of the Alexandria Public Library. Maybe it was because we didn’t know how to use the card catalog yet, but so many were on display, not by spine, but full cover. I can still see the bright blue cover of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was still above my reading grade, and sat perched on the very top shelf. I thought if I finished all the books on the lower shelves, read each and every story, worked my way upwards, that I too could fly. 

My mom dropped me off every Saturday morning. I climbed up the outer steps, then climbed down the inside ones. I read for hours. Just before my mom picked me up, I checked out as many books as my orange book bag would hold, and the librarian would allow. She never complained about having to come in and get me. Most of my friends from school sat outside waiting for their rides. Running around in the grass, soon and easily fed up with the quiet words of the basement. But not me. I wanted every moment. And my mother, being an avid reader, understood. She parked the car behind the Ben Franklin store and walked over to get me. 

I wasn’t thinking about it when I wrote the book Bird Song. Covered in the same blue, it is a collection of stories (a story book) told by the beautiful wings that carry them. But of course it lives within me. The days at the public library. Each word read. Each shelf climbed. I know they brought me to this place. They lifted me. Dared me. And faster than any childhood Saturday morning, I learned to fly. 

The stories we create are not weights, but branches. Out on the morning limb, I heart gather all the words – of mother and love and youth and chance and choice and story — I spread my wings, and I fly.

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Guts. Grace.

I was reminded of it yesterday while doing a podcast. Something I had written years ago. Words I carry with me — “Now is the time for guts and grace.” Of course the words “guts and grace” are key, but perhaps they are far less important without the word “now.” Now means ever and always. 

Some might say, “well, from time to time, sure, but I don’t need guts every day.” I’m not sure I agree. For me, I think if I’m doing it right, living the way that I want to – I DO need them daily. Because if I need them, that means I’m pushing myself to do more, to be more. It means I’m taking risks. Trying to grow. Letting people in. Feeling everything. And all of that takes real courage — real guts!  But I don’t want to be bulldozer brave – knocking over everything, everyone in sight. Hence, the grace. And what a delicate balance to stumble through. And I do stumble. I do fumble. So I carry the words with me. Now.

They asked me in the interview yesterday if my mother was an artist. “Well, she made me, didn’t she?” Her openness, her pure love and joy in allowing me to be me, was more of an artistic gift than if she had handed me the paints and brushes and guidebook of Cezanne himself. Her standing tall, shoulders back, bloused in white ruffles, lips rouged above a softened, forgiving jaw, even as her heart dragged behind her size 10.5 Herberger shoes, was the most beautiful, the most artistic example of guts and grace I had ever seen. These words were written long before they settled on paper. I carry them now. She is with me now.

It’s not to say she wasn’t worried about being brave. She often did. Who doesn’t? (I guess to answer that — those not really living.) I don’t know what today will bring, but I do know what I’ll carry with me — what has been passed from my grandmother to mother to me. From their now to mine. Ever. Guts and grace.

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The Italian

She always wanted to be Italian, Dominique’s French cousin. She dreamed about everything Italy since she was a little girl. She loved the language and the people. How did she know? Who tells the heart what to love? Where to fall? Somehow it knows. 

I hadn’t been living in France that long when we went on an Italian excursion.  We saw glorious things. Me for the first time. Drove Italian fast, round round-a-bouts. Monuments, relics, at ever exit. Stood along with the other tourists as they tried to push or hold up the leaning tower. Bello! 

I thought it would be a complete let-down to visit this cousin on our way home. She opened the door. Flowers in hand. Smile on face. A warmth that transcended any language. I barely spoke any French, and certainly no Italian, but somehow, I felt at home. I suppose the heart can recognize another that has found its way.

I have seen extraordinary things. We have returned to other parts of Italy. I have seen the Colosseum. The Pantheon. The Vatican. Civilizations. Empires. Each standing stone, evidence. 

Maybe it all comes down to those who dare to dream. Maybe that’s why I think of her so often. Some might ask what difference does it make? What difference did she make? How can any one heart matter? But I say it is something! Something extraordinary. I can still feel the love in that room. That Italian room. That French heart. The dreams of that little girl floating around the room, filling it with the evidence of risk, of hope, of pure love. 

You can travel the world looking for guarantees. You won’t find them. But you will find examples. Monumental examples of the human experience. Sitting a country away. In my American/French heart, the evidence remains, and oh, how I believe!

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With all those who dare.

I must have thrown myself down the grassy slope of our house on Van Dyke Road a million times. Maybe it was aided by winter’s covering of snow, but our summer grass was always lush. A carpet of green.Safe for toes and hands. Welcoming of backbends let go and fallen cartwheels. I could tuck and roll, and only feel the tickling of blades.

I was living free from context. All was as presented, until it wasn’t. I remember the day perfectly. It was just as the day before.  The sky blue. The sun yellow. The green sprouting between summer-free toes. And I was pushed down that hill. It’s funny how something can happen so fast — your world changing in an instant — and yet, it all seems in slow motion. That same glorious grass felt sharp and so unfriendly. I remember thinking with each unstoppable roll, “you used to love me.” 

It took me years to get it back. I carried that unwanted knowledge for decades. I suppose I still do. I suppose we all do. But it’s ok, because I figured out a way, on the most welcoming still of summer days, to let it go, lay it beside me. Rest it in the supportive grass. The grass who was never to blame. And trust the freedom of greening giggles. Trust myself. Trust the day. Trust those standing beside me with wiggling toes, those, too, laying their knowledge down in order to trust. 

The grass grows thick with all those who dare. Welcome to the garden.

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Into the blue.

We’re seeing the blue of the lakes now, not the frozen white of our last visit. Both will take your breath away, but for completely different reasons.

I’m not sure that we ever heeded the warnings, or even saw them, but they were there – “No life guard on duty. Swim at your own risk.” But the lakes were always open. Maybe that’s what I loved most about them. The beaches were public. No discrimination. (Even though our diversity at the time ranged mostly from pale white to deep red.) There was no concern for money or status. The blue waves didn’t know if you belonged to the golf club. What church you went to, if at all. No question of status. The water was open. So warning or no warning, I, we, would go in. The only risk seemed not to participate. Every day was a gift. Perhaps because we new the impermanence. Those waves would soon be still. Frozen. So we raced in. Under the sun.

I didn’t know at the time how telling it was. Everything would always be “at your own risk.” There would be nothing to protect you as you went into the deep end, of love, of life. But I remember. First toes. Straight out of winter boots, feeling the cool sand. Then wet. Colder still. But my heart is saying, you’ll adapt, go further. White shins, almost lavender, walking forward. Thighs shivering. You could wait. No, I can’t wait. Up to the bottom of my suit now. No turning back. Belly button retreating out of fear, like a turtle. Arms raised to prolong it. Brain saying retreat. Heart saying Go! Feet – always following the heart. Hands coming down. Splashing. You’ll be fine. It will be great. Heart beating – go -go, go-go. Diving under. Everything slows. Free now. Am I a fish? A bird? Everything is wild and easy and light. I belong. I am free. Nothing wasted.

The sun is coming in from the window. Blue shimmers all around. There will be chance. Choice. Risk. Love. I smile. Toes wiggling, I listen to my heart as it speaks daily, “Go further. Deeper. Into the blue.”

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Crossing over.

It’s no surprise that I write about my grandparents, my mother, my childhood experiences. The stories, not only on the page, but on the canvas, straight from my heart. It is the most vulnerable, but the most rewarding thing that I do.

I suppose I have been practicing since I was a child. Showing my work, my heart. Building my courage, my strength. More confident in myself, my story. So it came as a bit of a shock when I moved to France and realized I would not only have to start over, but build a bridge, and cross over. A bridge on paper, on canvas, on heart.

I’m not going to say it’s not terrifying, this vulnerability, but when you get something back, oh my, there is nothing like it! Each day when I write these blogs something magical happens. I tell you a bit of my grandmother, and you respond with your memory of yours. Bike for bike, we exchange our stories. Our stumbles on gravel roads and our victories in schools. This is glorious. This is living — this sharing — these connections.

The French, as a whole, are pretty protective of their feelings. They are not fast and loose with praise or compliments. I’m certain that I can be terrifying to them at times, running with arms waving, hugs approaching, feelings everywhere, heart dripping from my sleeve… but it’s the only way I know how to build this bridge, make a connection.

Yesterday, on Instagram, I received a letter from a French woman. She wrote, in French, that her daughter had sent her one of my pieces of art, because it reminded her of her grandmother. She told me that her mother, who has passed on, loved art, but never dared show anyone. She thanked me for the reminder of her mother. How it connected her to her daughter. And wished me well with my art — hoping that I would sell lots of work from my gallery!

This is amazing for two reasons. First, that I read and understood her message, in this new language. This has been a long time coming. And I don’t want to gloss over the victory! Second, that she, this French woman, risked all of her Frenchness and exposed her heart. She dared, as her mother hadn’t… and we connected! For me, (and I hope for her too) this is heart waving fantastic!

I know it’s not easy, this offering of your heart, but oh — OH! — how important it is! If you can, today, offer someone a compliment. Tell a bit of your story. Be vulnerable. Feel everything! Connect. Risk. Build a bridge. DARE to cross over.

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