Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: decide


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Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!

On my way out of the art store yesterday, I saw it, the “Color of the Year.” And the first thing I wondered is, (I’ve always wondered) who decides?

We were asked on the playground. In the classroom. By adults. Our friends. It was one of the most frequent and popular questions — “What’s your favorite color?” I suppose people thought it was such an easy question. No thought or controversy. Just simple. And I listened to them pull the answers out of the their holster so quickly, with such fluidity, such ease – Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!

Why couldn’t I do that? Why did I have to give it so much thought. Why, at even five or six did I struggle? Who could pick I thought? All the colors – they had so much importance! Yellow for when I needed cheering. Blue for calm. Green was a longing for bare toes in the grass. Tans for the gravel that led me home. No one wanted to hear that. The thoughts raced through my brain — just shoot, I thought, pull the trigger – just say blue! But I couldn’t. I loved them all too much. So I began explaining to the blank faces, the eye rolls, the far off stares, the backs walking away.

And maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage, but for Grandpa Rueben. He listened. He looked directly at me. And if he were to walk away, his hand always extended back. He knew. He told me, often. You decide. Whatever the situation, he repeated it — “You decide.”

The world has always tried to direct, but now more than ever, we are bombarded by “influence.” (My apologies to Dominique, he hates the word.) And I’m still wondering, why on earth do we need it? Why do we need someone to tell us our favorite color. Moreover, why do we even need a favorite? We get to decide. Daily. We get to grow and change and love what we love, who we love, when we love. Neither my heart, nor my palette can be boxed in.

You can choose Mocha Mousse for your favorite color this year, if that’s what it actually is — if you love it, really love it — but remember, you get to decide! And you get to change your mind. You get to be you! Bang!

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Bonne fête!

I had no idea that people in France celebrated their Saint’s day, as commonly as their birthday. To be honest, I didn’t even know I had one. Of course I knew of St. Patrick’s Day — I have walked alongside the green river in Chicago. I even have the medal for St. Catherine – the patron saint of artists, hanging from my desk lamp. But Saint Jodi? 

So when Dominique asks me, what would you like for your “fête”, I still am surprised, but I must say, quite willing to go along with the celebration. Is he the only one who knows? Probably. Did he just insert my name into the calendar of saints? Quite possibly. Does it matter? Not at all. 

I was pretty young when my friend David told me that it’s all a decision — to love someone, to let them love you. And my youthful heart worried about the magic. The grace. The beauty. But I have come to learn, and agree, that deciding does not take away from any of it. It is in addition to. You have to decide to see it. Allow yourself to feel it. Daily. Sometimes minute to minute. And the magic, in those seconds, are filled with magic. Filled with grace. And so much beauty!!!

So I will celebrate my fête! Because I can hear it call to me. In the lavender honeyed toast. The deep rich coffee. The embrace of my husband. The sun rising over the trees. “Bonne fête!” And my decision is made.  

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Priceless.

Some of my first lessons in choice were given at Olson’s Supermarket in Alexandria, Minnesota. Perhaps she knew the budgetary constraints that lay ahead that would force her hand in making the tough decisions, so my mom took her time when picking out the best cart — finding one that didn’t fight her every step of the way. “There’s no need to struggle,” she said. I nodded in agreement, both in cart choice and team solidarity. 

I held my breath as we passed the books and papers. I had learned from experience that begging didn’t work. I simply smiled as we moved into the first aisle of the store. Nothing she chose was at eye level — that’s where all the name brands were. Cereal boxes, while sporting the same bright colors, had names that were just a little off, and rested high upon the shelf. “That’s what these long arms are for,” she said as she reached the top box. I marveled at her wing span and stretched my own arms as we made our way through the aisles. 

Nearing the checkout lines, she gave me the nod. I didn’t have to ask what it meant. I ran to the book aisle. Beside the Golden books were the sketch pads. Notebooks. Big Chief was the brand du jour – it stood out, right in the middle, in the brightest of reds. I climbed on the tiny footstool nestled in the corner and reached for the generic padded paper, just above. She smiled at me as I placed it in the cart. “I have long arms too,” I beamed. 

I reach for my daily sketchbook. The choice to make it a good day, always in reach. I have everything.

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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.


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Beach or Store.



Like a bird surrounded by shiny objects, I could often get myself overwhelmed with choice. So many things to do. So many possibilities. Too much, and I would render myself immobile. I’m not sure why it took me so many years. My grandfather had given me the answer early on. Standing, almost dangling from the perch outside my grandmother’s second floor sewing room, struggling with the choice, he simply called up, “Jump, or go inside.” He saw things so clearly. I jumped. 

Even now, there’s a little part of me that will argue the point, “yes, but, what if…” and I catch myself dangling. So I break it all down. Give myself the option, this or that, sometimes even the smallest of choices, and then I jump. Oh, and I stumble. I fall. I walk away. Nothing is perfect, but I have found, always found, even the hardest of choice has always been better than dangling. 

And being the distracted bird that I am, the universe has to remind me, often and again. Walking in Cottagewood the other day, I saw the signs nailed to the tree, again and for the first time. One arrow pointing to “Beach.” One arrow pointing to “Store.” My grandfather would have liked this directional tree, just as if he planted it — and I suppose in many ways, he had.

Today’s path may not be clear, but my heart is, so I greet the sun, and jump…

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Yes!

When I was a young girl, someone gave me a tiny spoon. I think it represented a state they had visited. Maybe a park. And with that one spoon it was decided, not by me, that I collected them. After a few birthdays, without my knowledge or permission, I indeed had many tiny spoons. Then came a rack. Sone had a wide enough handle to hang on the rack, but most required that I snip apart a paper clip and superglue it to the back. Now I was putting effort into a collection I neither started nor wanted.

One of the first greeting cards I ever made was an image of a woman that read, “I meant no, but it came out yes.” It always got a good laugh. But certainly there was truth behind it. It has taken years, decades…I think I’m better at it, but it takes an effort. It shouldn’t take convincing that you are worth it. Worth your time. Worth your decisions. Worthy of saying yes to what YOU want. I have found that it’s a practice. (Maybe all of living is.) When you can say no to the little things, like if you want dessert or not, if you actually have the time to babysit, if you like the color red…If you can say no to all those little tiny spoons, then you can graduate to the big ones and maybe say yes! If you can say yes to the big decisions…the big choices… then you can actually live a life,maybe not exactly how pictured (who gets that?), but a life close to all the yesses of your heart.

Walking through an antique store yesterday, I saw them — a cup full of tiny spoons. No thanks, I said, and bought the frame that will hold the painting I will choose, I will make, and I will love. My heart smiled — it came out yes!

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If it’s the beaches…

Waking up to the clank of cousins eating cereal from the variety packs grandma bought, I ran down the stairs to the kitchen. There was no need to change from pajamas. Summer shorts and t-shirts were the pajamas we wore straight into the day, and back into the night. Even though we believed our summers would never end, this did save valuable time.

Maybe it was because of the example my grandpa set — he went out to work no matter the weather — or maybe it was our springing youth, but we never asked what it was like outside. Never questioned if we should go. It was expected, from them and us. We wanted to. If it was sunny, we ran until the sweat drained from our t-shirts. In the rain we hopped from barn to coop.

Wearing my smallest pair of bumper tennis shoes from Iverson’s in town, I asked my grandma during a rootbeer break if she was having a good day. “Of course,” she said, “I already decided.” I raised my eyes and shook my head in agreement. So it was like that, I thought. Just decide. I wiped my rootbeer mustache with my shoulder, and went back out into my decision — it was a good day.

The landscape keeps changing as we drive the country. This morning we wake to the white sand beaches. If it’s the beaches, I think, it’s going to be a good day, I already decided.

Once again, heaven nods.

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