Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: decision


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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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Chasing the light.

It’s no surprise when my color palette sneaks from canvas to canvas. It happens quite often. When painting in blues, I gravitate from sea to sky for several images. Currently I’m in the greens. All colors are available all the time — one could be grabbed as easily as the next. But I think it’s because of what I see. After painting Margaux on the balcony of Marseille, the greens of bush and tree were everywhere. The light that changed this one green from yellow to nearly black, was called to me. Greeting me from the breakfast window, on to the morning path…everywhere a welcoming. You could say, “Well, sure, it’s France, it’s beautiful…” and yes, that’s true. But it’s not the first time I have been carried in this palette, lifted by this light.

My basement bedroom in Alexandria, Minnesota — yellow and green. It was the first time I got to choose my palette. From carpet to bedspread, that one windowed room gleamed bright with possibilities. I’m not sure it was even a year. The house was sold. The neighborhood got small in the rearview window of the small moving van. We left without bed or spread, but the color remained. It still does.

I suppose it’s always been about what you choose to see. Loss or opportunity. Pain or growth. Because within every palette of life’s journey there is the spectrum of color. The same green is lit bright, or shaded black. Knowing you can’t see one without the other. 

I can’t tell you what everyone sees. But I know it’s different. This is painfully clear from the daily news. From balcony to gravel, we all have a different view, a different perspective, a varying palette. But maybe the “them” and “us” of it all could be replaced with just different shades of green. And we could see each other, really see each other, as we navigate from color to color, sharing this palette, chasing the light. 

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Smile by heart.

Smile by heart.

It was the first thing we always checked — the lighting in the bathroom. Whether hotel or apartment, this was the most important thing, my mother taught me. After all, she explained, a lady had to get her face on in the proper light. And she always did. I watched her do it. Even on her darkest days, she began each morning in the bathroom light. Transferring it to her face. Going to work with a heavy heart, and a well-lit smile. In my younger years, I imagined the corners of her mouth attached like pulleys, lifting her heart into that same light. Just typing it now, mine did the same. 

When traveling to different art shows across the United States, I would call her when arriving, and the first thing she would ask was “How is the lighting?” I only just realized, maybe it had always been code for “how is your heart?” 

Even in the last apartment she lived in, we checked it first. She used her walker to get into the light. It was perfect, she said. She had already decided. Maybe this is what I loved about her the most — this decision to find the light. To become it. Smile by heart. 

She could get her face on in here, she said. She filled the adjacent cupboard with the finest make-up. Moisturizers. Creams. She put them on each morning. Her lip-lined corners once again pulling up her heart. 

Missing her now, I’m asked to do the same. And I do. Morning by morning. Smile by smile. My heart gets lifted. Into the light.

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