Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: dream


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We’re Open!

The announcer said, “Today on the podcast, Beth Stelling…” Suddenly my French feet were on a Chicago sidewalk, entering the coffee shop on the corner. I called her Bethy then. She was so young. Fresh faced and hopeful, even after spending half the night at a comedy club. She made my vanilla latte extra-hot like I liked it, like the Chicago winter demanded. We were all going to be something. Comedians. Writers. Artists. Actors. We sat in front of laptops and sketchbooks and scripts.  I scratched out her portrait in charcoal. The men, uniformed in blue, on their fifteen minute break from the construction site across the street were plotting over their coffees. Just as it should have been, all dreams were being caffeinated. 

It has been years since I held one of her flyers in my hand. Since I walked into the coffee shop the morning after it had been vandalized, just a hole where the door used to be, with a sign on the broken window that read, “Well, we’re open…” We always found a way to laugh. And here she was, on one of the best podcasts in the nation. I was so happy! Happy for her! Happy that she is doing so well! Bravo, Bethy! Beth! 

I only mention it because it feels good to be happy for someone. To celebrate the joy of others. What if we all did that today? Whether we are talking about our candidates, our religion, our jobs, our families, towns, work…what if we found the joy, the pure joy in others, and in ourselves?!!! As the song says, “you may say I’m a dreamer…” and I am. Proudly. Still caffeinated with hope, with the possibility, that we all could be that something worth believing in! I tape the sign on my heart and mind, “Well, we’re open!”

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The gift of the balcony.

I was about her age when I read it for the first time, The Great Gatsby. The green light that I sought was never about the opulence of wealth and fame, but I had one. Pick any one of the 10,000 lakes in Minnesota where I grew up, and I could see it dock dancing. It was my love of words. Paint. Creativity. Expression of any kind, reflecting Gatsby Green in my eyes and heart. I follow it still.

At first glance, looking up at her from the Mediterranean, I’m sure they think she has everything. That she is shining green. And yes, she lives in a beautiful home. The right cars and clothing. Even her hair looks expensive. But I have the privilege of seeing her up close, in home and heart. Her newly teened soul is looking. She paints in those perfect dresses. She bakes and cradles the cat. She takes the summer course of theatre and dares to dream of the stage – that one day it will be her script, loud and clear and glowing green.

When I invite her out on the balcony, (the only gift I have to give really), I don’t need to tell her to assume the pose. She is living it. Looking outward. Onward. Not reveling in what she has, what the others see, but looking for her own light. And what a thing to behold! — all these words from the page coming to life, right there in front of me, shining so possible — Margaux, on the balcony in Marseille.

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Out gratitude’s door.

“If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the brook.” If she said it once, she said it a million times, enough to fill a brook, I suppose. We’d pull at her apron. Wishing we had this certain candy, when the lazy susan of the corner cupboard was full of sugary treats. Wishing we had the newest game, when an endless adventure waited for us in a yard filled with apple trees and cow gazes. We sucked in our cheeks, breathing like fish, filled our pockets with Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies and swam out into the summer sun.

Not truly knowing what it meant, I think we wished around her, simply to play our own fish game. As she sent us off with this string of words, we would swim for hours in a wheat field. On a gravel road. And this was one of the greatest gifts we received — the gentle shove out gratitude’s door into all that we had!

It still makes me laugh sometimes. I say under my own breath, puffing my frustrated lips, keeping my teeth clenched, “Well, I wish I had… then, I’d be… and the words puff from my angry mouth, and it sounds something like a fish. I shake my head, and realize how silly, stupid really. Then I swim through my list of everything I have, buoyant once again.

It’s so easy to get caught up in what we don’t have, and the crazy thing is, that only takes us away from the wonders that we do. I can still hear her voice as I head out this morning’s door. I am ever thankful.

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Stone by stone.

Each year before the plant, my grandfather had to walk the fields and pick the rocks. A painstaking, back breaking task. I only walked along once. Dirty and exhausted, the streaks down my face could have been tears or sweat, most likely both. I marveled not only at the work, but how he did it, without complaint. “It has to be done,” was his only explanation.  I wiped my face and knew something would grow from all of this, and it would be me. 

Yesterday we visited du Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval. In 1879, this 43 year old mailman, stumbled on a stone and it changed his life forever. It awakened the dream inside him, and he would devote the next 33 years of his life to building his palace, alone, stone by stone.

The details are breathtaking. Amazing. Poetry carved within. Inspired by the postcards and magazines he carried, he built this world, each day after his route. 10,000 Days, 93,000 Hours, 33 years of trials, he pushed his wheelbarrow full of stones and built a dream we still walk through today. 

I’ve spent several years writing this blog. I used to keep track of the days. I suppose my face has even changed with the tear tracks and ones of laughter. Perhaps these words are my stones. But nothing feels heavy when lifted with joy. The sun rises and my heart and I wheelbarrow in the day. I don’t know what your dream is, but I do know this, to really live, it has to be done.


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A dip in the magic.

My mother wasn’t one to swim, but she made sure that I learned. And right along with it she taught me how to take a DIP — how to access the Dream In my Pocket. “You never know when you’re going to need it,” she explained. So before anything ended, we made sure our pockets were filled. Before making a return trip home, a new trip would be planned. After an event, we’d plan our outfits for the next one. And one of the most important, in the last pages of a current book we would add to our “To Be Read” pile. 

I finished “Killers of the flower moon” yesterday. Within hours, I went to my TBR. I had purchased these two books about a week ago. I chose Paul Auster’s “The New York Trilogy,” because he had recently passed. I had only planned on getting this one, but on my way to the counter I saw the book, “The Details,” by Kira Josefsson. I had just listened to a podcast about it on my morning walk, so I grabbed that book too. They both waited patiently by my bed.

I was tired last evening. I had taken my actual first dip in our pool. This summer’s dream was officially out of pocket!  The water that may have been splashed onto the lawn was replaced with smiles.

Getting ready for bed, I randomly grabbed the top book, “The Details.” I wasn’t even six pages in, when the magic outshined the lamp clipped onto the pages. The character in the book began talking about her love for reading, specifically for her love of the author Paul Auster. My heart giggled. She went on, her favorite book was “The New York Trilogy.” You just can’t make this stuff up! 

I’ve always trusted the readers, and the dreamers. My mother gave me that. Perhaps these pockets were filled from heaven. I don’t know, but I slept in the knowledge that I was still surrounded by magic. And I will take a luxurious dip in all of it, every chance I get!!!

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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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Without fuss or fury.

If the truth has to come at you like a ton of bricks, maybe it really isn’t the truth at all.

Grandpa Rueben didn’t say a lot, but when he did, we believed him. He was one of the hardest working people I ever knew, (other than Grandma Elsie), yet I never saw him labor with the facts. There was a quiet certainty that rose from his overalls. His right elbow raised from the table. His open hand began with the slightest of beats. Like a conductor, his rhythm held our eyes. Chosen carefully, the words, without fuss or fury, slipped into our hearts and minds and filled them.

I suppose that’s why today, if it comes at me too hard, I can’t let it in. It’s only noise. There are some who think if you say it loud enough, repeat it again and again, then it must be true. I still am of the belief that the real work has to remain in the fields. The truth, when balanced on the uneven legs of the kitchen table at day’s end, should come lightly, easily, ever without harm.

It only just occurred to me — they often say before you speak, take a beat. I smile. I see Grandpa’s hand gently keeping time, and my heart knows what’s real.

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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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And so it begins.


Waiting to take the flight back to France after my last visit to my mom, sitting at the airport, lonesome, she texted me that she wanted a jacket just like my new one from Sundance. Typing in the size, credit info, her address, I began to smile. I had a beginning.

I love the Sundance store. I’ve been three times already this trip. When I see the perfect blouse, or scarf, or dress, I take a heart picture and send it up to heaven, and life keeps beginning.

When we used to go on trips, my mom and I, before returning home, we had to put a “dream in our pockets” — something new to focus on. Never the ending of this trip, but beginning a new one. I mention it only because she’s still filling my dream pockets. Yesterday, when I got the news from my publisher regarding a new painting commission, it was glorious, but not all that surprising. Returning home, I will have a new project, something to focus on that I love, a beginning. 

The sun is coming through the morning window. I have all that I need, and just enough to wish for.

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Out of the fog.

We never had a big rainy season in autumn. We often moved from summer to a short, but spectacular wave of reds, oranges and yellows in the trees. Sometimes it seemed that the anxious snow was daring the leaves to fall so it could follow suit. So a foggy, rainy day seemed rather special to me. 

I stood by the mailboxes across from the end of our driveway, just at the top of the hill. Blanketed in white. Not warm. Not cold. Just hovering. First I saw the lights. Then the golden yellow of the school bus as it released its air brakes. Although the bus driver/law enforcement tech school student didn’t seem surprised that I stepped out of the low hanging cloud, I still felt dreamy. I plopped down immediately in the front seat by the door so I could get the best view. I knew it would be the most foggy at the bottom of the hill. At Norton’s. I wanted to be the first to see which one of the five girls would appear like magic out of the white. I guessed by height, as I could only make out a silhouette.  Was it Shari? Or Lynn? I could see the movement of long hair. I went with Shari. The brakes gasped. The door opened. And she stepped out of the dream. Wet hair flinging. It was Shari. I refrained from clapping, but I smiled out loud. 

When I stepped outside to open the morning shutters, I could feel the air around me. It took me a minute. My first thought was I hope it doesn’t rain. I made my way around the house. By the time I reached the front door I could feel it. “It was dreamy, wasn’t it?” my heart asked my brain. “Yes,” I said, stepping out of the fog, and into my smile.

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