Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: enjoy


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Yessing.

It seemed my feet were telling my heart that we came out here for a reason. Which my heart passed along to my brain that we should just enjoy this day walking in Aix. And my brain, always the most pragmatic of the three, simplified it down to YES. So it was decided that on this Wednesday, I was going to simply say yes to everything. 

We neared the Press stand. Do you want a magazine, he asked me. Yes, I said, without hesitation, and found my favorite, Flow. I paid and cupped the affirmative in my left hand and kept walking. We moved over to the sunny side of the street, because what feels more agreeable than light…and we neared the chocolatier. Do you want a chocolate, he asked. Yes, I said and opened the door. I asked for the first one, and then the owner began asking me. Do you want the coconut? Yes. Salted caramel? Yes. Pistachio? Yes. Two of each? Yes. Would you like to try a sample? Yes! Was it the best marzipan covered chocolate I ever had? YES! I cupped the sachet of delights beside my magazine.

We walked through the bookstore and took a right. There it was, an Aesop store. I didn’t realize we had one in Aix. I paused in front of the window. There was a hand cream spout mounted to the exterior. I put it on my right hand. The scent celebrated inside my nose, and joined in on my feet-heart-brain parade, and inside we went. She went through the available samples to which I answered yes, yes, and yes. Smell this. Yes. Try this. Yes. Shall I perfume your scarf. Yes! And will you purchase this? Yes? Shall I scent your bag? YES.

With my heart, hands and brain so full, it’s surprising how lightly I walked to the car. Did I walk, or was I flying? 

I can’t say that I can indulge in this way every day, but I can still relish in the positive. Allow myself the joy of yessing — whatever that may be. A nap. A treat. A longer walk. More painting time. Louder music. Softer forgiveness. Loftier dreams. Bigger hopes. More love – so much more love. If I just say yes. 

The morning sun is coming through the window. The parade is about to begin. 

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Comfort and joy.

I never imagined the seeds that were planted would produce the same yield. I don’t think they did either. There were so many of us. In so many places. Certainly all those grandchildren and great grandchildren would have differences. But from that beautiful farm, Rueben and Elsie, with the faith of spring, they sprinkled us with love and knowledge — so much, that we could do nothing but grow. 

As I was drinking my coffee amid the glorious shelves of the bookstores, surrounded by magazines and truth and fiction, I took a sip and smiled, because it occurred to me, this was my “root-beer float.” Amid all the chaos of those nine children, those 27 grandchildren, Grandma Elsie found the time for “self care.” She would probably cringe at the words, but it was her treat — her root-beer float. An oasis in all of the uncertainty of land and weather that is a farm. That is a family. Of course she offered one to me, to anyone, but the seed, I see now, was not the root-beer, but the time. The time for that bit of joy that goes straight to your heart, brings you the comfort and joy that is supposed to last through the year, throughout your life. 

And so I take it, the time, to enjoy my coffee, my books, my magazines. And you can call it whatever you want, but I know one thing for sure, it is not time wasted. With each sip taken, each word read, I know, “something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.” 

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Covered in the welcoming.

Walking into the entry of my grandparents’ home, I could feel my shoulders relax. Dropping down with the ease of the coats hooked on the wall. Nothing left to brace. No cold. No pretense. My first glimpse into the rumor of home. 

Of course I didn’t have any of those words yet, as I danced beneath the dangling sleeves. Cuffs that smelled like tobacco and earth, brushed across my face. My mother had already made it into the kitchen. But I lingered. Stretching my unmittened hands up and into the damp sleeves. With boots still on, I could slide my feet into my grandpa’s shoes. Almost completely covered in the welcoming. Nearly finished with her first cup of egg coffee, my mother waved me in. 

I suppose I’ve always been one to linger. Wanting the moment to last. It’s the 22nd and I want it all to slow down. I’m not ready to jump to the Christmas Day. I want to play the music. Loudly. Softly. I want to finger the wrapping. Nibble at the cookies. Drape myself in the entry of all the magic to come. I can see my mother’s feet in grandma’s kitchen. There’s no need to hurry. I know I am home.

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A little fun.

I have yet to be surprised by the amount of times I use it, as the Algebra teacher once promised. To be honest, I’m not sure I was even “using” it then. Don’t get me wrong, I loved school. And I think one of the greatest things it taught us was simply the art of learning. What I AM surprised by are some of the unconventional places where I was taught things that, in fact, I am still using today — like the ballpark behind the Dairy Queen in Alexandria, Minnesota.

Our summer girls’ softball league was loosely supervised by a semi-reluctant 19 year old who was either complying with his mother’s wish to get out the house and get a job, or perhaps fulfilling some mandatory community service. Either way, he didn’t seem thrilled to be spending his summer with over zealous pre-teens who could recite the DQ menu, yet didn’t understand the simple infield fly rule. Other than calling balls and strikes, he rarely inserted himself into the game. Sunglassed and uninterested, he neither coached nor encouraged. Except for one day. Of course we all went to the plate wanting a hit. We swung at anything really. After the two previous girls struck out, I was up to the plate. The pitcher continued her wild throws over my head. Nearing the dugout. I looked confused. It was then he looked at me, and said the only words I can remember from that summer, “You know, a walk is as good as a hit.” I let the next two balls sail past and took my base.

There are some days when I clean with vigor, using the proper vacuum attachments to get in and under. But there are many days, like yesterday, when covering the broad open spaces with a quick push around, I think, that’s pretty good…and “I take my base” — (which is often the pool.)

Not every victory is a home-run. And surprise! — not every lesson has to be so difficult. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing when to let go, when to give yourself a break and maybe even go have a little bit of fun! Enjoy!

What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
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We’re all going to get there.

Long before ever hearing of the word “blog,” I put words to paper to keep a record of our lives. We called it writing.

For my highschool graduation, my mother gave me a small journal and a cross country train ticket to Washington State. In a class of 400 or so, I graduated 13th. To commemorate, my sister-in-law gave me 13 cans of Hi-C grape drink (my favorite at the time). My mother and I packed our non-rolling suitcases, along with the Hi-C and boarded the train.

As we rolled along the uneven tracks, often reaching 50 miles per hour, I began writing down the details of our adventure. We couldn’t afford the sleeper cars, so for more than 24 hours we watched the other passengers. I wrote down everything I saw. The man handcuffed to the federal agent (possibly just local law enforcement). The man kissing the “other” woman between cars, then returning to his seated wife and children. The older couple cutting their food so finely it could almost be described as pureed. The fielded landscape that passed so slowly outside the window allowing me to describe stalk by stalk.

I wrote it all down. We passed the journal back and forth. Laughing loudly with purple stained lips.

I still have the journal. Reading through it, one thing becomes quite clear — I stopped writing once we reached the destination. I suppose it has always been, and always will be, about the journey. These are the most precious moments.

I recently bought a booklet of handmade paper from a small French mill. Far from being filled, it has already given me hours of entertainment. It won’t be for sale. The profit comes in the daily escape. The magic as the images come to life. The stories behind their expressions. The lives revealed. The wheels of brush to paper click along at a reduced Amtrak pace, and I’m able to see everything. To feel everything, below the speed of this summer afternoon.

You can call it whatever you want. Journaling, writing, creating, blogging. However it is you fill your day. And you can do it for whatever reason you want — that is not for me to say. But if it’s purely for “likes,” for approval, the destination… you could be missing out on the most fantastic part of living.
This is the advice I give to myself — Relax. Breathe. Don’t worry. Look around. We’re all going to get there.

The sun is rising. Let the journey begin.

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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.

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A taste of the divine.


I begin to miss it immediately. That last bite of toast. A spoon licked clean of homemade jam. And the cup’s final drop of coffee — it’s strongest sip of the morning.  As Virginia Woolf would say — “a sip of the divine specific.” 

Maybe it’s the newness of it all. The beginning. The conversation so fresh and coherent, laced with headlines and caffeine.  Lingering in the sugared possibilities, I am not doing. Not ahead, nor behind, I just am. I know that soon I will be studying, typing, splashing, moving, creating, but at this moment, while the beans have magically moved from brew to waft,  I float with them, over tabled worries and responsibilities. Light as I will be.

I am, by nature, a day-filler. I’m a doer. A “let’s get things done” person. And I love it. To create is joy. Whether it is canvas or confiture (jam), I have a real need to make it. A pace that speeds me to the blur of day’s end. A pace that outruns (sometimes), that overcomes (sometimes), but always forces me to stop. And just before I fall to sleep, brushing away the should-haves and could-haves, weeding through the less-than-“devine,” I smile, I breathe, comforted by the calming thought — it’s almost time for breakfast.

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The audacity to just enjoy!

We went to Margaux’s dance recital. The young girls clearly ranged from elegant to stumbling. It was easy to tell them apart, but not if you looked at the parents and grandparents in the audience. Everyone beamed and clapped – to them, us, there was no difference, only the beauty of the dance. 

During my college summer vacations, I worked for the Recreation Department. In the mornings at the high school gym, I helped teach gymnastics to very young girls. Some were there because they had potential, and others maybe just to get a grip on a slight weight problem. Either way, I spent the summer getting kicked in the head spotting wayward aerials. Just as with dance, we held an exhibition (and I use the term loosely) at the end of the summer. Some had improved. Others still barely fit into their pink leotards, but again, everyone beamed. They were a part of something bigger than themselves. 

Children have it right. This daring to be imperfect. This courage to attempt. This audacity to just enjoy!  I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want anyone to lose this. I suppose to make this happen we have to continue to see the world with our hearts. To see others, strangers, in the same light as we do these misstepping young dancers, these fumbling gymnasts. What if we saw each other in this way?  Wouldn’t that be something to applaud! Something to make us all beam!  

Maybe today, we can all try a little harder to find our way to this light. Enjoy!

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Good morning, Fern!

We got a new plant for our library. She is a fern. I named her Fern. (Everything doesn’t have to be hard to be delightful.) She sits beside the antique typewriter we got from Dominique’s mom. So in my head, Fern works in this office from the 1950’s. Every morning, when I open the shutters, let the sun in, I say in my most boisterous, yet cheerful, of voices — “Good morning, Fern! Take a letter.” I hope you’re laughing. It makes me laugh every day. I’m smiling as I type this.

It really takes so little. Today, (well, and every day) find something that tickles your heart from the inside. I’m old enough to know about the Reader’s Digest magazine. They had a section in there called “Laughter is the best medicine.” I was probably six when I started reading them. I didn’t always understand, but I knew I liked to laugh, so I hopscotched through the words and found myself laughing just the same. I guess I had already started making a choice to find the good. And it is a choice.

So fling those curtains, those shutters, those hearts wide open. Greet the day. And find the good — it’s out there! Good morning, Fern!!!

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Taste this life!

I have eaten a lot of jelly in my life. At hotels. Restaurants. Even my own house. But eating jelly that I have made, from fruit that I have picked, from a tree in our garden, and put on bread (that I have also made) – well, now this is new. New and exciting! I can honestly say that I think about it before I go to sleep, as if it were Christmas Eve!


Maybe it’s the taste. The freshness. The effort made. The sharing with someone you love. Or maybe it’s figuring out that this is probably “IT” – finding the joy in the small things. Celebrating the little things. Figuring out that there are 364 other “eves” to Christmas – that can all be just as exciting!!


I love that the cover of the jar matches the jelly that colors the toast that brightens the breakfast that fills my soul and begins my day! That’s a good morning! Perhaps even a holiday! The little things — they that make living such a big deal!!!!!!!

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