Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: evidence


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Filling pockets.

I have come to the conclusion that most of the world must be completely terrified.

Yesterday, while walking on the gravel path, I came to a violent stop, seeing what I can only imagine was some sort of hybrid weasel. My heart raced, but my legs could only tremble. He gave me a solid look, then walked back into the brush. I had to get by this area to continue my walk, so I did the only logical thing — the only form of defense I learned from the age of five — to walk briskly past the imminent danger while speaking very loudly. (Because surely nothing would harm you, not robber, intruder, ghost, nor weasel, if they assumed you to be in the midst of a conversation.) 

Obviously I made it home, or I would not be typing this today. After hearing my short tale of woe, Dominique replied, “Well, he was much more frightened of you than you were of him.” Again, I didn’t believe this at 5 years of age, nor now. He sauntered easily down the hill, while I ran on tippy toes yelling out my best franglish, never hearing any random weasel chatter. Clearly, I was more afraid.

And that’s exactly what the hybrid weasel mother told my pathmate.

As with most fear, I suppose, I’m laughing about it today. A lesson I keep learning. Filling my pockets with evidence of things survived. Maybe one day these pockets will be filled, and I can walk through this world with complete confidence. Until then, I will keep pulling out what’s needed, the proof of “look, you made it through this day.” The evidence of “you survived that, certainly you can survive this.”

I will stroll today’s path. Perhaps more curious than confident, but I’ll take it. I don’t want to miss out. I’ve got things to do. Things to see. And pockets to fill!

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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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The memory of snow

The memory of snow.If you are from Minnesota, you will have a memory of snow. Many. I remember bundling. These were not days of Polar fleece. No slim down jackets and pants. No these were days ofbundling. You put on all that you had to keep you warm, and then started to layer with your sibling’s larger clothes, until you almost couldn’t move. You bundled until the sweat started forming on the back of your neck, and the thoughts began to disappear of what you were going to do when you actually got out there.

A fresh snow could mean any sort of building. A fort. A man. Balls. On this day, I began rolling. The bundling made it hard to bend, so I made it bigger and bigger. Big enough that I stood upright to roll. And I rolled. And I rolled. My snowball was huge. It was the largest ever seen on Van Dyke Road. I kept rolling. The Norton girls would be so jealous.I rolled. My brother might notice me. Maybe even talk to me. I rolled. My mittens were wet. My hair was sweaty and freezing under my stocking cap. I rolled. It stood nearly as tall as my ten years. I rolled. Pushed. Grunted. The front yard was almost cleared. Brown grass caught a rare glimpse of the sun. And I rolled. Until I couldn’t. Until there was no snow left to pick up. Until I could push no more.

And there it was. The largest snowball I had ever seen. It was beautiful. White, bright snowball. I loved it. The kids talked about it on the school bus. Neighbors gave the thumbs up as they passed by. It was as large as the rock at the end of my grandparents’ driveway. It marked our house. Our winter. Our youth. My mom took my picture with it that day. And again in March. It was still there. And in June. Still there. Getting smaller, but still reached the top of my hand. The marigolds were coming up in the row that lined the driveway. And it was still there. I posed in front of the orange and gold flowers, in my orange and gold pants set, with one hand on the remaining snowball.

I had built something that lasted. Beyond the norm. Beyond its season. People throughout history have been doing it. In clay, and marble. Building their stories. Without our stories, we are nothing. So we carve, and forge and build and write and paint to tell our stories. To place them at the edge of a town’s road and say, we were here, we are here. Here is the viking-sized evidence of our lives.