Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: face


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Second foot off the ground…

There was a magic to the North End of VanDyke Road — not because I knew, but because I wasn’t certain at all. 

Of course I was allowed to ride my banana seat bike down the gravel hill to Norton’s house. I did it in numbers higher than I could count. Racing with an excitement of pedals missed and handlebars rattling, I scattered pebbles behind my back tire from sun’s first light, until I got the porch call to come in for dinner. 

I inched my way past Norton’s, one turn of the wheel further each day. Even with all the stories of fright circled in childish whispers, I knew one day I would have to go into this unhoused, untamed — into the wild.  

It was about six months after my fifth birthday (the days when we gathered in halves as fast as we could, so eager to get to the next year). School had just started. Winter would follow. My bike would have to hang in the garage. I balanced the banana seat between my thighs. Held tight to the rubber coated handlebars. I had asked my mom early in the week if I could go down the second hill. If I could enter the North End. I wanted her to hesitate a little longer, but she said sure, and I knew I would have to go. I lifted one foot off the gravel to the top pedal. Wiped my sweaty hands one at a time on the last shorts I would wear that year. I gripped tightly. Held my breath. Released my second foot and began racing down the hill. I gave the pedal brake a couple of short taps to slow my decision, a decision that could not be reversed. 

I don’t remember how long I stayed. There is a part of me that still remains in the conquered fear of North End’s open gate. I was so happy. So relieved. Neither pushed nor prevented, I had entered the unknown and survived. 

This is the joyful knowledge I pocket and roll around in my nervous fingers as I face today’s unknown. I smile. Second foot off the ground…

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Inner Buffalo

I have a secret hope when painting cows, that perhaps they’ll see what I see, their inner buffalo. 

When a storm approaches, cows run away — which ultimately means they spend more time in the worst of it. Buffalo, on the other hand, face it directly. By running straight through it, they minimize the time and the pain suffered.

I remember him telling my tear-stained mother, “The only way out is through.” I’m not sure I understood exactly, but when my grandfather said something, I listened. I think they found their way in, these words. I still carry them, pocketed, tumbling through my fingers as I make my way through on the “least traveled path. In work, in love, and in living. Not to abandon the herd, but to offer another way. 

When I painted my neighbor’s portrait, she said it was the first time she saw herself as pretty. When I painted my mother’s portrait she said, “That woman doesn’t look like she needs to be afraid of anything, maybe I don’t either…” 

I think we all have it, the inner buffalo. I think if I see it in you, in myself, I have a responsibility to share it. And I do see it! Don’t you? We can do this. We can face it all together. Directly. Head on. Will it be easy? Not always. Will we run away? Never. 


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In the Sunday evening.

I had already seen it several times, The Wizard of Oz. I had it almost memorized. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say it changed from black and white to color. We were about to leave my grandma’s house when it came on the large console tv set in the living room. Recognizing the music I ran in and plopped directly in front of the television. “Not too close,” my grandma urged. We were still of the belief that the screen could make you go blind. “We’re leaving anyway,” my mom said as she tapped on my shoulder, reminding me it was a school night. I knew it was a Sunday evening. All the good shows were on Sunday night. “I just want to watch a little…” I said, staying cross-legged on the floor. “It’s getting late,” my mom continued, purse in hand. “You know I’ve never really watched it before,” my grandma said. “Oh, look,” she continued, “it’s in black and white.” “She doesn’t even know,” I screamed to my mother. “We have to stay until it turns (I then whispered the rest behind my cupped hand) to color. Or else she’ll be afraid.” That is what sealed it for my mom — this not wanting anyone to be afraid. My grandma sat down in the recliner. I backed away from the tv and leaned against her legs. My mom put her purse down and sat on the organ bench. It was only a moment, I suppose, but a rare one, where three generations sat together, waiting for the change to come.

I mention it only because I’m afraid we’re losing it. These moments. The changes never stop, but we often forget to. Maybe it would be better if we faced them together. Leaned against one another, in the Sunday evening of all that is to come.

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