Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: find


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Well, actually…

Maybe the trickiest thing about living, and one of the most important, is that we have to be able to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time. 

I’m lucky. I have found that way as an artist. Hours can go by, in a foreign country, alone in the studio, deep within the canvas, I paint my way home. And the bonus gift is, within that same finished piece, I can watch people take their own journey. For this I am most grateful.

It happened right from the start. Standing behind a draped card table at my first art show in Edina, right beside my mother, we heard it again and again…”This is so me,” as they read something I wrote, or held a picture that I had painted. To which my mother would often reply, “Well, actually, it’s about me…” And it often was. Her birthday poem. An image of her face. She appeared in almost everything, which is to say, that so did I. And we would come to learn that we weren’t alone. Behind every, “Well, actually…” there was a gathering in. A collective embrace. Losing ourselves, together, we were all, somehow, found. 

It seems the little arms of the girl in the lake are not only splashing, but pulling people in. I have heard so many times, “Oh, she looks just like…” and my heart smiles. It was just yesterday when my friend said it had to be her daughter, it’s her, it’s her! And then she continued, “Well, actually, it’s probably you…” And then I felt my mother smiling.

These are the true gifts. Our shared experiences. When you tell me that you didn’t wait an hour after eating to go into the water, I smile and feel myself aching, stomach full, toes dug in sanded beach of Lake Latoka. When you tell me that you miss waving to your mother on shore, I feel the same ache, that glorious ache, that beautiful ache of loving someone. 

Today’s world is eager to point out our differences. To divide us between vote and color. I don’t have the answers, so I paint, I write. I reach out my heart and you reach out your hands, and we know we are different, but something makes us say, “Well, actually…” And then we’re all smiling. 

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There is motion at your front door.

Maybe it’s because I want to hear it. Maybe it’s because Mr. Iverson told us in the first grade that they could be about anything, the poems that he wanted us to write — the poems that he would inscribe neatly on the black board and our hearts, measured out note by note. And they were special. Lyrical. The ordinary things, our houses and shoes. Our games and basements and cars and trees. They all became magical because we called them poetry. 

We recently got a new doorbell for our gate. It is connected to our phones. It gives us the alert whenever motion is detected, even when it’s us. When I go for my morning walk, just past the gate, she pings in my ear and says, “There is motion at your front door.” And every day it is the poem that starts my journey. There IS motion at my front door – and isn’t it a good reminder! I always smile. Because isn’t it what we’ve been told in movies and books. By philosophers and teachers. “When you stop learning you die.” “It’s over when you stop dreaming.” “Sharks never stop swimming. You gotta keep moving.” The list goes on. It’s all about motivation. And could there be a better place to start than your front door? So I hear it. I feel it. There IS motion! I AM alive! And so I begin with my doorbell’s poem, off in search of another. Because we get to decide. We hold the chalk that turns the cursive words into prayers and sets the path of our journey. 

I have to go now. Begin. Create something. There is motion at my heart’s door. 

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Folds of worth.

I found ten euros on the path yesterday while out for my morning walk. I picked it up. Smiled. Looked around. There was no one in sight. I folded it neatly and put it in my pocket. It was at the beginning of my walk, so I had almost an hour left to check it repeatedly. Like a five year old with birthday money stashed in my shorts, I clutched it in my chubby fingers again and again. It’s not that I needed ten euros so badly (although it’s always a treat!). What I really needed was not to lose the proof. I was so excited to show Dominique that even though out of season, I still had the “asparagus” eye. Out of all the people that strolled the path that morning, with dogs and phones and step-counters, I was the one who spotted the surprise! It made me feel special. I patted my pocket to feel the folds of worth.

My grandma was the first to give me a five dollar bill every year for my birthday. It continued well into my thirties. While the currency lost value through the years, the envelope that arrived each March 27th, addressed with her handwriting, became priceless. Opening the mailbox, I clutched it in hand. Forever a five year old, held heart-close in my grandma’s attention. I still have the last envelope she sent. Framed, it stands next to her picture. She loved me. I will forever feel special. Worthy.

“Guess what I found!” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Guess! Go ahead and guess!” I said, while unfolding the bill.

“Ohhhh!” he exclaimed, “You have the asparagus eye!” I am loved. You can’t put a price on that.

It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
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