Jodi Hills

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


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A little wild.

Most of the time, we leave the wild flowers in our yard. They seem to thrive outside. On the occasion that I bring one or two inside, I’ve noticed something special about them. Just as if they were outside, when the lights go out and it gets dark, they close up for the evening. When I open up the shutters, letting in the morning light, they open themselves up again. 

At the moment, we have a bouquet of florist lilies received as a gift in our salon, and a couple of wild lilies from the garden. True to form, the wild lilies open and close, and the florist lilies stay open. All are gorgeous. 

I have been guilty throughout the years of trying to be an indoor lily. Thinking I could only be loved if I was like the others. Nature has a way of sorting things out, and I have learned. I’m still learning. There is so much beauty in being yourself. I am not perfect. I may not even always be chosen for the center bouquet, but in my wild and glorious way, I have a place at the table. I am beautiful and I am loved. Please know this. Please learn this, again and again if you have to. The wild lilies know. And as they open and close, it feels like a secret wink in my direction. A wink, to say, “You belong beauty, just stay a little wild.”


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Fool’s tulip.

I wrote a poem – my grandparent’s story – it begins:

She was a beauty like he’d never seen,
Elsie turned his head with a smile,
When Rueben looked back
He knew for sure
That she’d be in his heart for a while.

“I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie,
I’m stubborn as a mule.”
She said, “I love you just the same.”
He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”

And he fell for her as only fools can.
The story of Rueben and Elsie began.

Yesterday I walked into our yard — maybe not in the best of moods. I saw a sea of dandelions. “Stupid dandel -“ I couldn’t finish. It was another yellow that took my breath away. A yellow tulip. My favorite. It had popped up in the middle of our yard. Almost daring me to notice it amid the other yellow. And I did. We normally get a row or two of orangeish-red tulips in a different part of our garden, but here it was, yellow, as if the universe knew I loved a yellow tulip, knew I needed one. (Even believers sometimes like to see it first hand). Now, some might say, “Oh, that’s rubbish to believe such a thing – to believe it grew for you.” (Rubbish — apparently the nay-sayers in my head are from a 1960’s play in England). But it’s not rubbish – not to me. It’s my favorite flower. My favorite tulip. And it arrived just when I needed it. And oh, how I believe in the magic of it all. So, no, it’s not rubbish. And yes, I am proud to be as gloriously foolish as my grandfather, and I fell for her, this tulip, as only fools can… this is the magic of how my day began.


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Being Lily!

When I lived in Minneapolis, I could buy a group of lilies for just three dollars at the Byerly’s store next to my apartment. It would produce four to five giant, beautiful white flowers, that often lasted three weeks. This was a luxury I could afford.

I would buy a stem that was mostly unopened. Each morning I would check to see how she had bloomed. “Good morning, Lily!” I always wanted to catch her, in mid bloom – see how she opened, but I never did. I would be in the kitchen, or bathroom, and come back, and she would be new. Lovely.

I suppose that’s the way it is with most of us. We don’t often get to see what makes others change, grow, but it’s happening. All the time. We are all going through something — struggles, lessons, living. All of us, just trying to bloom. And if we’re lucky, truly lucky, the beautiful few that we can call our friends, will show us how they got here — how they came to bloom. A luxury we could all afford.


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Worth a second look.

The first time we went to Lafayette, a few years ago, we didn’t really like the city. To be fair, we didn’t really see it. We lost a tire (we found it, as it rolled past our moving rental car) and spent the afternoon at the gas station. By the time it was finished, we asked the station attendant, where was the city center. He seemed baffled and said, “I think we’re in it.”  Banking this as truth, we drove on. 

Just before arriving in Lafayette this year, I asked Dominique, “Have we been here before?” We relived the runaway tire story and laughed. We both decided, “Not really.” In the daylight this time, we could see all the signage urging us to try the boudin balls. We love trying local food. Winding our way through the barriers set up for the Mardis Gras parade, we stumbled upon a small restaurant that said, “still open.” We ordered the pride of Lafayette – the boudin – not really in a ball, but more of a sausage – and it was delicious. We started to really see Lafayette. We went to an antique shop. They had real antiques, not Chinese remakes. We browsed slowly, thoughtfully, wishing we had more room in our suitcases. We visited with the owner. He was delighted we were visiting from France. We praised his store. Offered our apologies for not being able to buy anything because of the travel. He went into the back room. Came back with little packets. “I want you to have these.” They were flower seeds. Almost weightless, but for the meaning. “Plant them when you get back, then you will have a part of us there.”

Lafayette in the light of day. In the light of the people. Beautiful. We really saw it. 

It is springtime now in the south of France. Soon we will plant these flower seeds, and get a second look (or third) at Lafayette. And I suppose that is what spring is all about – giving us a second look, another chance. Another chance to see the beauty that this world holds. The weight of this! The importance! I don’t want to miss a thing!