Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: fly


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Room for clovers.

But for the scheduled softball games twice a week, in the summertime in Alexandria, Minnesota, no one was ever waiting for me. But it never stopped me from going. I had no destination. Certainly no plan. And yet, the basket on my banana seat bike was packed high with hopes, a thermos of water, a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup which I would have no way of opening, two quarters — in case I stopped in at Rexall Drug for a frozen Milky Way bar, a Golden Book, and one stuffed animal. 

I didn’t have the word for it then, nor did I have the need for one, but I was wandering. Never thinking of the limitations of my travel. A mile from home was new in every direction. And who even knew if it was a mile or not. I didn’t measure my journey in distance, but flowers and four leaf clovers. Screen doors and unrelated grandmas welcoming me in. Rocks in shoes and grass stains on knees were better than souvenirs, they were proof of a day well spent. 

As we travel now, of course we have to think of things like gas mileage and flight times, but the best moments really have very little movement at all. Mostly at the waist, when we are laughing we friends, struggling to catch our breath within the waves of joy. You can’t plan that, only experience. Stumble into it. Wander about.

So if you ask what is our plan, I will tell you, I’m filling the basket, leaving room for four leaf clovers. 

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It starts with one.

Even though I paint them frequently, in tiny sketchbooks, with fine brushes, I’m still surprised at how small they are when I see them en route. The winged details, often too small for the tiniest hairs of my most intricate brush, flutter in the trees. Not disturbing a leaf, yet still able to lift my heart.

And then I’m not small anymore. I’m no longer, “but what can I do?” “There’s only me?” I see the heavy lifting of this tiny bird, this “one,” and I am reminded that that’s all it takes. One. One small detail. One effort. To make maybe not this world better, or even this day, but certainly this one moment in time, yes, better, right here, in the flutter.

So on this first day. This number one. This tiny number that we tried to issue in with a bang of promises. We welcomed perhaps with rockets red glare of dazzling hope. How do we sustain the magic? I step out and have to believe, that I am, we are, not small anymore. And maybe, just maybe, it all continues, with a flutter.

Happy New Year!

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With all good nests. 

I can’t unseen it now, how she became the nest from which I flew.

I have slept in them. Written about them. Longed for them. Been coddled in them. But this was the first year that I painted a nest. And it’s not lost on me that it was only after I painted my Grandma Elsie. And it wasn’t planned — who can plan magic? — and it wasn’t contrived, they both came at exactly the right time. 

I suppose with all good nests, it takes a lot of gathering. Story by story, twig by twig, but I see it now, what (who) gave me the security to fly. I hadn’t noticed the palette similarity until I placed the bird beside her. It is undeniable. Not everyone can teach you how to fly. Maybe my mother did that. Some have the specific role of building the nest. And without it, nothing else is really possible. No daring, without a safe place to land. No risk, without the blending of the heart’s colors. 

I can say my “thank yous” daily, and I do, but I imagine the only true way to show my gratitude to this wide eyed giver of the nest, is simply to fly.

I’ll see you up there. 

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Overcoming beige.

My mother had two red coats. One extremely light winter coat, and another even lighter. She never wanted to be too hot, but she did want to be seen. I have both of those coats now. I love that no matter what I’m wearing, I can throw one on and look pretty good. People don’t see that maybe I still have paint on my pants, or maybe I forgot the belt. Maybe my shirt has lost the ironed crisp. As I rush through the grocery store, post office, or simply down the road — all they see is this beautiful flash of red — and I am strengthened in my mother’s blur. 

These coats mean the world to me, but I was given a gift even more priceless. She first taught me how to make it with nothing at all. From the ever beige of a basement condo, a used car, a small salary, and only enough hope to fill a pocket, she taught me how to live a beautiful life. She taught me that the outer meant nothing, unless the inner was strong. 

We took our dim yellow feathers to the mall frequently. Some might say we left with nothing. But that wouldn’t be true. Even when our hands were empty. No bags in tow, we were filled with joy. “Wouldn’t you rather look good in the outfit, than be able to afford it?” She asked the question often. The answer was always a laughing and resounding yes, as we soared out the revolving doors.

Half of the cardinals are given a red coat at birth. I do not envy them. Love gave me mine, thread by thread, long after I was taught to fly.

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Given wings.

When I sent her a photo of me standing on the London Bridge, her first comment was, “Where did you get that jean jacket? The collar pops up so nicely!” London Bridge wasn’t “falling down,” but it didn’t sit high in my mother’s priorities. 

 Just as Wonder Woman gained the ability to fly using the power of her Lasso of Truth, my mother did the same with the pop of her collar. I saw the magic happen daily. As she finished getting ready for work, I began to get ready for school.  Crossing mirrored paths, the last thing I saw her do was pop her collar. She went from an unsure 5’7″ to a confident 5’9″ and out the door she went. Crossing Jefferson Street, her feet never touched the ground.

It’s no surprise that as I flew into my own truth, I did the same. I DO the same. (When the golden lasso is passed on to you, it would be a shame not to use it.) Popping from state to state, country to country, I stand a little taller, not because my mother gave me a map, but because she gave me wings. 

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Only perched.

I suppose it is when I am most certain that it’s necessary to loosen the grip a little and just perch. 

I can reach a conclusion pretty quickly in any situation. But I’ve learned that giving myself an extra hour, sometimes a day, or longer, to really think it through, is quite useful. Most often the solutions are a little less dug in. A little more flexible. A little more reasonable.It’s no secret that I love to paint birds. But it was only just the other day that I saw it. I had to put it on paper to really get it. I love the way they perch — just lightly place themselves on the branch. Never burrowed in with false certainty (which is usually just pride in disguise.) That doesn’t mean a lack of commitment. No, just a willingness, a readiness, to adjust to the situation. Giving themselves a chance to do what they were meant to do — to really fly!  

I won’t be perfect at it. But I think in the attempt, I will get better. I am getting better. And that in itself lifts my spirits, lifts my wings. I guess what it comes down to, (or up really), is I’d rather soar, than be sure. 

I don’t know what the day will bring, but I’ll see you up there!

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Aloft.

Soaring birds that wish to stay aloft without flapping usually fly INTO the wind for lift.

I suppose that’s the goal, isn’t it — a lot less flapping, and a lot more lift. And I mention it only as a reminder to myself. Oh, it’s so easy to get upset over the little things. “But they did this! – again…” and “she always does this – every time,” and “look at that, c’mon!” (So much flapping.) 

And we all know the goal. To get higher. But ooooh, those words — when someone tells you “to just get over it…” I’m not sure why exactly, but they sound like fighting words. Like it’s all your responsibility. Like why do I have to do it? Why do I always have to go higher? (Oh, that flapping!) So I tell myself in different words, be the soaring bird. And my heart stops fighting the wind, but using it. To glide. Higher. And I always feel better. Always. 

I’m so human. I learn the lesson over and over. But I’d like to believe I become the bird a little easier, a little more quickly, with each passing lesson. I hope so. Because the view! Spectacular! 

Maybe you’ve already mastered it. If so, I say bravo, little bird! And I make you this promise (me, too often here among the flappers) — I’m learning — and I’ll see you up there!

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Where bluebirds fly.

For me it’s like meditation. To focus on just the canvas. The paint. My hand. Put down what I need to see. What I need to feel. And let it come to life.

The bluebird has long been seen as the harbinger of happiness. Its origins may date back thousands of years. In Chinese mythology. Native American folklore. European fairy tales. The bluebird is everywhere. I suppose we all want to be happy. We would do well to remember this.

It wasn’t until recently that I noticed it. I’ve sung it a thousand times, “Somewhere over the rainbow.” But it became so clear when I was painting. Humming along. “…where bluebirds fly.” Maybe it’s because I was a child when I watched The Wizard of Oz. Maybe it was because it was in my grandparents’ living room. But with this childlike brain, I thought, if the bluebirds were always spreading this happiness, they had to fill themselves with it, go somewhere to gather it in — over the rainbow, for example. And if they did, allow themselves this time, then they would have something to give. 

I want to be that bluebird. I hope it is in us all to want to spread this joy. But to do that, we need to allow ourselves the time to gather it in. For me that is painting. For you, it might be baking, or gardening. Reading. Or actual meditation. Wherever your “over the rainbow” is, you need to allow yourself the time to visit. Gather all the happiness in your beautiful wings. Then, only then, I think, can you truly fly.

So if they ask you today, “Where are you going?” Smile, and reply, “Where bluebirds fly.”

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Turns.

Maybe with girls, it’s all about timing.

There wasn’t a swing for every girl at Washington Elementary. When your class was released for recess, the playground had to be divided and navigated. It was always a race out the back door to the swingset. These weren’t just ordinary swings. They were the tallest that any of us had ever seen.  With the help of your best friend pushing from behind, you could reach unimaginable heights. Deals were always struck minutes before recess. Partnering off. Who would run. Secure the swing. The first one. The last. The ones in the middle. Who would ride first. Push first. We learned early on, working together, we’d all get to fly! 

We didn’t have phones with stop watches. We didn’t even have watches. But somehow we knew. Because friends were known. Some days you just needed a little extra time. Maybe the spelling test was harder for one. Maybe the new boy teased you. Whatever the reason, it never had to be explained, just a look, a look that said, I need an extra turn. And it was always given. 

I have a few friends like this still today. We know each other’s timing. When to push. When to step back and just watch you fly! Knowing the roles could be reversed at any given moment. Timing — impossible to monitor electronically — it can only be measured by the heart. 

I’m feeling strong today. Just give me the look, and when the doors are flung open, I’ll race to secure the swing. Today, my friend, it’s your turn to fly!

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Learning to fly.

I was having coffee with a friend of mine when I got the call. Deeply immersed in the big fashion issue of Vogue, I was prepared for the adventure he proposed. I didn’t know him well. He was a pilot. Had his own small plane. It was a lovely sunny day and he was “going up” and wondered if I wanted to come along. “Sure,” I said. Told my caffeinated friend. Her first question was, “What are you going to wear?”

I had the perfect outfit…so I thought. It was a combination of flow and twirl. A Michael Kors silk skirt and top. The skirt was fitted to the knee, and then flirted with a small flare. The top flowed. I was a human airplane scarf. Ready to soar. I was Faye Dunaway. Meryl Streep. I was Whitney Houston in the final scene of the BodyGuard. Cue the music! I was ready!

He pulled up to the hangar. I was underwhelmed with his baggy jeans, but still prepared to be in my own movie. We walked up to the plane. I looked for some sort of stairs. A ladder even. Anything. He was doing his pre-flight check, and told me I could get in. But could I? I replayed the movies in my head. Scarved and flowing, I saw Whitney run to the plane. But they didn’t show how she got in. How was I supposed to get in? I looked around. Trying to appear interested in the empty sky. I was really just waiting for him to get in so he wouldn’t be able to watch me crawl up the wing. He easily hoisted his long leg in his baggy jeans up on the wing and hopped in. I hoisted my skirt. What underwear was I wearing? I hadn’t thought about that. It wasn’t that kind of date. “Don’t step on the wing with those shoes,” he said. Obviously I wasn’t wearing tennis shoes with my ensemble. So I pulled myself up on the wing. Sat on my backside. Crab crawled my way in backwards. Pulled my feet in, not touching the wing. Sweating in the glaring sun, and even hotter embarrassment. I adjusted my skirt. He niner-ninered, as I sang, “I will always love you,” to myself, in my head.

I acted out the movie for my friend at Caribou Coffee the next day. It was one of our greatest laughs. My full length drama had become a latte-snorting comedy. I try to remind myself of this, during those times when I feel like I’m hoisting myself, struggling to climb the wing of the day. Everything is not as serious as it seems. I look in the morning mirror. Fling back my imaginary scarf over my shoulder, breaking into chorus, “And I, I, Iiiii, will always love you….ooooooh-ooooh!” I’m flying!

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