Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: girl


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A sliver of light.

I usually had ten to fifteen minutes to spare. I held the back of the green leather seat and jumped up the minute the bus driver braked and pulled out the stop sign along with door. First off of the school bus, I ran around the corner to the back door. I flung my coat into the locker that I never actually locked and ran to the gym. No windows, it was as dark as night. I put a notebook between the doors, cracking a sliver of light that led me to the utility closet. It wasn’t always there, on the doorknob, the plastic jump rope I purposely hung after gym class. Most days, the gym teacher put it away and locked the door, but from time to time, as I felt my way along the wall the next morning, I would feel it before I saw it, and my day began with a heart jump of excitement. 

Of course I had jump ropes at home. I managed to sneak them in our cart quite often at Ben Franklin. They weren’t expensive. But the jump ropes at Washington Elementary were nothing short of gorgeous. Worthy of being locked up. They had a weight to them. The plastic blue and white segments would snap against the gymnasium floor with each turn. Maybe it was the darkness that heightened the sound, but the hard plastic cracking against the floor sounded like power. And I twirled myself into confidence. 

When the bell rang, I hung the rope back on the knob with a silent thank-you. I picked up my notebook and smiled sweatily into my desk for the day. Ready to face the light of day. The light of learning. 

It’s different for everyone. It’s even different for ourselves as we continue to change. But we always need to find a way to begin. To boost our confidence. To give ourselves a head start (a jump start). I know what works for me. My hope today is that these words are the tiny crack in the door, the small sliver of light, that leads you to finding yours. Your confidence. Your power. Your beginning. 

Good morning!

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With all that raggedy trust.

When I was five I began drawing. Six, writing. Every paper in my tiny bedroom was filled. I sat on my twin bed and poured out my heart to the Raggedy Ann and Andy sheets. Emboldened with their always smiling and gentle approval, I held the paper in my plattered, chubby hands, and presented it to my mother. She knew the gift that it was, and welcomed it with a caring so safe, so loving, that I knew I could do it again and again. 

I did it daily. When my mother passed, it was that little girl that looked directly at me, that looks at me every day, hands and heart extended, she asks me where she is to go. And she’s so small. And I don’t want to hurt her. She’s still so filled with ideas and belief, and I can’t turn her away. When she comes to me, with all that raggedy trust, I smile, and do the best that I can with what she is offering. I tell her what she has made, what we have made, is something special, and I clutch it to my beating chest before setting it free. 

If you’re reading this, I, we, stand before you, so small, but still believing it matters. And I will do it, again, and again.

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Around every barn. 

I want to hold her – this little girl that sits in front of me. Tiny tears cling to her eyelashes, knowing that if they fall, so will the secret — the one she kept, mostly from herself. One salty drop lands upon her thigh, and she says she had told her mother that she didn’t want to have a babysitter anymore. Not this one anyway. But she couldn’t tell her why. She couldn’t say that this young woman frightened her. Wanted her to do bad things. Dirty things. She couldn’t say that she took her behind the barn, (where nothing good ever happened.) I suppose that’s what they always count on, that you won’t be able to say anything. And what she couldn’t say then, she says to me now. She tells me. And I want to hold this little girl. Pick her up. Wipe away tears and replace them with promises. But she has already grown. She has already peaked only bangs above covers during sleepless nights. She has already learned to pocket the secret and dilute it with morning’s light. Learned to take care of her little sisters. No one else would watch them but her. She has already grown into a woman who carries her own children. Who carries me. 

Maybe there always comes a time when the lines become blurred. For mothers and daughters. Sisters. Friends. When we’re all just little hearted girls, trying to hold on, trying to let go, daring both. Trusting each other with tears and stories. 

I trusted my mother. And she trusted me. It would be easy for the story to end there, but it can’t. I won’t let it. Not for me. Nor you. Not for any little girl, no matter what her age. We must be the sisters who keep them safe. Tuck them in with stories of hope and joy, of kindness and progress and freedom and learning…so heads and hearts remain above covers — all night long, and all the days after. 

I wander in and out, around every barn. I am safe because of her. I reach out my hand, so you can feel the same. 

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Shine.

At a press conference years ago, Bill Murray was asked if art had ever changed his life.  In fact, it saved his life. He was just starting his career in Chicago, and he claimed, “he wasn’t very good.” After a very unsuccessful performance he began walking.  Just walking the streets of Chicago.  He found himself on the shores of Lake Michigan, and considered the fact that drowning would be pretty simple.  But on those same shores was the Art Institute of Chicago.  He went inside.  In his words, he felt like he was already dead.  He stood in front of one of his favorite paintings  –  The Song of the Lark, by Jules Adolphe Breton, 1884.  He looked at the woman, standing in the field, as the sun was coming up, and thought, “Well, there’s a girl that doesn’t have too many prospects, and yet the sun is still coming up and she has another chance.”  He gathered himself in front of the painting and thought, “I, too, am a person and get another chance every day the sun comes up.” 


My mother did the impossible every day. She warmed me with her own brilliant light, and made me believe it was me who was shining.  There will always be a woman to light your way.  Some will be lucky enough to call her mother.  Others will call her friend, mentor, boss, aunt, and now, even Vice President.  If we are able to walk in the light, it is because someone lit it for us long ago.  And we must do the same. Even when are prospects seem few, we can still be that light for someone.  Today, I ask you to thank those who went before you, and light a path for those coming behind.  The sun is rising. We are rising. What a chance!  What a day!  What a light!!!!

https://www.artic.edu/artworks/94841/the-song-of-the-lark