Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: give


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Something to give.

The current book I’m reading, is delightfully entitled, “How to read a book,” by Monica Wood. It is set around a book club in prison. Harriet, the leader, gives the women a mantra, “I am a reader. I am intelligent. I have something worthy to contribute.”

I’m not yet finished, but already I’ve learned, or perhaps relearned this important lesson. (I don’t suppose we can ever stop learning this). 

To those who think it silly to have a mantra, I say good for you — good for you because you probably had someone who told you of your worth. Good for you that those words must be so engrained inside of you, that you don’t need to bounce them off the mirror. I am one of the lucky ones. I had a mother who served as that mantra. That voice. That reassurance, no matter what the situation, win or loss, I was still worthy. Never to be mixed with entitled, that is not what her worthy meant. Not what our mirrors revealed. No, worthy was never about receiving, but about having something to give. 

What would your world, our world, look like with this in mind? We are imprisoned by hate. By judgement. By fear. Which is really so ridiculous to be shouting from behind bars, while holding the key. So when I tell you, tell myself, that I, we, have something to contribute, something worthy, I mean it not only as a mantra, an incentive, but also a responsibility. We owe our mothers this. Ourselves. All.  

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Outside Martina’s Restaurant.

Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.

Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.

My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.

It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.

I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!

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To be filled.

It can be very humbling, an empty space. Sometimes even frightening. 

When I first saw the empty cathedral, it took my breath away. It was the location for my first solo show in France. How could I ever fill it? Seemingly miles of endless space. The answer has always been the same. Whenever faced with a void, be it of heart or mind, I return to my story. Because from the hardest of days, to the best of days, this story I’m living, creating, day by day, has always led me to love. So I put it down on canvas and page, and I filled that cathedral.

It’s different every day — the spaces we’re offered (sometimes not even offered at all, but reached for, struggled for, chosen, claimed…). And it’s funny, possibly even ironic, but always true — I have to keep pouring out, in order to be filled. Sometimes it’s merely a tiny scrap of paper. (It’s rarely a cathedral.) I fingertip the tiny apple and it’s enough to complete my day, to keep me whole.

From time to time, I get mixed up. Seeing others as vessels that could never be filled. How could they need so much? Their never ending demands. Their “it’s just not good enough”s. I could never give them enough. It’s just too much. But in a moment of clarity I remember, that it’s not up to me. I give and forgive, not to fill their cathedral, but mine. And with a humbly stumbling heart, brimming whole and hopefuI, I, we, can do anything.

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An Elsie swoosh.

It let out a small scream when I opened the door. I guess even a microwave knows when it’s over. My grandma let out the same sound when she scooped up the dice after I lost my turn in the game she said I would one day understand. I picked up a few rules in between squeals, but I’m not sure I really ever understood — until maybe yesterday.  

I thought it was the first gift of any substance that I gave to my Grandma Elsie. I moved several times after college. Microwave and large books on Shakespeare in tow. The third apartment had a built-in microwave. It was my mother who told me the timing was perfect — that grandma’s had just died. Of course she could have this one. I was so happy that I finally had something to give. 

It was back when things used to last. Maybe she still had it when she passed away. I never really checked. What she did have was a piece of bark with straw flowers glued into the ridges that stood on her nightstand. An art project I had made in the fifth grade. It turns out I was wrong — I had given her something, long before the microwave, with a much greater value. 

Today we will go buy a new microwave. We will have to dispose of this one. I asked Dominique how much it weighs this morning at the breakfast table. He said it was a two hand operation. I smiled, thinking that it could be picked up in one Elsie swoosh.  It’s just a microwave. I think I understand the game a little more each day. 

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The “having more.”

It was the best marzipan candy I ever had. There was a little bit left and she said we could take it home. We ate two in the car driving alongside the Mediterranean. Somehow we managed to save the remaining couple and finished them off that evening. I scoured the small empty box for a brand or anything that would lead me to having more, but there was nothing. Holding it in my hand on the way to the garbage, I felt it. It was just like a small panel. I took it to the studio to paint. 

It seemed so obvious that I needed to paint a bird, a friend for the bird I had made the day before. I sanded and gessoed. I feathered and branched. Taking everything that was sweet, and giving it wings. 

The thing is, we don’t always get to reciprocate, or repay the same kindness we are given. But we can keep giving, in so many different ways. And by doing so, it truly offers the “having more” we wanted all along. So I pass it to you — this joy, this delicious joy carried on wings — knowing you will find a way to do the same. Isn’t life sweet?!!!!

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The power of a wow.

I recently bought a new desk pad. I like it very much. They sent an email asking for a review. I didn’t erase it. I thought maybe I could get around to it. I scrolled past it for a couple of days. And then my publisher posted a recent review from my website. The “wow” and the “amazing” filled my heart and directed me immediately to the place where I bought my desk pad. I used the same words that I was given. It matters — the things we do and say.

It would be so easy to let the moments slip by. We often feel, “well, it goes without saying…” And maybe that’s true, but does it have to? It doesn’t cost us anything. And it takes almost no time at all. Really no effort. So what makes us hesitate? What makes us hold on to the compliment when we see her looking beautiful in that dress? When we see him going beyond a normal effort? I want to be the one who says — “That’s a great color on you!” and “Bravo, monsieur!” I want to be free and easy with my praise. I have felt the power of a wow – and I want you to feel the same. Everyone should feel this.

My pockets are usually only filled with dreams. Along with a little joy. Neither take up any space at all. So today I will throw in an extra “amazing!” and a few “wow!”s and be eager to give them away at a moment’s notice. No scrolling. No I’ll get to it later. Just a pocketful at the ready.

Have an amazing day today, my friends. A wow is just within reach.

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Pinky swear.

It took so little to show that we really meant it when we were young. Just a simple reaching out of a pinky finger to wrap around another’s. We swore it to be true, and our curled pinkies confirmed it. 

I suppose it was fitting that our weakest of links, these tiny little fingers exposed like this, showed our biggest strength — a vulnerability, a trust. It was never with clenched fists or raised arms. Just our hearts exchanging beats. Pinky to Pinky.

I don’t know when we stopped doing it. Who was it that suggested a shaking fist deserved more attention? When did we start exchanging “vulnerable” for “sure”? Why did we think all that certainty would connect us? 

The truth is, I’m rarely sure. I think I lean more on curious. To what if. To what could be. I have garnered more there — not necessarily the answers, but I have found challenge and creativity, fulfillment and reward, friendship, even love.   

So take these daily words as my pinky promise, my reaching out, my hope for connection. I will give to you, not always “the best,” but it will ever be “my best.” This, I swear. 

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Well traveled.

I know that I am nothing new. I am not the first to have sat in her studio, stil flush from the emotion of putting paint on canvas. Not ready to let the feeling pass. Wanting to feed it. Grabbing the nearest book. Devouring word after word. Never thinking about the “all” they said we couldn’t have. 

It was Miss Green that introduced us to the “spelling trip.” Each week in our fifth grade classroom at Washington Elementary we split off into teams and randomly selected a place on the map. We learned all we could about the destination, then, as a group, wrote about our journey. We pushed our desks and minds together and began to write. I don’t remember where we were headed this particular week, but it was somewhere in the countryside. Someone said, “Let’s head for the hills!” One clever boy followed with, “And everyone jumped on Jodi!” 

Maybe she wasn’t the first teacher to think of this method, but she was the first to tell us. She was the first to open our hearts and imaginations to seeing, not all, but more. She sparked our curiousity. Fed it with paper and pencils and maps. And the journey began. My journey began.

Would I be living the same life without this start? Maybe. Maybe not. But joyfully, I’ll never have to find out. There is no closing of a heart cracked wide open. No closing of a heart that wants to roam from creative hands to flushing cheeks — a heart well traveled. 

I know that I am not the first to believe in love. I may not even be the first person to love you. But no one has loved with this very heart…this bruised and ever hopeful, beating heart…cracked open enough to let yours in. And this doesn’t make us new, but it does make us special. 

I have this thought, sitting book in hand, before the canvas, easel wide open… what if the only “all” we thought of, was what we had to give…

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Sweet seasons.

Maybe he was more aware of how little time there actually was…maybe all farmers are, as they watch and work the seasons. Or maybe he was just smarter than the rest of us, but my grandfather did not suffer fools. He just didn’t want to hear it. He had no time for the whining… the “but he got to do it” or “it’s just not fair”…  No, he would have none of it. Even when what we were battling was not each other, but something deep inside ourselves, the answer was always the same – “Focus on something else. Focus on someone else.” 

And it has always worked. Which is why it is so surprising to me, with this 100% effectiveness, I have had to learn this lesson again and again and again. Yesterday I was having a bit of a melt down, and I’m being generous. It was not pretty. All morning long. By the afternoon, even I was tired of hearing the voices in my head. So I changed them. Focus on something else. Someone else. That something was going to be cookies. That someone was going to be my mother in law. Because even nearing a century old, she still loves sugar. 

The signs were there – as I suppose they always are. Two cups of butter. That’s a lot of butter. Of course there was going to be a lot of dough. But I mixed up the recipe. Filled my mixing bowl to the rim. Made my tester cookie. Perfect. Hurray. Soon the voices in my head were silenced by a layer of flour. Roll. Cut. Bake. Roll. Cut. Bake. There were so many cookies. And then the frosting. It was hours. By the end I was exhausted. And lighter. And happy. 

Today we will deliver the cookies — sugar and lessons in tow. The seasons of both are so very sweet.

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Give

There was a slowness of time that gathered at the farm. We raced with youthful legs – legs that spun underneath us like on the cartoons – and yet the day seemed to last forever. Legs that carried no weight of worry, but only the sticky pink of dripped watermelon.
My grandfather didn’t play with us. He had work to do. The farm demanded it. And he did it. He didn’t join us for birthday parties. I don’t imagine he ever wrapped a present. But he gave me a gift I still open, almost daily.
He didn’t say much, but when he did, you listened. Pipe in one hand, the other smoothing out the line of his overalls. He spoke slowly. My father was gone. My mother was sad. My legs gave way to the weight of it all. “Focus on someone else,” he said. Someone else??? What was he talking about? My legs couldn’t move. “Give your attention, your time, anything, to someone else. Trust me.”
How did he know? Maybe because he gave his hands to the soil. Maybe because he had nine children. He knew.
I can get overwhelmed. Easily. And it can swallow my attention – me, me, me. And then I remember, I open the gift. That beautiful gift. Focus on something else. Someone else. And I am saved.
My legs are strong today. Strong enough to run beside you under the sun of this possible June day. Strong enough to give.