Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: good morning


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Coiffed and caffeined.

Getting to know each other, she asked me what books I had written. It was my publisher who had referred me to this hair stylist. As I listed them off, she said, twice, “Oh, I have that book!” Both delighted, we began to wander freely in each other’s story. I knew my hair was safe in her hands. 

At any book event that my mom attended, people would say, “Oh, this is so me,” or “You must have written this about me,” or “It’s me!!!” — to which my mom would reply, “Actually it’s about me!” We would all laugh, knowing that everyone was actually right. 

We all want to be seen. We need it to survive. There is the ineffective shortcut of shock, that so many want to rush into, but this is not sustainable, nor fulfilling. No, we need to be seen joyfully, gently, heartfully. With empathy and wonder. Kindness. Slowly.

I saw them on display as I made the coffee this morning at my friend’s house. My cups. My story. Resting next to the Lefse recipe of her mother — her story. I suppose that’s what friendship is, the combining of our stories. Newly coiffed and caffeined, I smile out the window, ready to write a new page. Will you join me?

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The light keeper.

I suppose one could argue that it’s all about the light.

I have no proof. No photographic evidence of the size of the windows at Washington Elementary. But for the gymnasium, every classroom, in my memory, had giant windows. Mrs. Paulson’s 4th grade class overlooked the swings of the playground. The entire back wall of the classroom seemed to be lit up with freedom.

We were just beginning to get duties. Hall, lavatory, and drinking fountain monitors. Those who got to lead the pack to the library. Crosswalk guards. And for most, the highly coveted position of running the movie projector. Don’t get me wrong, I loved movie days, but not for the reason you might think. Sure, the break from the ordinary chalk board lesson was nice. But there was only one duty I wanted. And surprisingly, no one ever challenged me for it. There was no need to squeal, “Oooooh, ooooh, pick me…” under my breath. I was the only one raising my hand when it came to volunteering for shade monitor — the one who got to pull the giant shades before showing the movie. But here’s the most extraordinary part — the one who got to tug those giant sun blocking shades open after the movie, raise them into the sky of the room, hear the flap, flap, flap as they rested at the top, and be first to feel that glorious light streaming in. The glorious flight of swings. Feet racing. Arms swinging. Bodies dangling. Complete freedom. To be the lightkeeper, what an enormous and joyful responsibility. I wanted to be the one to give that to everyone.

I wasn’t wealthy. I couldn’t buy my friends extravagant gifts. Couldn’t invite them to a palatial home. But I could give them this. The light. In my youthful, humble, hopeful mind, the best gift of all.

Maybe that’s what I’m still trying to do. In my writing. My painting. Just for a brief shining moment, be the one who gets to fling open the dark shades, and let you into the light. “OOOOOh, ooooooh! Here it comes! Can you feel it?”

Nighttime makes it final flaps. The light shines through. Good morning!

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Saying grace.

I never had an alarm clock growing up. Just the thought of it sounds, well, alarming. My mom did though. It was just one of the many things she took on, so I wouldn’t have to. She absorbed the morning jolt, tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed and washed. If I wasn’t roused by the gentle clinking of her makeup, she would come into my bedroom, and start my day with whispered hand on shoulder. Toast popped up in the kitchen. Smiles set the day’s intention. Maybe we didn’t fold hands in prayer, but you’d be wrong to say she didn’t start the day saying grace. 

Of course there was a world of concern around her, around us, but if she woke with worry, it never showed in her hands. I guess she learned that from her mother. I pray I’ve done the same. 

I begin each day now, in another time, another country. But there’s coffee on the table. And kindness in the air. I give thanks, and whisper with the gentle clink of the keyboard — Good morning.

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From my tiny cup.

When I was a child, I thought coffee was chunky. I remember my Grandma’s cup, when she reached the bottom, it was filled with the crumbs of every grandchild that pleaded, please can I just dunk my cookie, just once. And my mother’s cup, thanks to me, was the same. I know she didn’t like it, but for some strange and glorious reason, she loved me more.

I’ll say it again. It’s the little things, one might even say the crumbs, but oh they matter! Always have, always will.

People often tell me that they read my posts with their morning coffee. What a gift! To share with you this time. To gather in. Sit beside you at your table.

Every day, the world throws something at us. We are asked to survive the unsurvivable. Believe in the unbelievable. It is in these moments that I remember, I was not only loved, I was loved more. Taking a sip from my cup, I have everything, and so I begin.

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Awakenings.

I’m enjoying this practice of sharing a story each morning. It has become part of my routine. I had thought of doing it for a long time, but I was a little afraid of the process. How would I come up with a new idea each day? There are challenges, for sure (it’s not coal mining hard, but it does take some effort.) The key for me has been this, the art of noticing. It sounds simple enough, and it actually is, but you do have to practice it. And once in the practice, you will (forgive me) “notice” how easy it is to notice things.

But it can’t stop there – noticing is the key to gratitude.

This morning I was awakened by the sweetest sound – birds singing. And oh, how they say. So joyful. I woke up smiling. Thank you birds. Thank you morning. Thank you “not waking up to an alarm clock.”

Gratitude alone, though, can become complacent without action. So I painted the birds that sang to me this morning. I put the bird paintings on my computer so I can share them with you. And with a piece of luck, this yellow will make you smile. This smile will brighten your face, which will brighten the face of the person next to you. And we start a chain. A chain of gratitude.

Some of you will share the story that this brought to your mind. This yellow, this bird, this awakening. And your story will make me think, hey, did you notice the… and we’re off again! Thank you for that. Thank you for this chain.

We are only as strong as our connections.

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