Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: Grace


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One more twirl.

Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport. 

We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk. 

We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped. 

Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is! 

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Something beautiful.

Certainly they had more money than we did, the women who owned BonJos — an upscale dress shop for the women of Alexandria, Minnesota. They probably had big houses. Nice cars. But when I saw my mom pull back the curtain and step out of the elevated dressing room at the Viking Plaza mall, I knew what class meant. And it was beautiful. 

This is not to say that others didn’t have it. People all around us did. At all levels. But what my mother taught me, standing tall above her height and pay grade, was that elegance, grace, true beauty, came from within. And she wore it better than anyone. 

And of course she aged. It happens to all of us. But what’s remarkable, I only ever saw that woman — that woman coming out from behind the curtain, daring the town and the mirror to really see her. That woman who never thought she was brave, but dared to extend her height with heels from Herberger’s. I saw her with smiling breath held. And it wasn’t just me, I saw the owners catch themselves in approval. BonJos was lit brighter than the fluorescent of any mall. 

Some will tell you that love is blind. I don’t agree. Maybe love is the only thing that truly sees. Maybe love is the reason even well into her 80’s this beauty remained. 

Here’s how I see it. I hope we all can see it this way — Youth will fade. Real beauty never does.

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Protecting grace.

It began out of necessity — “If You See Something, Say Something®” —  a national campaign to raise public awareness of the signs of terrorism. We’re nearing SeeSayDay, September 25th. It was established, as their website explains, because “We all have someone, or something, to protect.” 

And while I believe this is extremely important, I’d like to add a thought. What if we took this philosophy, this “If you see something, say something,” and used it in our daily lives, when what we saw was something good, someone beautiful…

I have never met her in “real life.” Only here on Facebook. My cousin, Shawn, introduced us. And from what I am reading in her recent posts, I will not be offered that chance of meeting her face to face. 

What I do know is this. She sat with my grandmother and made rugs. Quilts. Some might say, only making tiny artistic ripples in the small pond of Farwell, Minnesota. But the grace, and elegance she is showing in her final days is extraordinary. The words of peace and gratitude she is offering up, for me, has created a wave that reaches across the sea, and it is so very beautiful. If she ever had doubts about becoming an artist, let them end here. What I see is a gorgeous work of art. I see her, and I have to say something. I have to tell her, tell the world, that she matters. Thank you, Gloria.

Perhaps this is my daily campaign. To show you the people that I think ARE REALLY SOMETHING!  The SeeSayDay urges us to “get involved.” I guess I’m doing the same. Because I agree, we do have a duty to protect each other from the evil of this world. But perhaps just as important, we have the privilege of shining the light on the best of us. We have a grace to protect.

Today, if you are met with kindness, with love, with beauty of any kind — and I pray that you are — please, please say something!

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Guts. Grace.

I was reminded of it yesterday while doing a podcast. Something I had written years ago. Words I carry with me — “Now is the time for guts and grace.” Of course the words “guts and grace” are key, but perhaps they are far less important without the word “now.” Now means ever and always. 

Some might say, “well, from time to time, sure, but I don’t need guts every day.” I’m not sure I agree. For me, I think if I’m doing it right, living the way that I want to – I DO need them daily. Because if I need them, that means I’m pushing myself to do more, to be more. It means I’m taking risks. Trying to grow. Letting people in. Feeling everything. And all of that takes real courage — real guts!  But I don’t want to be bulldozer brave – knocking over everything, everyone in sight. Hence, the grace. And what a delicate balance to stumble through. And I do stumble. I do fumble. So I carry the words with me. Now.

They asked me in the interview yesterday if my mother was an artist. “Well, she made me, didn’t she?” Her openness, her pure love and joy in allowing me to be me, was more of an artistic gift than if she had handed me the paints and brushes and guidebook of Cezanne himself. Her standing tall, shoulders back, bloused in white ruffles, lips rouged above a softened, forgiving jaw, even as her heart dragged behind her size 10.5 Herberger shoes, was the most beautiful, the most artistic example of guts and grace I had ever seen. These words were written long before they settled on paper. I carry them now. She is with me now.

It’s not to say she wasn’t worried about being brave. She often did. Who doesn’t? (I guess to answer that — those not really living.) I don’t know what today will bring, but I do know what I’ll carry with me — what has been passed from my grandmother to mother to me. From their now to mine. Ever. Guts and grace.

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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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Oranges. Poranges.



For a brief moment, we had orange countertops. Some of my friends’ mothers wouldn’t allow you to sit in or on the kitchen cupboards, but my mom did. Maybe it was because I told her I liked to read in that sea of orange — like I was balanced on a giant spoon in a bowl of sherbet. Or maybe it was because she was never really all that precious about things. Or maybe she knew we wouldn’t have them that long. They didn’t have time to go out of style before we had to sell the house.

It wasn’t that long ago that she wondered aloud, perhaps she should have cooked more. Taught me things in the kitchen. Oh, but you did, I said. Cooking, no. But the things I learned! To imagine! To dream! The freedom to sail orange waters! Nothing could have fed me more! And perhaps just as important, the lesson in letting it all go, with grace, and with hope. That’s how she lived.

There was a cartoon at the time. H.R. Pufnstuf. I loved it. Every Saturday morning. In one episode they sang a song, “Oranges Poranges.” It was ridiculous. But it always made me laugh. Everything was packed and in the moving truck, but for the weight of having to leave — that we carried with us. I was standing by the back door. I watched my mom take one more look around. I didn’t want to cry. She looked at me. Brushed her hand across the countertops, then gave it one final tap, as if to cue the song. “Oranges Poranges,” she sang at the top of her voice, “Oranges Poranges, who says, there ain’t no rhyme for oranges!” We smiled and walked out the door one last time. She taught me everything.

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On top.

Perhaps one of the biggest dangers of social media is the act of comparison — comparing your life to what you think is the life of the other person on the screen. And I say, “what you think” because you really don’t know how the other person is living. You just get this small glimpse of perhaps what they had for dinner. You might see them in their best outfit. On vacation. Their best photoshopped image. And even if it is “real,” it doesn’t change your life. You decide if your life is big or small, happy or sad, empty or full – and believe me, you will probably experience all of these – more than probably.

The birds in our yard love the cherry tree — and I don’t blame them. Cherries are delicious. Someone told us to hang cd’s from the branches, and it would scare the birds away. The cherries are all gone. Turns out they were not afraid, but perhaps even enjoyed the music while they ate. You just never know. I imagine the fun they had in the tree – their own social gathering place – singing along to the shiny objects. I could waste my time and feel bad about not eating cherries, but nothing would change, so I’m going to be happy for them! After all, they sing for us every morning.

Remember, you will not always be the biggest bird. You will not always be the smallest. Find the joy in both. The grace in both. That is the cherry on top!

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Fumbling towards grace.

If you think you have nothing to learn, try inserting your USB cable into the port the first time. Nothing more humbling than taking three times to insert a two sided object.

Life can be just that – so humbling – but that’s not a bad thing. (I don’t mean in a degrading way… we should never “put down” or diminish.) But to be humble, is to be open. Open to learning. Trusting. Letting go. Open to the understanding that we are not the center of the universe, but a part of it all the same. A part of all the beautiful stumbling and fumbling along. And if we saw that, maybe we could be a little more gentle, not just with others, but with ourselves.

Oh, be it ever so humble, and the universe knows that it has to be, that we have to be…because it’s all impermanent…
but the grace that comes from the living in,
the living through, this can never be taken away.

It’s what keeps me going. Knowing all of this is inside of you, inside of me. And keeps me forever fumbling towards grace.

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Guts and grace.

Boxing has been described as one hurt demanding another. One punch thrown, and then the counter. It would have been easy for her to live this way. She had been hurt so much. She had taken punch after punch. And she knew some became used to it. Some embraced it. It’s hard not to. It hard to turn from the violence that climbs in the ring with you each day. But she didn’t want to fight anymore. She didn’t want to carry pain with her, heavy, like a broken promise. So maybe one hurt did demand another. The only way out was to stop hurting. Stop being hurt. And so she climbed between the ropes. Left the smell of sweat and anger behind. Prayed that one act of bravery demanded another. Prayed that one smile demanded another. Prayed that one joy demanded another. And it did. Gentle people surrounded her now. People with love and laughter. People with hearts. She is living proof that one grace demands another.

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Grace.

Boxing has been described as one hurt demanding another.  One punch thrown, and then the counter.  It would have been easy for her to live this way.  She had been hurt so much.  She had taken punch after punch.  And she knew some became used to it.  Some embraced it.  It’s hard not to. It hard to turn from the violence that climbs in the ring with you each day.  But she didn’t want to fight anymore.  She didn’t want to carry pain with her, heavy, like a broken promise.  So maybe one hurt did demand another.  The only way out was to stop hurting.  Stop being hurt.  And so she climbed between the ropes.  Left the smell of sweat and anger behind.  Prayed that one act of bravery demanded another.  Prayed that one smile demanded another.  Prayed that one joy demanded another.  And it did.  Gentle people surrounded her now.  People with love and laughter.  People with hearts.  She is living proof that one grace demands another.