Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: heart


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Return to gravel.

It’s not to say that we took our wounds seriously, but my mother never purchased designer Band-Aids. There were no cartoon characters or Disney royalty. In fact, I’m pretty sure they weren’t even the Band-Aid brand.  Possibly Curad. Or simply flexible adhesive bandages. And often times, just a Kleenex (which was really only a facial tissue) and a piece of Scotch tape (most likely just tape). 

No matter what she used, she did accomplish the main goal, which was just to return us to the gravel road, be it on bike or foot, skinned knees and all, as quickly as possible. No time for worry, or to go over the latest spill. Nor was there time to take pride in the survival. Who hadn’t fallen on Van Dyke Road? Her goal, I see now, was to keep me at play. Sometimes I would look up from the tattered tissue barely hanging on, as if to ask, “Really?” She would answer, “You think Phyllis Norton can do better? Go get in line.” We would laugh. And for this I will be ever grateful. 

Injuries change from year to year. Some wounds go unseen. But the goal is to always keep pedaling. Keep walking. Keep living. Because it is where we were wounded that we will continue to find the joy. 

A country and a lifetime away, I race out the morning door with a bit of Van Dyke Road still on my shoes. 

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Higher still.

I have no recollection of it, but my mother often reminded me, when I was a toddler I had very wide feet. She special ordered “little tiny boxes” for my chubby feet from Iverson’s shoes. She mentioned it as we browsed the Dayton’s shoe department many years later, looking for the long and narrow, as we both balanced out that way. 

Who would have thought you could have two completely different situations with the same feet? It’s with all of living, I suppose, you just have to keep learning. 

The truth is, I don’t even remember what I was trying to get through when I painted the “Nothing here I can’t rise above” woman. I’m sure it felt unsurpassable at the time, and yet… here I am, giving her (me) the new responsibility of rising above, again. 

We never finish. And I guess you could look at that as a problem, or the gift that it is — another chance to rise up. Another chance to stand tall, on the once wide, now narrow feet that carry me strong. They remind me again and again, with each step that says, “What haven’t you gotten through?” 

Years from now, I will look back and wonder why I wrote this today. Smiling. Higher still. 

Nothing here I can’t rise above.
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Gently nesting.

Having long hair, I would often come home after a tumultuous day navigating the Washington Elementary School playground with a bit of, what my mother called, a bird’s nest. Often tangled in hood or cap. Sometimes even zipped in the collar of my coat. Falling out of one ribbon and retied into another. Bungied, bungled and bouncing around my face. But I was never worried. She took her time. Untangling with care. Strand by strand. Story by story, of the birds that could live there. Until my blonde locks lay gently upon my shoulders. 

I suppose I took it for granted. I did until the day that my friend Lisa said her mother really worked her rat’s nest hard the night before. What’s a rat’s nest, I asked. My hair, she replied, it was all snarled, you know, messed up. A rat’s nest — I was silently horrified. Is that what they called it? Not my mother. Never. She would never give me a rat. Always a bird. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it takes strength to be gentle and kind. But how do we know, unless we are given the example, to first be gentle with ourselves? 

I cried when we crossed the border into Minnesota yesterday. I did not fight the handlful of silent tears. I let myself long for the nest that wasn’t there, then cradled myself in the nest that is always with me. My mother gave me that. I will have it ever. Nesting. Gently.

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Good lighting.

Of course the exterior light changes with the landscaping, but as we travel the country, so does the interior lighting. I laugh as I stand in the light of our current bathroom. It hits my hair just at the right angle. My face is illuminated. Make-up will be easily applied. And the first thing I think, in this perfect lighting, with my image about as good as it can get, dismissing all other views along the way, I think, (and I hear it in my mother’s voice), “This must be right.”

Maybe that sounds vain, but to me it sounds delightful. Because isn’t that what she taught me, to see myself in the best of light? Literally and figuratively. Who’s going to believe it if you don’t? 

And it’s not always easy. Of course not. And it probably shouldn’t be. As with all good things, we need to work at it. From moisturizers to attitude, good things have to be applied. 

And if I give that opportunity to myself, maybe I should be able to give it to others. The cranky woman in the check-out line, or behind the wheel, maybe she’s just having a bad day. Maybe she wasn’t given the proper lighting. And maybe the benefit of the doubt will help move the shade. We all need a little assistance in order to shine. I was lucky enough to receive it from my mother. And so I pass it on to you. Step into the light. It’s going to be a good day.

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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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Ping!

I must have knocked it out when putting on my scarf. I began my walk and noticed my earbud was missing. I retraced my steps in the driveway. Nothing. In the entry. Not there. I looked in the closet. Nothing. I decided to go on my walk and search again when I got home. Off balance for an hour, I returned to search. My phone said it was nearby. It asked me, would I like to ping it. Sure. Ping, ping, ping. I could hear a faint sound, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It led me into the closet. Still nothing on the floor. But it kept pinging. There was a duffle bag sitting there. Surely it hadn’t found its way into the tiniest of slits for the pocket. I picked it up. It kept pinging. I opened each pocket. Rifled my hand through each crease. Shook it. And there it was. What an invention. This pinging! Simply marvelous, my brain shouted. My heart only nodded, smiling, thinking, I already knew. 

I feel it each morning. The first thing I see is the painting of my mother dancing. Ping! My grandfather leaning in. Ping! Grandma smiling. Ping! The grandkids at the beach – Ping! Ping! Each leading me to the desired destination. Each leading me home. 

They say follow your heart. I believe it’s true. I used to go only by feel, but now I hear it as well! The marvelous ping of my heart!

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The visitors

I think paintings are a conversation. You know the kind. The breathless telling, started in the middle, with no explanation, and none needed. Because the heart has already double-dutched itself in, without skipping a beat. This motion, this rhythm, this movement, this love that pays a visit through your swinging screen door, is the only welcome I, we, need for each day.

Maybe I do it as a reminder. As a thank you. As a way to keep the conversation alive. The leaning in of grandfather. The twirl of mother. The dance of children. They are the gentle breezes in my heart. They are the laughter of stories on repeat. They bend me at the waist, and I struggle to catch my breath between the love and laughter, the tears of tenderness that stream the same amid comfort and chaotic joy.

If you are blessed enough to have such friends, such family — if you are surrounded by conversations that begin “remember when” and you’re already laughing — then you are truly blessed. So how do we thank these visitors? (Because love is a visitor.) Do we meet them at Tuesday’s random swinging door? With no wait for holiday or obligation. Only a wave of come in. Twirl in. Lean in. Heart nodding… Come.

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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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Be brave.

I have always written straight from my heart, ever since Mrs. Bergstrom first began scattering the letters to us in my first grade classroom of Washington Elementary. I looked around at the others hunched over in their desks. Didn’t they see it? The gift that she was giving us??? I just couldn’t imagine my good fortune. She wasn’t just giving me a language, she was giving me my voice. 

I began writing poems for my mother. Poems for baby dolls. I penciled them in my Big Chief notebook. I painted them on scraps of material. On my pants. As the need arose to go deeper, I found my brother’s wood burning kit hidden in the back of the garage. I plugged it in by the open door. The dust that had gathered began to smoke. I watched the trail of it go down the driveway, then I burned the words slowly into the plywood. I traced the words that said go deeper, still.

All of my suspicions were confirmed when I went to college. In my first creative writing class, I hinted at my heart. Did I dare? The paper came back with a response — “You can never be too personal.” All gates and garage doors to my heart were open wide. 

I’m not saying that it’s always easy. Sometimes it’s terrifying to expose your heart. But that’s what courage means. The actual root comes from the Latin word meaning heart. To have courage meant to share the stories of your heart. The act of being vulnerable. This, by definition, is what it means to have courage. Somewhere along the line it got mixed up with wielding weapons, or soaring great heights. It became entangled with go higher, go faster, go further…when all it meant to say was go deeper. 

I suppose it’s much bigger now, this classroom I wander, but still, I look around, wondering, “Do you see it? The gifts we have been given?”

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Three pounds of Twizzlers.

I suppose we always want what we can’t have. So when she asked me if she could bring me anything from the US, I said red licorice. We don’t have it in France. Nor jelly beans. This shouldn’t be a surprise when you know that Hershey chocolate bars are in the exotic aisle of the grocery store, along with the peanut butter. 

I kind of forgot about it. They had been here for hours, my American friends, before she brought out the gift bag. As she placed it in front of me, I saw the tip of red sticking out. Twizzlers! A two pound bag! I said, “If there are jelly beans in there as well, I might just pass out.” There were, and I didn’t. And then he said, “I brought some too. It’s my go-to travel candy.” He went to his suitcase and brought out at least another pound. “The bag is resealable,” he said, both thinking that seems highly unnecessary, and I knew I was with my tribe. 

If we remembered the countless things that connect us, maybe our country, our countries, wouldn’t feel so divided.

My mother loved jelly beans. Red were her favorite (mine as well). Then yellow. Orange. Green sometimes. White in desperation. Purple, never. She gave purple to the birds and sometimes her mother in the back seat on long car journeys. Driving, I would never have to wonder or even ask what color she passed back to my grandma, be it jelly bean or Tootsie pop. Before her hand even reached over the seat, we would begin to laugh. It’s not like she didn’t know. Even Helen Keller would have seen the lack of randomness in candy choice. It didn’t take many miles for her to join in. Cupping her hands around the sugared treat, she said, “You know I like purple.” I’m still laughing. 

What a thing it is to know someone. Without labels. Only by experience. To know my mother needed narrow shoes. My grandma, wide. Yet, their hands were surprisingly similar. Maybe no one “needs” three pounds of Twizzlers, but as the weight dwindles day by day, I am reminded where I come from. My joyful red heart beats wide open, never to be resealed.