Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: horse


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Let’s ride!

Perhaps my most equestrian act is pulling in the reigns of my excitement for the upcoming Christmas holiday. 

I don’t take them off of my musical playlist, but for a good nine months, while painting in the studio, I skip through the Christmas songs. A few days ago, my hands covered in paint, (which is always the case so it’s not really an excuse), when Frank Sinatra declared he had in fact “heard the bells of Christmas Day,” I let it play to completion. Up on the horse, in full trot. 

Visiting recently, she asked about the horse painting in the bedroom. She wasn’t sure if I was a rider. I explained my reason for painting it. She looked surprised when I began, “One of my favorite restaurants in Chicago was the RL — Ralph Lauren restaurant…” I continued the explanation. “All of the walls were covered in the warmth of these beautiful paintings and photographs. As I sat with my mom, pre-Christmas, sipping on a glass of wine after a full day of shopping on Michigan Avenue, the large horse on the wall watched over us, promising to keep the joy of Christmas alive for every year to come.” I suppose it sounds silly, but if you felt it, that warmth, if you were gathered in that love, that promise, I guarantee you would do the same — create anything to preserve it. That’s why I painted the horse.

I suppose that’s what art is, for me anyway, this preservation of warmth, love. And it’s not living in the past — I don’t want to go backwards. It’s more of a celebration. A celebration of a moment with my mother on Michigan Avenue. Or capturing the kids beachside, in a state of wonderment. Gathering in the freshness of laundry on the line — the promise of summer. Allowing the Christmas songs to remain in the playlist year round. 

I guess it’s official, I have let loose the reigns. It’s time to feel it all! I walk out of the morning bedroom and proclaim — Let’s ride!

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Building a soul.

I was nervous to take the test. If I didn’t get it right, then what did anything mean? The podcaster explained how it would work. A professional author was being challenged by Artificial Intelligence. Both were given the same prompts. Each was to write a short story. Without giving away the authors, both stories were going to be played and it was up to us, the listeners, to guess between human and AI.

The first story began. Immediately specific and elegant. My heart quickly raised its hand with an “ooooo, ooooo,” convinced that it knew this had to be the human author. Hold on, my brain urged, but when they reached the part where, on the dating app, the man texted the woman that he made eye contact with the woodpecker that sat on the horse, simply to explain what sort of mountain biker he was, even my brain had to concede that this must be the human. (It sounds a little crazy without context, but it was delightful). The second story began. It had all the prompts. Contained the right words. Seemed grammatically efficient — so efficient that it was boring. One might say, artificial.

The podcaster began talking with the human author. Which one did you write? The first one, she answered. My all’s right with the world angels sang in perfect harmony. I shook my head in constant agreement when the podcaster said the second story – the AI one – lacked soul. Yes! I thought, maybe even out loud.

I am not afraid of AI. It will be able to perform all sorts of tasks. Quickly. Efficiently. I suppose what I am more afraid of are the humans that spew out, with the same ease and speed, words of hurt and destruction. Dehumanizing others, as if neither had a soul. And I am afraid of the humans that hear these words and simply fall in line.

For me, I’m not willing to throw it all away so quickly. It takes a long time to build a soul. And constant upkeep. I know I’m getting older. With a little grace, I hope I’m getting wiser. I know for sure that we have to begin and begin again. We have to trust in it, follow it, nurture it along the path, and when we find ourselves, shoes deep in gravel on the side of a mountain, the heart yelling, “ooooo, oooooo,” and the soul yelling, “Look, a woodpecker on a horse!” — we have to listen!

The brain agrees. Nods gently. Never breaking eye contact with the soul.

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On Wobbly Knees.

Last night I finished reading the book Horse, by Geraldine Brooks. To simplify my review, I will just say, “Yes.” Was it good? Yes. Should I read it? Yes. Will I be moved? Yes. Will I learn something? Yes. Is it about horses? Yes. And more? Oh, Yes!!! It spans generations, covering the issues of slavery, racism, the Civil War, art, humanity — then and now. How far we’ve come, how extraordinarily far we have to go.

I suppose I was first drawn to read it because of the central figures of the horse paintings themselves. But then it became so much more. And that is the beauty of art. When it is done well, framed on canvas or bound in words, it conveys a story. A story so fluid that it carries you — carries you with the grace and elegance of chestnut legs in the Kentucky bluegrass.

But what’s it about??? Everyone always wants the short answer. I’m sorry, but the short answer is – read it.

It’s not lost on me that hanging above my head, as I turned from page to page, was my humble painting of a horse. It is entitled, “Unconditional.” And for me that is love. But how do we get there? The only path that I have found is empathy. And the clear path to empathy is education. When we know more — we do more. When we know better — we do better. So I read. And I read some more. And I write. And I write some more. I paint. And, well, more. And I just try to do better. Live better. Racing on my own fragile legs. Racing against time, and bigotry. Racing against everyone who is more than willing to bet against you. Racing away from the conditional.

There was a popular song when I was a teenager, by Dan Fogelberg — Run for the Roses. My mom bought the 45. I played it again and again. For I was, just as the song began, “on wobbly knees, with mama beside you, to help you along…” And I was carried by the melody. Carried by the words —

“It’s breeding and it’s training
And it’s something unknown
That drives you
And carries you home
And it’s run for the roses
As fast as you can
Your fate is delivered
Your moment’s at hand
It’s the chance of a lifetime
In a lifetime of chance
And it’s high time you joined
In the dance.”

I didn’t have the word for it then – this “empathy” – this joining in the dance. But I could see the path. And I wanted to be on it. I still do. I’m still wobbling along, but I’m still learning. Maybe we all can. It’s more than “high time.”

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The horse on Michigan Ave.

The Ralph Lauren (RL) restaurant in Chicago was the reason I painted this horse. We had just finished shopping a marathon on Michigan Avenue, my mom and I, and we stopped — not really choosing this restaurant for the culinary experience, but the location. Our feet agreed this was the place for a break. Our table faced the wall of photographs and paintings. All elegantly lit. Draping our hearts in mahogany. Glasses of wine refreshing and gently embellishing the glorious minutes of the day.


We were shoppers. Not big buyers. Perhaps it was the beauty of the clothing. The curated displays. The bustling sidewalks that didn’t care how we got there, but swept us up in a sea of acceptance. We were welcomed. Good enough. So we walked each street. Entered each store. Michigan Avenue didn’t know that we used to put items on lay-a-way in a small town in Minnesota. Michigan Avenue opened its doors, and we danced in and out.


We sat in the restaurant and smiled. Held up the few items we had purchased. Laughed. Praised. Clapped even. And sighed. Breathing in so deeply as to never forget the warmth of this day. The warmth of being together. The warmth of shared experience. The warmth of shared interests. The warmth that would carry us through the coldest of days.
There was a single horse on the wall. So elegant. Such grace. And so I painted that horse. It hangs in a bedroom across the sea, and takes me back to that street — that comfort — that joy — that rest — that warmth of time well spent.


Find your way to that place. It’s waiting, just for you.

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