Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: inspire


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Begin.

We didn’t have computers when we were young, but we did have “influencers.” Our dining room tables served as our home screens, and we uncomfortably and sometimes reluctantly sat around the table we never used for meals, and oohed and aaahed at the Tupperware or the candles, the home decor that everyone had, and the baskets that no one could afford. The host, (we didn’t have the trendy word for it then) told us how our lives would be so much better if we only had this container that she burped to everyone’s approval, the candle she lit as if it were a sacrifice of all things ordinary, and filled the woven baskets with things we couldn’t afford, or perhaps didn’t even want. 

I didn’t have to look up from my mother’s knee to see her eyes rolling. I could feel them wander. Feel her chest rise and fall, keeping time with the second hand on the clock. Watch her pretend to read the order form and slip it under the placemat. It’s so easy now to swipe the screen, but it was almost impossible to do the same with neighbors or sisters-in-law. Yet she, we, made our own way.

I’m not sure what it was that made my mom want something different. Made her repeal against the influence. To not follow the trend, but create a style. Be it home or fashion, the thought of someone sporting the same look as her was repulsive. And oh, I loved her for it. Now, you might say, well, she was just “influencing you”… but I say no, I was inspired. Inspired to create my own self. My own style. What’s the difference you may ask? I think to be influenced is an ending, but to be inspired, oh to be inspired, this is to begin! What a gift this is! To not be trapped at the unused table but be set free through the swinging back door! 

So I won’t tell you what to do. I’ll only fling open the door. Open all the windows. The rest is up to you! Enjoy!

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The audacity of plaid.

By the time I met her, she had already full on grandma-ed into her Elsieness, (the aproned belly, the Thom Mcann shoes) so to catch glimpses of her just being Elsie is such a delightful and necessary surprise.  

We’re all guilty of it I suppose, seeing people from a single vantage point. But the full story is never really just the single page we plop ourselves into. These softened grandmas that we rest our youthful heads against were once sharp and angled women of the world. 

I look at the few photos that I have. There is a girlish mischief from the start. So young and beautiful, with side-eye glances that said she probably knew, but didn’t feel the need to actually come out and say it — no, that was reserved for her smile. And then in middle age, already rounding, she still had the wide eyed willingness, the joyful audacity, to wear plaid. Head to toe. Vested and pantsed in full-on, still daring, still hopeful, youth-angled plaid. 

I mention it because I want to paint her soon. And I want to capture it all. She was so much more than the woman in front of the sink. In front of the stove. And I have to laugh, because looking beyond the keyboard where I type these words, I see my plaid pants. And I can honestly say, it only just occurred to me, that this is what she gave to me, the “audacity of hope.”  The little angles that say, she is relevant still — I am relevant still. Isn’t it what we all want? To be seen? To still be possible, with all of our softened edges?

So I offer you this — be bold in your choices, bold in your love for others and yourself — with all the certainty of today’s angles, dare the plaid!

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Waving away the donkeys. 


I turn the same corner every day to go for a walk. I’m reminded what century it is, as I pass the giant recycling bin, while listening to a podcast through earbuds. And yet, there they were. I heard the bells first before my eyes could focus on the image — a man leading two pack donkeys and a dog. They say time changes everything… well, here was proof that maybe it’s not about time at all.
If you’re waiting for time to do the work, I’m afraid you’re in for a long wait. Time really does nothing. It’s what you do with the time. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again — it’s about the choices we make in the time, the people we surround ourselves with, the life we create and share. The love in our hearts and the hope in our minds, at any time, can heal, create, inspire and change 

almost anything…you just have to take the time to realize it.

I’m grateful for the reminders. Sometimes I see a photograph, or read a poem and I remember that I did in fact, bear the unbearable. We’re all asked to do it from time to time. I smile, because I can recall the certainty of how this thing would never pass. And sometimes it seemed to linger at donkey-speed, but it did indeed pass. We get through.

That thing you’re in right now, this difficult time. I’m sorry. But hear me over the sound of the bells, it will pass. You will get through. I’ve walked that road. I’m still here, with a smile in each step, waving away the donkeys. 

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Passing through.

Yesterday, after posting my daily blog, I learned something new about one of my friends. The news itself was not expected, but receiving news, getting information, learning with each story told, this is not unexpected. Because, I suppose, that’s what these posts are about — these words, an entry to discussion, a connection to others. Opening doors.

I think I’ve always been fascinated with doors. These symbols of coming and going. The ever changing aspects of life. The letting in. The letting go. The moving past. Moving on. The learning. The adventure launched. The welcome home. Open doors.

I hope with each word that I write, each stroke that I paint, you can feel the turn of the doorknob, hear the creak of the hinge, see the light of the new day, and make your way through. Finding a safe place to share your story, opening another door for someone else. Allowing the sweet breeze of life itself to pass on through.

“Let someone in. Let someone go. After you’ve seen it all, you won’t remember the windows and doors, but who passed through.” Jodi HIlls

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Sing.

I went for a walk this morning.  The sky was mostly gray. The ground wet from last night’s rain. I listened to a few podcasts for inspiration. The words were good, but they didn’t really leap into my heart.  So I kept walking. Looking. Turning corners, passing trees. And then the prettiest little bird flew directly in my path, landing in the tree that guards our garage. The most elegant mix of blues and yellows. I know that bird. I have painted that bird.  It was, in fact, the first bird I painted in France.  The first bird I heard in France. With a song, so delicate, so lovely, saying, “Every day she decides to be happy, and sings.”  


I was visiting with my mother on the phone yesterday. Remember when I told you that I know my grandmother’s handwriting, and how important that is? Well, maybe even more importantly, I know my mother’s laugh. It starts almost as a little chuckle and grows into the most delightful giggle. In this laugh she is young, and possible and cancer free, and she sings. She sings a song so beautiful, that when I start to laugh with her, it becomes a dance.  Because it was just yesterday when she felt the breezes from Lakeside Ballroom, dreamed of Frank Sinatra, gave her heart, smelled the youth of her children, broke her heart, and trusted her heart again…It was just today when the wind brushed her skirt, and she hoped and twirled like a little girl.

What a gift she gives me with her song. What a gift we all have been given – another day!  Another day!!!!  Be happy!  Sing it out loud!