Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: Italy


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The Italian

She always wanted to be Italian, Dominique’s French cousin. She dreamed about everything Italy since she was a little girl. She loved the language and the people. How did she know? Who tells the heart what to love? Where to fall? Somehow it knows. 

I hadn’t been living in France that long when we went on an Italian excursion.  We saw glorious things. Me for the first time. Drove Italian fast, round round-a-bouts. Monuments, relics, at ever exit. Stood along with the other tourists as they tried to push or hold up the leaning tower. Bello! 

I thought it would be a complete let-down to visit this cousin on our way home. She opened the door. Flowers in hand. Smile on face. A warmth that transcended any language. I barely spoke any French, and certainly no Italian, but somehow, I felt at home. I suppose the heart can recognize another that has found its way.

I have seen extraordinary things. We have returned to other parts of Italy. I have seen the Colosseum. The Pantheon. The Vatican. Civilizations. Empires. Each standing stone, evidence. 

Maybe it all comes down to those who dare to dream. Maybe that’s why I think of her so often. Some might ask what difference does it make? What difference did she make? How can any one heart matter? But I say it is something! Something extraordinary. I can still feel the love in that room. That Italian room. That French heart. The dreams of that little girl floating around the room, filling it with the evidence of risk, of hope, of pure love. 

You can travel the world looking for guarantees. You won’t find them. But you will find examples. Monumental examples of the human experience. Sitting a country away. In my American/French heart, the evidence remains, and oh, how I believe!

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Flinging towards faith.

I’m not proud to admit that there were several years in my youth that I thought it was the leaning Tower of Pizza.

I was driving on this leg of the trip when we arrived in Pisa, Italy. I thought (and still do) that the French drive crazy, but it was raised to a new level in Italy. The last round-a-bout before the city was packed, but not packed at a standstill, packed at a blazing speed. Dominique told me you just have to go – just fly through it. But I’m from Minnesota – we wave people in. There would be no waving. No thinking. Just doing. I held my breath and double dutched my way into the flow and was flung out through the first exit. Sometimes you just have to trust. 

Some of the most frequent questions I have been asked through the years — How did you know you could become an artist? How did you know you could make it? Weren’t you scared? The truth is, the scariest part was thinking about it. Once I started doing it – I was just doing it. There was no time to be afraid. There was work to be done. And I loved doing it! It was, is, my heart’s truth, and I trust in it.

It has continued to be the case for most things in my life — the worrying is always worse than the doing. Oh, I know, because I can get myself caught up in the worrying, especially in the wee hours. But the doing has always saved me. The living in the light of day. The flinging myself into the mix, the moment, and trusting that I have been given everything I need. 

Through the round-a-bout, onto the main street of the city, I could see it. The most beautiful tower. It was real. Through all of the chaos, it stood strong, a little crooked, but strong. I’d like to think I, we, can do the same.  

I watch the sun come up, and fling myself toward the faith.

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Venice

I have come to rely on the improbability of it all.


Venice is remarkable for so many reasons. It is a visual feast. The churches, museums, and bridges, stunning by themselves, and then you add the fact that it’s all on the water…not near, but on the water… you can only shake your head and smile, marveling in the unlikely beauty of it all.


When you visit a place like Venice, there are certainly attractions that are written up in the textbooks, the guidebooks, highlighted on the maps, and of course they are noteworthy, but after leaving, I find myself remembering the little things. Clothes hanging on the line outside of the windows. Small boats, not for tourists, but the local bringing groceries to his small one item pizza restaurant. And I feel as though I walked through a painting. As if I stepped into a forgotten master’s piece. No longer a voyeur, but a participant.


I guess for me, that’s the greatest take-away from any travel. I am learning each day to be a participant. Not just on vacation. Not on the weekends. But in the ordinary events of each given day. If laundry on the line is beautiful in Venice, it can be beautiful in Aix en Provence, or Alexandria, Minnesota. Things are remarkable everywhere.


When I think of what I, we, you, have survived, it is as unlikely as a city floating on water. When something as improbable as the city of Venice still exists, it makes me believe that anything can happen. Any time. Anywhere. And it does. We are the tiny miracles, the tiny red miracles afloat in a sea of blue, participating in the remarkable beauty of today.


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The view

The view from the window is spectacular.

I arrived in Sedona, Arizona in the dark of night. I couldn’t see any of the surroundings. I went to bed and woke with the sun. I opened the hotel drapes, and almost fell over. The view! I had never seen anything like this! The red rocks. Spectacular! All this was there in the darkness, and I didn’t know it — but the light beamed from rock to rock, yellow mixed with red to create an orange that said, I’ve been here the whole time.

Waking in Italy for the first time, I saw a sky draped in elegant clouds, allowing the sun to still dance across the water. This yellow, this blue, and this playful white that invited me to dance along. I’ve never looked at clouds the same. (Maybe, like Joni Mitchell, I didn’t know clouds at all, until this very morning.)

This morning, I open yesterday’s shutters on yesterday’s house, and I feel a brand new day. The air is fresh, and the birds are singing today’s song. It is a comfort that says, I’ve been here the whole time, and a song that welcomes me to the adventure of this dance.

The view from morningtime — spectacular!!!! Let me always see the gift.

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As for the clouds, I'm just going to let them roll on by