Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: joyful


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And the peace. Smiled.

My favorite underpants are proudly tagged with the notion that if you buy three pairs you will save a significant amount of money. I have yet to find three in my size, in one location at the same time, but I love them, so I buy them one at a time, ever hopeful. 

Maybe it’s because I love the smooth fit. Or the way they stay on while wearing a summer dress (like if you suddenly have to burst into a run at an airport — if you know you know). Or the undeniable comfort it gives me, just after a wash, having a full drawer of clean underpants. Whatever the reason, I find myself patient with my underpants. And whether or not they can give it to me in a batch of three, I will love them. Would that I were so patient with everything and everyone, even myself.

I know that patience is a virtue. I also know the furious speed at which I have tried to get through things. I suppose there are a million ways to learn it. And I’ve tried close that many. And as unconventional as it may be, today I’m going to try the underpants method. Surely, if I can travel from Target to Target, bundle, head down, bracing the cold, the wind, find a clerk, ask for the brand, thumb through countless pairs, sliding the wrongly placed items along the rack, with little success, then yes, certainly I could be a little more patient with myself. With others. And if nothing else, it does make me smile. Laugh even. And in “a moment of grin” is always a good place to catch yourself.

Enjoy a laugh today. And check for panty lines.


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Bruised and joyful.

It wasn’t hidden. I just hadn’t needed it yet.

I suppose that’s the way with living. We don’t know we have the tools until we desperately need to use them. 

Until recently, I haven’t used the desk that we inherited from Dominique’s mother. It holds up the picture of my grandfather. Displays some books, but I never really sat at it and worked. But I started writing the daily blog here. And the more time I spent, the more I wanted to use it. It’s more of a vanity really. My morning crossed legs don’t fit under it, so I sit at an angle. My top knee hitting what I thought was a panel. I dropped my apple pen on the floor. No place to put it. Bending over to pick it up, my hand hit against the front panel, and it moved. I gave a little pull on the handle-less wood, and out came a drawer. I put my pen inside. How silly you might think, to not know, and yet…

I have to smile, because it’s usually in this position, bent over, perhaps on my knees, that I find the hidden drawers of my heart. The places where I store what’s needed to get through. The extra courage. The extra will. Always another collection of love. I have accessed it again and again, and it always provides. 

I learn it frequently, as I clumsily bang my knees on the journey. But eventually, I find my way — bruised and joyful.

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Spine cracking joy.

The leather spine of my mother’s book, “Divine Promises,” is almost worn bare. Each page, I know by the number typed in the corner, is still there, yet very few are attached. It is as fragile as it is beautiful, (perhaps that is the way of all promise), and it fits into the palm of my hand. Touching it, I can feel hers — her hands that searched for the meaning, longing for the promises to come true, daring them to come true, between her folded palms. 

As I run my thumb up the split, I know the pain she endured. I can name every crack. But somehow the heart held — her heart held. Her heart that clung to the promise. Her heart that allowed her to get beyond the wear, and find the joy, the laughter. And that’s what I feel when I hold it now, this exquisite joy. And it is nothing short of divine. 

We have not been promised “joy without sorrow.” I read this, feel this, daily. But joy, nonetheless. Beautiful, worn, spine cracking joy. It is barely more than the air that I breathe, but just as valuable, and I carry it with me. 

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