Jodi Hills

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


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Radical Hospitality.

I am no more or less related to Sara, the co-owner of Pascal’s Patisserie than I am to Dominique’s cousin, Bruno, who completes the “co”. I knew the croissants would be good. He’s French, of course. But I was not prepared for Sara – this force of nature that was so welcoming, I was full before we even started to taste.

When you meet your people, you just know. I was reminded of it watching a repeat of Sex in the City while on the treadmill that very morning. It was Charlotte who asked the other girls, “What if we could be each other’s soulmates…” Walking into the bakery yesterday, not two steps into the kitchen, I knew I had found one of mine. Between directing the workers and leading us through the heavenly scents, it felt like I was home.

First she brought us the Dubai croissant — a pistachio filled croissant that made my eyes roll into the back of my head, where I was able to see the part of my brain that said, “pay attention to this woman.” And I did. We double-dutched through a conversation of delight and I blurted out “I need to paint you!” (As I often do when delighted — to which I am mostly met with a backing up so extreme that you can almost hear the beeps.) Not with Sara. She said YES! Even before I asked to take her photo, she was in mid pose! OH, how I love those that lead with yes! She continued to load our plates and our hearts.

I didn’t have the words for it until later that afternoon. We went north to the Mission in Santa Barbara. I looked under the “about” of it, and the first and only sentence was “Old Mission Santa Barbara believes in radical hospitality.” Is it ironic that I would experience both on such a glorious day, or just my good fortune?

And shouldn’t this be our mission? Wouldn’t life be extra delicious. I eat this morning’s croissant that we were so radically and joyfully gifted, and I lead with YES!


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To dare the sand.

I have a rock in my shoe almost daily. Are my shoes too wide? My socks too low? Am I walking too fast? It makes more sense when I’m on the gravel path at home, but even when I’m going to the fitness room in the hotel? I have to laugh about it now, because it’s simply part of my routine, to shake out each sock, to give each shoe a couple extra bumps. 

Near the beach in Santa Monica yesterday, it made sense that I would pick up a little sand in my slip on mules. (Certainly not beachwear, but perfect for the restaurant on the pier.) (Sand is really only small rocks with a good reputation.) So, as I always do with sand, I gave my feet a little brush and allowed myself to travel back in time. Back to the first day at the beach each summer (spring really) in Minnesota. Oh, how we longed for summer. And wasn’t it wonderful to ache for it? To dare the sand just a little too early. To let it wriggle between our winter white toes and dare us towards the water. It seemed to be an exfoliant of all our winter woes, our schoolyard scuffles. It was the opposite of bundling — a release into the warmth of possibility! 

I suppose it’s all about perspective. When I think about where sand can take me, why would I ever worry about a pebble?

I am laced and ready for whatever the day may bring.