Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: learn


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The gathering phase.

I never thought of myself as shy. I think I just wasn’t ready.

She got the first note from my Kindergarten teacher, concerned that I didn’t say much. “She’s so shy,” it read. My mother replied with a “She’s fine.” It happened again in first and second grade. Maybe third. My mother, knowing me, said “When she has something to say she’ll say it. I smiled in nonverbal agreement. Her belief was mine, and since the fifth grade at Washington Elementary my heart (which is really our only voice) has always been at the ready. I sing it loud through words and art and voice.

I don’t know how my mother knew about the gathering phase. Maybe it’s because she would have loved the same opportunity. I’m grateful that she offered it to me. She never forced what was growing, greening, becoming, inside of me. She gave it the time it needed — the time I needed — and that has made all the difference.

I think we’re often in such a hurry to get people “healed”, or to whatever we consider “normal.” And that’s mostly all for us. I know the furious speed at which we want to get over. But we all have to go through. In our time and in our way.

My friend was surprised yesterday, at the gallery in Palm Springs, how easily I walked up to the owner to promote myself. I wasn’t afraid. I smiled to the sky. I had the confidence, the voice, I can only imagine, because I had been given the time. 

May we all allow each other our moments in the gathering phase.

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Wide open.

I would have never thought to use the phrase, even if I was aware of it — “Up to code” — all I knew was that everything I loved at Central Junior High was deep in the basement. Were there even windows in the art room? I can’t be sure. Because truth be told, it all felt like a window, a magic doorway to travel. It was, in my teenage vocabulary, wide open!  

The time we spent on each medium was merely to get a taste. Before the wheels stopped spinning, or the clay dried on our eager fingers, we were off to the dark room. We drew grids on cartoons from the Sunday papers and duplicated panels from the Wizard of Id. Was it good? We didn’t even wonder, because our thin, long haired teacher, said things like no other junior high teacher from the upper levels. He said, “that’s cool,” and shook his head slowly. Short of snapping fingers, for one hour a week, we were the beatniks of Central Junior High.  

It was ironic, I suppose, to feel so free in this darkened basement, but I did. And it was easy to be brave below, where no one else was watching. I pocketed the dreams, hoping, willing even, that one day I would take them out of the basement, into the light of day. Stuffed deeply, it took many years, but here I am. Out in the open. The wide open! And I look at the walls covered in portraits and travels. I thumb through my sketchbook. I share with you. The world. 

I see the paint on my thigh as I type the words this morning.  I shake my head slowly, my heart up to the only code it knows, and I think, that really IS cool. 

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The translators. 

I suppose every baby sister looks to her older brother. Forgetting all the complicated gender roles, I don’t think it has to be defined as support, or leadership, nor guidance…maybe sometimes it feels that way, but really, for me, I just want to be loved. And speaking of complications…it has taken me a long time to understand that people don’t, or can’t always love you in the way that you want. 

Learning the French language, it becomes more clear every day — “that doesn’t translate,” “we don’t have a word for that,” “we have six words for that,” “we use the same word, but for different context.” What??? It seems to be the same for love. My brother and I have always struggled to get the language right. When I’m looking for a hug, he will bring me a sack of fish. Me thinking, “why can’t you just do it,” — while he’s probably thinking, “look what I did for you…” I’m trying to get better. I want to get better. If I can put forth the effort to learn French, I must try to learn the language of Tom. 

It was at my mother’s funeral when I felt it. The minister told us to stand, while grief told my knees to buckle. It was Micah, my nephew, Tom’s youngest grandson, who switched places and stood beside me. He put his small arms around my waist and just held me. I can still feel it. Love.

When I began this painting of Tom’s arm wrapped around Brody, (his oldest grandson), and Brody’s arm wrapped around Micah, and Micah’s arm simply reaching out, I got it. The hug, the love, was being passed down through all of them, somehow finding its way to me. What I had been longing for, I already had. Love.

It was Brody and Micah who became the translators. I don’t know how to fish, but I do know how to paint. I hope they can feel the love in this. I do. 

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The Strand.

It was the first gift given to us by Washington Elementary, and one of the most lasting. Plopped randomly on our mats behind her big wooden desk, Mrs. Strand stood before us. We all accessed this new situation. Some through tears. Others laughter. I looked around. Of all the boys and girls, David Holte was the only one from Van Dyke Road — surely an ally if I needed one. One eye remained on him, the other scanned the room. Everything was unfamiliar. Even this way of sitting, cross legged. For the past 90 days or so, I don’t remember even sitting. When the sun came up my legs began to move rapidly, only to come to a screeching halt as it set in the evening. Hands on my bent knees I marveled at how quick they were to obey. So ready to relinquish their bronze color. To give in to the lavender-white just around winter’s corner. My toes still jiggled, perhaps all hope was not lost. They kept time with my fluttering heart. What could she possibly give us, I thought, that was worth letting go of August. Then she asked the question — “What did you do over your summer vacation?”  Thoughts were now audible. There was an excitement in the room. Sweaty thighs lifted above mats. Arms shot in the air. All of it danced above our heads — every lake splash, every bike ridden, baseballs soaring, car windows open, dogs barking, wagons pulled, Dairy Queens and Crazy Dayz on main street — all alive! How did she do it? Even with the windows closed and the door shut, everything got in. We still had everything. And when we shared, we had even more. 

I won’t forget this gift she gave. (It’s not lost on me that it was indeed a “strand,” — one that connected us, and led us forward.) I use it every day. 

August 15th sounds its warning of summer’s end. I miss how easily I used to jump from a cross legged position. I miss my mom. But, joyfully, it still all gets in. All the splashes of laughter and comforts of love. There is still so much more to learn. Days to welcome with fluttering toes and hearts. I’m ready — ready for more. 

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She was the front.

I loved school before it even began. On Saturday mornings when my mother looked at patterns in the back of Woolworth’s, she let me wander over to the book section. I was allowed one study book each week. Even though I hadn’t started Kindergarten, I got to choose from the first grade section. Sunday afternoons she helped me with my numbers, my letters, and I was saved.

Even in all this comfort, I found a way to worry. Maybe not in the normal sense. I wasn’t afraid of the approaching school date, no, it all just meant so much. I knew it was important. I could feel it from my baretted bangs down to my bumper tennis shoes. Where should I sit on the first bus ride? Will the desks be assigned? Where will I put my books? I asked the questions over and over again to anyone who would listen. My “anyones” at the time happened to be my mother and my grandfather. I knew that he had once given her the same advice, because her answer was the same as his — “When given the chance, or even when you have to just take it, go to the front.”

I repeated it in my head as I waited by the mailboxes for the big yellow ride to school. “Go to the front. Go to the front.” The air brakes whistled. He opened the door. I hopped the stairs and sat in the first seat. I had full view as we picked up all the other students. Some eager. Some angry. Some ready. Some being dragged. I was first off at Washington Elementary. I walked up the stairs to large doors. Turned to the right. Down the stairs. The morning sun lit up the desks. I sat in the front row, and I was saved.

I suppose she heard the same words going over and over in her head, even on her lowest days, as she forced herself to the front desk of the Superintendent’s office. People still tell me she was the first person to greet them as they came to teach. To learn. To work at Independent School District 206. She didn’t just go to the front — she WAS the front!

It’s not lost on me. I use it still. Placing my books on the shelf. My art on the walls. Not out of arrogance, but from a sense of belonging. It everything to be raised in love, not fear. That doesn’t mean I was never, am never, afraid. Of course I am. There is no bravery without being afraid. But I take my chances, even when they aren’t so obvious, and I put myself in the front row (my anyones beside me). Not always safe, but forever saved.

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Merrily.

Open windows on yellow buses made every team sound like a choir. 

Before we were even allowed to ride team buses, or had the need to, they taught us how to sing in a round — a song where everyone sings the same part at different times. We were only 5 years old when Mr. Iverson came into our classroom and introduced us with this gift. It wasn’t long before together we were rowing boats gently down the stream, running after mice that couldn’t see, even welcoming our sleeping French brother Jacques.

As with so many things, it seemed as if they knew how much we would need this commonality. As we grew, we were given the freedom to make choices. Join groups. Follow ideas. And with this, perhaps without our knowledge or permission, we began to see all of our differences. And begin to make judgements. Maybe that’s inevitable. But maybe that’s why they gave us the songs. The collective music calmed our nerves as we traveled to the event. It also helped us in the commiseration or celebration afterwards. Because in the song, as it made its way around the bus, we were one.

Perhaps more than ever, we need to row our boats merrily, together. Because isn’t it true that we are all on the same team? Aren’t we all asked to go through the same things, only at different times? Fear, anger, confusion, joy, even love — it all makes the rounds. If we could only see that we were all in this together, maybe we’d hear the music once again. 

Maybe it’s just a dream, but isn’t that what the song said life was supposed to be? We once sang it so loudly, so hopefully, “Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily…” Perhaps we could sing it again. 

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The field trip.

The excitement began the minute she passed out the permission slips. Holding it in my hand, I knew that just the looping of my mother’s “I” into the ending “s” of our last name, would be the ticket releasing me from desk to bus to destination. I placed it in my pocket carefully like Willy Wonka gold, and it sizzled there until my mom returned from work. Even though the trip was a week away, I could smell the freedom fumes of the bus with each letter she wrote.

My mom liked a big box calendar. She could easily write and read appointments. For me, each date was the space for a large “X”, counting down the days until the field trip. Each morning my eyes darted from behind cereal box to the calendar, willing time to go faster.

The day of the field trip, it was only a moment between the bus ride of “I wonder what it will be,” to the return trip of “wasn’t that something!” In the familiar of our Washington Elementary desks, we spoke of it for days. And it made all that sameness brand new. Pencils and paper buzzed with energy. Had they always felt this way?

We returned home yesterday from our trip to the handmade palace. Our conversation continues. The marvel remains. “What this one man did!” “What can I do?” The taste of toast and jam. The strong sips of coffee brewed. Was breakfast always this special?

I’m handing it to you now. Passing it back to your desk. This slip of freedom. The letters have been looped. The bus is running by the curb. Take it. Give yourself the permission. Go on a field trip. See something around you. Live! Because what you willed from behind cereal boxes is all coming true — it’s going so fast! Go see something! Go be something! Even for just a moment. The fumes of freedom are wafting.

May your heart be well traveled.

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Navigating the pristine.

It happens every time we visit a museum or castle. The pristine grounds will be marked with “keep off the grass” signs (in multiple languages). With the large crowds navigating on sidewalks or paths, inevitably, there is always one person, grinning from ear to ear, certain they are the only person who was smart enough to get this camera perspective. So proud as they stand firm, unknowingly, next to the warning sign. Now I get it, sometimes the language barrier can be tricky, and I never blame children, but most of us possess the awareness to in fact “keep off the grass.” 

The thing is, we learned it right from the start, didn’t we? I remember Mrs. Strand was the first — our kindergarten teacher. And even when Mrs. Podolski replaced her mid year so she could go have her twins, it continued — this identifying the child seated in the next desk as a “neighbor.” Papers were hung next to our neighbors’. Our cubby holes were kept clean out of respect for our neighbors’. We stood in line at the drinking fountain with our neighbors. Marched out calmly in fire drills. Went to lunch. Whispered in the library. Climbed through times tables. Always beside our neighbor. 

Maybe I noticed it because I loved our house neighborhood on VanDyke Road. I loved the people. I loved knowing whose screen door was always open. Whose house wouldn’t mind an extra bike abandoned in the driveway. I even loved Mrs. Muzik’s yard with the pristine grass that we weren’t allowed to run through — because she, too, was our neighbor. And that meant something.

Today, we have the possibility to connect with more people around the world. And I am grateful for these connections. Truly. But I see how some communicate with each other. Trampling over each other. It shocks me still. I understand that things change. Washington School is filled with condos. They paved over the familiar gravel of VanDyke Road. But aren’t we still neighbors? I’d like to think so. I will go on thinking so, as I navigate the pristine. 

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I choose bloom.

“In April, millions of tiny flowers spread over the blackjack hills and vast prairies in the Osage territory of Oklahoma… In May, when coyotes howl beneath an unnervingly large moon, taller plants, such as spiderworts and black-eyed Susans, begin to creep over the tinier blooms… The necks of the smaller flowers break and their petals flutter away, and before long they are buried underground. This is why the Osage… refer to May as the time of the flower-killing moon.”  David Grann

We didn’t study the Osage, or perhaps I would have thought it was May, the “cruelest” of months. No, at Central Junior High, Mr. Rolfsrud had us studying T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, touting “April” as the cruellest month.” Maybe we were too young to understand either one — the cruelty of April or May. We, barely into living our collective Februarys, still believed in all things good. All things possible.

I’m reading Killers of the Flower Moon now. I’m a bit embarrassed to come to it this late, but I am here, now, learning. Maybe that’s all any of us can do. I am but a tiny bloom, for sure. And while some may find that terrifying, I see it as a yearly victory. Resilience. There are parts of me that have been trampled by the largest of Susans, but I’m still here. And each time, there comes a decision, bloom again or stay buried. I choose bloom. May we all choose bloom. 

As we keep springing forward, maybe it becomes easier to see. (I hope. I pray.) Empathy reveals our constant struggles and beauty. We’re only asked to keep growing. To not be trampled by the understanding, but set free. 

The sun begins to warm our spring day. The cool of early morning offers my heart just a hint of February, and I still believe.

“And each time, there comes a decision, bloom again or stay buried. I choose bloom. May we all choose bloom. “
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Cheating hearts.

If it was only 29 years, it was 29 of the hardest years I had ever seen.

Visiting the Hank Williams museum was our first choice in Montgomery, Alabama, after finding out the Rosa Parks Museum was closed, the Legacy museum was closed, and the art museum was closed. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald’s house, closed.

Of course I had heard of “Your cheatin’ heart,” and perhaps a few other songs, but I can’t say I was a real fan. I just assumed he was old, as I had with anyone I was introduced to when I was young. And the images didn’t tell a different story. In the videos and photos, I would have said he was in his seventies.

The man at the front counter said to be sure and ask questions. There were mostly stage outfits and record labels, nothing that questionable. The wooden Native Americans caught my eye. This made me wonder, until I saw the story of his song, “Kaw-Liga.” The whole thing made me a little uncomfortable. The story of the Native American turning to wood by the water, waiting for his true love. They spelled it differently on the marker by the bridge. Differently on the carved statue in the museum. Someone got it wrong. (I was having the feeling that we all did.) Of course I asked about the spelling. He didn’t actually spell it, but said the word slowly, claiming that this was correct because “he fished in that very lake.”

Still confused, we walked to Hank’s statue just down the street. I saw the date listed, 1923 – 1953. It took a minute to compute. Certainly this wasn’t his age. Were these the years he lived here? The years of his songs? 30 years old? Maybe it was the same engraver who tried to spell Kaw-Ligi. It just couldn’t be. I asked Siri. 29 she said. “It’s even worse,” I shouted to Dominique in the street. He was only 29! A hard 29!

So many things get by us. So easily. It’s hard to believe, even when the images are right there in front of us. The Freedom Riders. Bloody Sunday. The Civil Rights Movement. We learned the dates in school. But did we ask the questions? Are we asking the questions? Are we curious enough, open enough, loving enough, not to repeat the same horrific mistakes?

I suppose that’s the one thing the man at the Hank Williams counter got right – “Be sure to ask some questions.”

If you saw that I am not just my face, but all that I have faced… and if I did that for you…
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