Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: library


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Showering in the Louvre.

It was one of the best compliments ever. They were visiting us from the US. After getting ready for the day, he said of my bathroom, “It was like showering in the Louvre.” I’m still beaming. 

Sunday afternoons were always ripe for the dreaming when I was a young girl. Saturdays, my mother did laundry and catch-up work. We often snuck in a trip to the mall if my homework was done. And it always was, by Friday night.  Which left the sweet spot of Sunday afternoon, hovering between the rush of Saturday and Monday’s panic that arrived late Sunday evening. 

In our small apartment, it wasn’t unusual to wish for space. “And if I had a big house,” she said, “I would travel from room to room, each one an adventure.” “Oh yes!” I agreed. And donned in our Saturday clothes, sale tags still hanging, we decorated the imaginary rooms with all of our very real hearts!

I think of it still. Each room an experience. Books and paintings and photos and music. Walls with feeling. A welcome. A gathering. Decorated with the sweet dreams of Sunday afternoons. 

So when he said, it, it wasn’t about the bathroom itself. It was bringing my mother here. To France. It was a gathering of all sweet dreams come true. 

For the same reason I offer the scent of fresh baked cookies to the kitchen painting on a Sunday afternoon. It wafts throughout the house, past Sunday night, into the fresh week’s beginning. The dream continues. Monday promises to carry. 

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The comfort of shore.

Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock. 

Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe. 

I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did. 

Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth. 

I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore. 

The comfort of shore.
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No sharp edges.

For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within. 

I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)

I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other.  A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.

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Without lions.

One of the greatest luxuries my mother provided was the certainty of books.

It was not weekly, as the name professed, but from time to time we could order paperback books from our only source of news at Washington Elementary, The Weekly Reader. My heart began its wait at the classroom door as soon as my #2 pencil checked off the box for the wanted read. Every question between then and its arrival began with “when.” Perhaps this would have been more annoying had my mother not shared the same love of books. 

She appeased the wait with weekend trips to the Alexandria Public Library. Even the toy aisle of Ben Franklin, which it sat right behind, just off of Broadway, was no match for the lure of the words housed in this magnificent building. There were no lions statued and guarding the front door, but for me, it was nothing shy of majestic. The only math I needed was within the Dewey Decimal system. Thumbing through the card catalog was like traveling the world. Each book a ticket, a ride, a souvenir. And within the wander, I forgot the wait. 

I gasped at the sight of the box on the teacher’s desk. She pulled the scissors out from her top drawer. Spread them wide, and gently opened the brown cardboard box of dreams. Taking care not to cut those on top. The flaps cracked and my heart raced. Part of me wanting my book to be on top. Part of me wishing this sensation to last to the bottom. Somewhere in between, she called my name, and without touching the ground, my bumper tennis shoes raced to the front of the room and pulled the book to my chest. It remained there, only pulled out to read in the comfort of my bed, next to my mother’s side. 

I only mention it, because I am currently in a moment of waiting. And I have to catch myself, remind myself, I already the tools. And so I build the panels. I paint the birds. I bake the cookies. Walk the paths. Read the books. Without lions, worry turns to wonder, turns to wander. Love pulls me along, pulls me in. And I am saved. 

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In the word.

We went in search of seals along the coastline of Monterey, California, but instead I found myself back at the kitchen table of our house on Van Dyke Road. 

I was just a tween when I read it, John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I loved to read. I had been reading for years. First just moving my eyes along with my mother’s words. Then sounding them out by myself by lamp light. (I never had to hide under covers, my mother encouraged me to read.) But this was the first book, my first adult feeling book, my first read that made me climb the stairs from my bedroom, taking them two at a time because of the urgency to discuss this marvelous book with my mother. She smiled as she wiped the orange countertop with a dishrag. She knew the feeling. She was a voracious reader herself. She let me go on and on, not unlike Lenny I suppose, about each word. Each page. Each rabbit. My life has never been the same.

That conversation remained throughout her life. We would call each other after every book. From city to city. Country to country. The words kept us connected. She wrote notes on sticky pads. I wrote thoughts on my iPad. We gathered in between. 

We didn’t see the seals yesterday, but the romance of this coastline went deep. John Steinbeck helped for sure, but it was my mother that aided most in the authoring of my soul. 

We are given what we need, I suppose, when we need it. In the absence of seals, I visited my home.

You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
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A feathered yes.

It is certainly too big and too heavy for my suitcase, but there was no way that I wasn’t going to bring it from France. 

They watched eagerly as I opened the Christmas present. A beautiful sketchbook. Watching my face react, certain they had gotten it right, sure that they knew me, they asked if I would bring it with me to the US. When you are offered love, the only answer is yes. 

I don’t expect to see her in France, my mom. She was never there. But here, in all of our sacred spaces, from mall to museum, coffee shops to cuisine, I look around every corner of Minneapolis. I touch the blouse that she would have tried on. Pick up the candle in our shared signature fragrance. Think to double the coffee order. And a smile weighs at my heart. Is it heavy? Indeed. But it is not a burden. It is the weight of love. A joyful weight. One that I will carry forever. Without question. 

I begin to fill it. I start by sketching a weightless bird with the French pencil I bought at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Each feather answers yes and I proudly carry it with me, all of this love.

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Maintaining the twirl.

I suppose it’s a lot to do with rhythm with the ones we love. 

Shari, Jan and I became best friends at Washington Elementary because of the jump rope. A simple line that connected us. How seamlessly we could move from our positions. Two at each end of the rope singing, one jumping in to the words of the song. As the song came to an end, the one in the middle would jump out and grab the plastic handle of the rope, and maintain the twirl, while the one who let go ran around, timed the spin with outstretched hands, and jumped in. The song of this playground friendship continued, never missing a beat. 

My mother loved all words. And she gathered me in, with poems, prayers and promises. Pillowed beside me, she read aloud each night. As I gained strength from the lessons of Mrs. Bergstrom’s first grade teachings, I began to read along. And the lifelong practice continued. 

When she loved a phrase. A line. A paragraph from a current book, she wrote it down on a yellow sticky note and hung it by the phone — at the ready for our next conversation. The words would say, this is so me, or so you, or so us. Each letter deepening our connection. 

I started a new book a couple of days ago — “Same as it ever was”, by Claire Lombardo. Not long in, she had me wanting a sticky note. One woman is asking a clearly troubled woman in tears, how she is, and the woman stumbles out the word fine, and the other replies, “I wonder about the accuracy of that statement.” Such delight! I wanted a landline, a sticky pad and my mother. I could say I have none of these, but that’s not entirely true. I have this format. I have these words. And I share them with you. I know my mom is laughing heavenly, and the music continues, as I maintain the twirl.

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Daring the hollow.

Saying goodbye to my friends on their recent visit, left a small empty space in my heart. Perhaps in the shape of a school, I thought. Because that’s where we first met. Where we first started to learn about each other. Behind books, buses and bleachers, we came together, with all of our common Minnesota sayings, and our distant uncommon dreams. (As the song says, we carried each other “from crayons to perfume.”) So when I really think about it, they have left a shape indeed, but it will never be empty. It is filled with all that I have seen of them, and they of me. I suppose that’s the risk of loving — to carve out this space for others, and daring it to be filled.

I mention it because it is the only way to describe how I felt after finishing the most recent book by Elizabeth Strout, “Tell me Everything.” This seemingly “hollow” of the final page, is actually filled with the most glorious flawed and fantastic people. Most will ask, “Well, what was it about?” I could no more answer this than if you asked me, “What is it like to have friends?” It is sweet and sad and funny, oh, so bending at the waist funny, and the same exact motion with tears — both with tears, I suppose, if you’re doing it right. All that tenderness. So still, if you need to know what it’s about — I would have to say about a two inch space carved into my heart, in the shape of Maine.

I place the book up on the shelf and think, “I had such a friend.”

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Everything.

We went to the bookstore to pick up the latest release of Elizabeth Strout. She is one of my favorites authors. As I held it to my chest, the woman behind the counter was smiling at me. She loved her too. It wasn’t a competition, but we went through the titles excitedly, until we both ended up nearly moving to Maine (Strout’s home). 

I went into the small nook where Dominique was looking for murder and mystery. Soon she was back with us, asking me if I had watched the series made from the books, with Frances McDormand. Of course, I love her too, I said. “You know she was in here last summer,” she said. “No!!!!” I said, not in disbelief, but in why wasn’t I here, clutching a book!!!!! “Tell me everything,” I said.  “Oh, yes,” she said, “And I wasn’t sure it was her at first, when I saw her walking up the stairs, because how could it be her, but then I knew it was, and I watched her touch the books, and I hope she used the bathroom, and then she smiled at us, so I followed her all through town!” We laughed and I hugged my book tighter.  

It wasn’t until this morning, pulling the book out of the Book In Bar bag, that I noticed the title — “Tell me Everything.” Oh, how I love life! The beauty of how words connect us. Gather us in, letter by letter. I suppose, in my own humble way, that’s what I’m trying to do each day. 

I haven’t started the book yet, but I’m sure I’ll give you a report when I’m done. In the meantime, we clutch each other in, just a little closer.

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Reminders of yellow.

She used to write them on little yellow sticky notes and put them by her telephone — favorite lines from the books she was reading.  They would be at the ready for discussion when she called me. Maybe everything in that sentence is dated. Printed books. Wall mounted phones. Notes hand written. My mother. But for me, it feels like five minutes ago. Now.

She is still getting in her red Ford Focus. Driving down the street to the Public Library to return the books — never in the drop box, but to the librarian Bobbi Jo, who is lucky enough to hear the “yellow notes” straight from my mother’s mouth. And she is quick to deacon herself back home on the bench in front of the picture window. And the sunlit words of choice find their way from page to heart to hand to pad to me. And it never ends. 

Each note was a reflection, a reminder I suppose, of who she was. We’re all looking to find ourselves, the best of ourselves, and pass it on. And, oh, she was good at it.

I change the business card holder on my desk frequently. Even with paint on my hands and pants, I need reminding of who I am. Who I want to be. A reminder to keep searching. To keep writing down the clues. Little bits of my heart. And to pass them on. Is it the best of who I am? For today, yes. Maybe tomorrow, even better. Because the calls are still coming into my heart. I hear my mother’s voice. And Bobbi Jo will remind me through Facebook that this library is still open. And maybe we will all get a little better at communicating the best of ourselves.  And possibly, most probably, if we Ivy it right, the yellow of our beating hearts, will reach through all lines, and stick.

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