Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: lighthouse


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The light keeper.

I suppose one could argue that it’s all about the light.

I have no proof. No photographic evidence of the size of the windows at Washington Elementary. But for the gymnasium, every classroom, in my memory, had giant windows. Mrs. Paulson’s 4th grade class overlooked the swings of the playground. The entire back wall of the classroom seemed to be lit up with freedom.

We were just beginning to get duties. Hall, lavatory, and drinking fountain monitors. Those who got to lead the pack to the library. Crosswalk guards. And for most, the highly coveted position of running the movie projector. Don’t get me wrong, I loved movie days, but not for the reason you might think. Sure, the break from the ordinary chalk board lesson was nice. But there was only one duty I wanted. And surprisingly, no one ever challenged me for it. There was no need to squeal, “Oooooh, ooooh, pick me…” under my breath. I was the only one raising my hand when it came to volunteering for shade monitor — the one who got to pull the giant shades before showing the movie. But here’s the most extraordinary part — the one who got to tug those giant sun blocking shades open after the movie, raise them into the sky of the room, hear the flap, flap, flap as they rested at the top, and be first to feel that glorious light streaming in. The glorious flight of swings. Feet racing. Arms swinging. Bodies dangling. Complete freedom. To be the lightkeeper, what an enormous and joyful responsibility. I wanted to be the one to give that to everyone.

I wasn’t wealthy. I couldn’t buy my friends extravagant gifts. Couldn’t invite them to a palatial home. But I could give them this. The light. In my youthful, humble, hopeful mind, the best gift of all.

Maybe that’s what I’m still trying to do. In my writing. My painting. Just for a brief shining moment, be the one who gets to fling open the dark shades, and let you into the light. “OOOOOh, ooooooh! Here it comes! Can you feel it?”

Nighttime makes it final flaps. The light shines through. Good morning!

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Here was one.

The scent reached me before I reached the door. I had seen it in cartoons — this wave that traveled through the air, curling at the end to make a hook, and then pulling you in. That was the scent of my grandma making shiskis — fried dough covered in sugar. Sweet and warm it gathered you in. In my five years, I had been to the bakery on the corner of main street, but I had yet to see how things were baked.

That summer I was taken to the Douglas County Fair for the first time. The baby barn. Little tiny pigs and cows. All explained away by “it’s a miracle.” My heart still in the lead of my brain, it was enough for me, and I believed it.

When my grandmother showed me the dough for the first time, I was amazed at how that runny batter turned into something so delicious. So golden. Birthed in that very kitchen! “Is it a miracle?” I asked her. “Yes,” she said. And I believed her.

I mentioned the other day the cookies we stumbled upon at a tiny boulangerie. I wanted to recreate the happiness, so I searched the internet for a recipe. The dough didn’t look right. I checked the recipe again and again. I made the test cookie. It was nothing like what I wanted. It looked like white rubber. I closed my ipad and channeled my grandma. She never measured anything. She tweaked. And so I began. Adding sugar. A pinch of salt. A little vanilla. More butter. Test cookie. Again. A little more butter. Test cookie. Closer. More sugar. Test cookie! Golden. Delicious. I finished the batch. Curled them on my rolling pin so they resembled the French roof tiles they are named for. My miracle.

I am currently re-reading “To the lighthouse,” by Virginia Woolf. She writes,“What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations… here was one.”

I don’t know what today will bring. But I do know this — there is a plate (temporarily) full of miracles on our kitchen table.

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Lighthouses.

It sold almost immediately after she put it in the window of her gallery in Wayzata — this 4’ lighthouse painting. I suppose we are all looking for the light. We painters and sailors. We who bob up and down. Knocked over, then lifted, by the same waves.

I’ve always been a morning person. Everything seems possible in the morning. Everything lightened, not just in color, but weight. But, oh, that nighttime. That darkness. Oooh, that can really get away with me. I’ve always tried to fight it. But recently, I’ve tried something new. Not fighting, but challenging. Not going toe to toe with it, round and round with it in my brain. When those thoughts start creeping in, I acknowledge them. “I see you,” I say. “But not tonight. We can talk about it again in the morning if we need to.” It’s not a perfect system, but it seems to be helping.

I have always been up for a challenge. But rarely a fight. My grandfather taught me that in the fields. My mother taught me that in the trenches. Both houses of hope, of light.

I heard a line in a song once, “My heart is a boat on the sea.” That feels about right. So I keep riding the waves, toward the light. Hopeful for all the light to come. Grateful for all the shine I have been given.

The gallery was named The Good Life. How appropriate I thought, it is indeed. I woke to all of the possibilities coming through my window, and said to the sun, “Challenge accepted.”

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