Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: minnesota


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All the difference.

I’d like to think that I’m smart enough to see the choices, the solutions, the options even, that are right in front of me, (I suppose we’d all like to think that), but I must admit I often need a little shove. 

My guardian angel must have perfected her eye roll by now, as I wander past the obvious signs until finally being clunked on the head, thinking, oh look what I discovered. And still, she allows me the victory. 

I was stopped in my tracks yesterday on the all too familiar path. A group of tree trimmers told me I couldn’t pass back this way. I had been thinking for the last week or so that I was getting bored with this route, this form of exercise. But yet I kept walking the same gravel. Feeling a little annoyed, I crossed the river, started walking the route that I hadn’t visited for maybe six months. Half way down the path I saw it. A complete Fit Park — filled with bikes, an elliptical, a rower, weights, stair stepper, everything. I sheepishly smiled. Alright…I get it. 

I went back in the afternoon. So pleased with my discovery.  (I can hear the laughter as I type it — “my” discovery.) 

It’s not lost on me that we studied the poem in junior high. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. Went through it word by word. Wrote the paper. Knowing, I would be the one who so easily took the different paths. I wouldn’t be afraid. I would be living the words, 

“I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.” 
And for the most part, I can say that I have. I have lived this. But not all by my own doing. I have been led, and pushed and guided and loved through it all. And as I read through the words now, I think maybe it has always been the love. Love that let me wander. Love that sat beside me when I was tired. Love that dared me to continue. Love that offered me to stay. Love that each day, even after stumbling along in rock filled shoes, produces a grateful grin on my sheepish heart. 

The sun is rising. Love is calling. I must go.

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To get deeper.

It was a year ago that I was swimming in Lake LeHommeDieu. It was perhaps unusually warm for a September afternoon. But what surprised me the most is how far I had to go to get deeper. 

I suppose everything seems “far enough” when you’re young. The distance from shore. What we give to each other — our family, our friends. Maybe I thought it was accumulative, giving this friendship. This love. But I’m not sure that it is. I think the more we live, the more we need to give. Every day. And not just for others, but for ourselves. 

Each year as I grew in the cold of winter, I found my summer self going deeper. Wanting to. Needing to. And sure, it was a little scary, wandering further from the safety of shore. But oh, how exciting. How joyful to be in the deep. 

In life and in love, I want to do the same — get in way over my head. Daring to feel it all. Give it all. In every shade of blue. 

It might sound silly, but I always thought the water remembered me. Remembered how far I went out the year before. Knew how much I had grown, and encouraged me to keep going. Buoying me when my feet no longer touched the bottom. 

On the hardest of them, I like to think the day remembers me as well. Knows how much I can handle. Tells me how much I have grown. Encourages me to keep going. Of course some days I’m frightened, but I learned long ago, I’m only ever buoyed in the deep.

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The birthplace.

My brother left VanDyke Road for the US Airforce. Barely leaving the ground, he swooped back into town, just as he promised he would, and built his high school girlfriend a house on Van Dyke Road. Right next to Vaseks. Tom became TomandRenae. I helped them stain the cupboards. They had a two car garage and two cars. Renae wore a fuzzy peach bathrobe. Tom mowed the lawn. They called each other terms of endearment. They got a big yellow lab. Everything we had lost as a family just up the gravel road, was coming to life again. And it was all as Big Ole had promised — the statue that guarded the near entrance to Van Dyke Road — this was indeed “The Birthplace of America.”

As they drove past Big Ole, on the way to the hospital to have their first child, he told her, “When we drive past Big Ole again, our lives will never be the same.” They brought Joshua Thomas home two days later, and all of lives changed. For the better. They were parents. I was an aunt. My mother was a grandma, and somehow we belonged to something again.

Three years later, when Rachel was knocking on life’s door, my brother was on a hunting trip. Freshly licensed, I was the one to drive with Renae past Big Ole. My mom stayed with Josh and I stood inside the miracle. I breathed in time and watched them pull Rachel out of Renae with forceps. Sometimes life has to be encouraged.

I am in another country now, and a world away from being able to lift either one of them, but I do still carry them with me. I always will. In so many ways, we were all born together. I suppose that’s what Big Ole meant, we would all be asked to change and grow, to star over, to let go, to begin, again and again.

I can still hear the gravel popping fresh beneath the tires. It’s the birth of a brand new day. And so it begins.

Happy Birthday, Josh Hills.

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Beside her.

My grandparents had apple trees. All variations of sweet, but for one. That tree produced sour apples. My mother loved them. During peak season, my grandma would pick sacks of apples. Ready for any visitor that came by. Reused brown paper sacks from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store filled with green. Only one was labeled. She wrote Ivy in bold, black magic marker. The sack with the sour.

I had only begun to put letters together to form words. I knew my name, of course, and I knew my mother’s name. I ran to it in delight. In this sea of ordinary brown paper, there was her name. “Are you famous?” I asked her. “Yes,” she nodded and smiled. My heart beamed. I knew it!

During my husband’s first visit to Alexandria, Minnesota, my mom took us to Herberger’s. We walked in the back door by shoes. Jessica looked up from her customer’s feet, “Oh, hi Ivy!” Sue from the bra department waved, “Hi, Ivy!” Dominique smiled. Claudia from the Clinque counter asked her how the new moisturizer was working. A man stopped, put his hand on my mother’s shoulder and said “It’s good to see you, Ivy.” “He’s the manager,” my mom offered. Dominique looked confused. “Is your mother the mayor?” he asked me. I smiled. “Of Herberger’s… yes.”

I suppose we all want to be seen…noticed for the bold markings of our own magic. But just as important, and rewarding, is to see others. What a privilege it is to be let in. To be trusted in someone’s truth. My mother gave me that gift. Let me walk beside her. I give thanks for this, every day.

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Mighty.

There’s a small stack of pots resting by the side of the house. A little plastic one on top. I think I used it as a scoop when repotting another plant. I guess some soil was left behind. Were seeds blown in from the wind? Watered by the almost non-existent summer rain? I can’t be sure. And I don’t need to be. Because it’s there. Not a weed — but a real plant. And it’s not similar to the two types we have in the house. No, it’s brand new. Strong. Greening and growing without our help. Without our knowledge or permission. Coming to life. Strong. Through all the madness of this world, it found a way. 

I’m not proud of it, but I can be a worrier. Inventing scenarios in my head that may never happen. But thankfully, I can also see the signs. The beauty all around me that says, “Look. We’re given everything we need.” I smile and carry the image with me. And on the days when I feel no stronger than a seed blowing in the wind, I think, I’m going to find a way. Hope grows mighty.

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Finding shine.

I suppose it’s only natural to get used to things. Even the things we dreamed about for years can become ordinary while living them. And we all want to be comfortable. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the shine, I don’t want to lose that. So I make the small changes. Daily.

It might sound silly, but for me, it’s the little things. I change the painting in my direct view from the breakfast table. And this brand new, this shiny comfort, reflects my smile, and the day begins. 

After lunch is my usual reading time. I switch up the place. Moving daily from chair, to bed, to outdoor hammock. Yesterday’s sun jumped off the pages as I swayed above the grass. 

Being my mother’s daughter, it is not only my joy, but my responsibility, to change my clothes frequently throughout the day. The more challenging the day, the more changes. I will hold the conversation in my head. Clutching my pearls, sometimes real, sometimes imaginary. Humbly offering my thanks. Accepting the worked-for shine that only a mirror and a mother’s memory can reflect.

Now some might say, well it’s easy for you, you live in a beautiful country. You have inspiration all around. Yes, that’s true. But I don’t eat breakfast under the Eiffel Tower each morning. I, like everyone else, am not given a reason to get out of bed…I (we) have to get out of bed and go find that reason every day.

I don’t know what today will bring. I’m not even sure what I’ll wear, or how long I’ll wear it. The clouds overhead say, “you’re on your own today.” I smile. “I’ve got this,” I say. And set out to find my shine.

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A new measure.

I spotted it on the gravel path. The sun reflected off the silver case. I picked up the tape measure. It had a few scratches, but worked perfectly.  The metal strip was strong. It stayed in place when I pushed down the lever. A good measure. I looked around the nearby driveways to see if a work truck was nearby. There was no one. We are always in need of a tape measure. We have a couple, but they never seem to be in the right place. Smiling, I hooked my find onto the waistband of my shorts and kept walking. It was a good day.

The things that make me care are forever changing. There was a time when I measured the success of the day by the odometer on my bicycle. Each turn of the pedal brought something new. Then by school grades. Every “A” neared the way out. Paychecks and car doors. Plane tickets and galleries. Fax machines and store orders. Credit cards and rent paid. Computers and social media. “Likes” and “friends.” Measure by measure.

There are a million ways, I suppose, to monitor your success. I would never presume to tell you how to do it. The only thing I know for sure is that it keeps changing. That is the gift, if you choose to see it. But you have to change along with it. Find a new measure. I tell myself this daily. Will this painting sell? It doesn’t matter — I had fun doing it. Will this post get a lot of likes? The message was just as much for me. Did I get anywhere today? I had the time to go for a walk. New measures.

I don’t know if some signs are easier to see, or if some days we just choose to see them. Either way, I needed this one. Returning home, I presented the tape measure to my husband. “Bravo!” he cheered. Love — perhaps the greatest measure of all.

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The teachers.

It’s not lost on me that the math problem Mr. Lee was trying to explain on the overhead projector, was indeed, over my head. I suppose it was this focus on words and other such artistic attractions on my three ring binder that kept me from understanding the equation. We were all told to secretly write down the answer and walk it up to him. One by one I saw my classmates make the trip. Some racing with delight. Others tripping back to their desks in defeat. My hair, still wet from swimming class the period before, dripped on my blank paper. The bell rang and with a giant sigh of relief we all got up to head toward the door. No, he said, raising his one arm. Even with one sleeve folded and pinned to his shirt in that arm’s absence, he was the most intimidating teacher we had at Central Junior High School. He said we couldn’t leave without the answer. The few that had gotten it, laughed and raced into the filling hallway. Had I spent less time calculating my route to Mr. Temple’s Social Studies class, and more time on the problem, perhaps I would have gotten the answer. Mr. Lee made a few marks on the plastic with his red pen. This apparently was enough to get a few more students out the door, but the rest of us remained. He winced at the phantom pain of his empty sleeve. We did the same for our answerless sheets of paper.

He shut the projector off. Looked at me. Directly at me. I smiled — not because I was acting “smart.” (That ship had sailed.) No, I smiled to tell him it was ok. We’d do better tomorrow. I smiled because we were neighbors after all. He couldn’t keep us here forever. People knew my schedule. I rode the bus with his children. My mom had Saturday coffee with his wife Yvonne. He wrote the answer down on the hall passes that he gave us to get to our next class.

The answers weren’t always clear. But we were always learning. You couldn’t help it. The examples were everywhere. In every room. The courage, patience, and strength displayed each day from those who stood in front of us. Willing us to a better understanding.

Later that evening. When my hair was dry. And my thoughts were clear. I looked at the problem again. It made sense. “Showing my work,” I penciled my way to the answer that he had given. After dinner, I walked the gravel of Van Dyke road to his house. I could see the lights on in their dining room. Lincoln, Tracy and Tony were still eating. I printed my name in the upper right hand corner of the paper and placed it on their front porch.

My mother was standing in the well lit doorway as I walked up the drive. She smiled. There was so much to learn.

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“Some.”

It was pretty clear from the start that I wasn’t going to be a saint. But a poet? Maybe.

I knew she loved poems. My mother. She tucked me in each night with Emily Dickinson. I was safe and feathered (the sweet spot where hope lives).

I suppose I saw early on how the words lifted her. How even in her darkest hour, they offered this light. I wanted to be a part of that. That lifting light.

Once I started looking, I could see it. You had to want to see it, but it was there — the poetry of our town. You had to pass the giant Viking statue on main street to get to my school. The giant Viking that claimed us as the “Birthplace of America.” Written on his shield, what could be more poetic than this? Inside Washington Elementary, Mr. Iverson brought the bouncing words and notes into our kindergarten music class. The librarian read the words aloud that soon we would learn to spell in Mrs. Berstrom’s first grade classroom. Words screamed from monkey bars and whispered in lavatory lines. Words I scribbled in crayon and revealed to my mother at bedtime. Hope lived.

Poetry winded through my wet hair as I raced on my bicycle from Lake Latoka. Poems ran beneath my sanded feet in the ballpark. Waved through the farm fields of my grandfather. The open windows of my grandma’s car. Bounced upon the neighbor’s screen doors. Crackled in the summer gravel of Van Dyke Road. Fell from autumn trees. Rested in winter snows. And returned with spring — just as promised. Summer bikes once again pulled from garages.

I attached the playing card to the wheel beneath my banana seat. The joke would now be on my brother, because he could no longer ask me to play “52 pickup” – now it would be 51. The click-clacking echoed through the streets as I pedaled. What was making the sound? Was it the wheel? The card? Or the wind?

And so it was with the poem. Who was writing it? Was it me? My mom? The town? The words echoed in my heart. I wrote them on paper. And we were saved.

They don’t make me want to go back, but pay attention to the place I’m in — the poem that is gently click-clacking right outside my window. A love that keeps lifting. Safe. And feathered.

“EMILY: “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?”

STAGE MANAGER: “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”

― Thornton Wilder, Our Town

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Nothing artificial.

Whenever I read my short story, “Leap of Faith,” to an audience, people wanted to buy it. This was before I had it made into a book. This was when the words were just typed on inexpensive white paper. Double spaced. Crinkled by the grip of my hand. Still, I was offered money. Obviously it wasn’t because they wanted to display it on their coffee table. What they wanted was to capture that moment. That moment the words jumped (or should I say leaped) not from the page, but from my soul, into their soul. This is the power of writing. The beauty of the written word.

There is a lot of talk lately about artificial intelligence. AI. People are using AI to do their homework. Write their messages. Even create books. I listened to a review yesterday about a newly constructed book, almost 100% artificially generated. I say constructed, because for me, to be written, it must contain the personality, the heart, the experience, the life of the writer. The reviewer seemed to agree with me. It was not a terrible book, he said. But what it lacked was soul. Soul — without it, to me, it’s only paper.

And it’s not just books. AI can now generate a picture. But can you feel the strokes? The welcoming of the blue, and the slight trepidation of the buoy. This beautiful imperfection of fear and familiar. The comfort and the uncertainty. The soulful play of the water.

Some people are worried. They imagine that humans don’t care enough. They imagine that the speed and bulk of artificial creation will win out. But I’m not afraid. I believe our taste cannot be “Old Country Buffed.” We are deeper. We are better.

Maybe I believe it because I’ve seen it. I’ve stood in front of a crowd and splashed them with the words of Lake Latoka. I’ve swam them through the blue, over their heads. Walked them up the slippery ladder onto the diving board. And I’ve hooked them, hand in hand, with words. Words that connected us. Protected us. Inspired us. Dared us to take that leap. Together.

In this I have faith. The very soul of us. In life. In love. Nothing artificial.

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