Jodi Hills

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


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Without sleep or tulip.

The first 7 hour time change means, for me, two blogs in twenty four hours. Arriving in Amsterdam, on no sleep, and one double espresso, it seems like a lot to ask of my brain, but as always, my heart starts typing. 

Even the tulip stands are not  open, so inspiration must come from within. (But then, doesn’t it always.) People have asked me through the years, “What inspires you?” There is always a pause because I’m laughing at the answer I want to say, knowing it isn’t the answer they want to hear – nothing and everything. I’m reminded of when I was gifted a fancy mixer. As I was unboxing it, my husband asked, “What does it make?” “It doesn’t make anything,” I replied, knowing that by itself, it really does nothing, but with it, I can make bread and cookies and cakes, everything! Nothing and everything. Just like with art. Just like with writing. Just like with life. We have to, not find the inspiration, but be it!

And so I type, without sleep or tulip, and the story arrives. Right on time. Waiting for the next flight home, I have everything. 


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Gravel’s beauty.

I imagine longing has to stay in the car. And in that moment, that small and courageous step onto the uncertainty of gravel, in the abandonment of longing and the commencement of action, this, I think, is where true hope can begin.

I wanted to capture that moment. Stroke by stroke. As a reminder. To do something. And I’m not saying it’s easy. It can be terrifying to leave the ride — the “well, we’ve always done it this way” — even when you know it’s not taking you where you want to go. But this courage, to drop the baggage of what was, and see what will be, there is beauty in this. I can see it. Maybe you need to see it too.

I step away from the car. I can feel the rocks beneath my feet. It’s not painful. It feels like possibility. And I am not afraid. With each step I hear the words, “She wasn’t where she had been. She wasn’t where she was going, but she was on her way.”


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On her way.

“Quand on voyage dans ce livre-ci, le plaisir d’apprendre fait ricochet”

(“When we travel in this book, the pleasure of learning ricochets.”)

Each week in the fifth grade team room of Washington Elementary, we took a Spelling Trip. Without our knowledge or permission, we were learning — spelling, geography, grammar, even math — as we created stories of voyages around the world. There was an excitement to the learning, not seemingly present in our other lessons. Even before Miss Green asked who wanted to read their story first, hands shot up across the room — one arm lifted by the other, as if the height indicated the actual height of enthusiasm, not to be outdone by the verbal ooooohs and aaaahs that did indeed ricochet throughout the room.

I suppose the best teachers do this — create a lifelong voyage of learning — with a ticket that never expires.

Tucked securely in my pocket, I would take this ticket to my first meeting with a publisher. I didn’t have a manuscript for a book, or even a plan really, but I had a meeting, and a ticket. He wanted to hear something that I had written. I read to him, “a door in the forest.” When I finished, he raised his hands in the air and said, “You just took me on a trip!” I smiled and thanked Miss Green in silent cheers. He published my first book that year, “I am Amazed.”

I’m reminded of it all this morning, reading the quote on the back of a VanGogh book. From Washington Elementary, to the south of France, it is all a voyage of learning. A series of ricocheting ooohs and aaahs. I pat the still-pocketed ticket and begin today’s journey. I’m on my way.


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On her way.

It’s rarely a problem. I walk almost every day without incident. But it is annoying when it happens — when that one big fly decides that this is his path. And for some reason needs to tell you face to face. Flying at full speed toward your nose. Your eyes. Your mouth. Circling your head. Round and round. Poking. Prodding. Relentless. I wave my hands and shake my hair. To no avail. The buzzing rings in my ears and my pace quickens along with my heart. Finally, not being able to take another bzzzzz, I shout to seemingly no one in sight, “Oh for crying out loud!!! You have the whole world!”

As I said, this can be annoying, but what’s really unexceptable is when my own thoughts are the relentless buzz. I’m sure you’ve experienced it, when that thought gets stuck in your head (in your way). And your pesky brain plays it over and over. The tape of this ridiculous thought. Maybe it’s “but he said…” or “she did…” or “they never…” or “what if…”   Bzzzzzzzzzzz!  I’m not proud of it. And most of these glorious days, I can, and do, walk without incident. But the buzz…. Those sneaky thoughts that want to take over my path… So I look around. The sun. The open air. The house. The love within. The paint. The paper. The possibilities. The sugared fruits and comforted beds. The right now. My feet. My heart. The path. The beautiful rocky path… And I have to shout it to myself — “Oh for crying out loud!!!! You have the whole world!”  I do!!!!  

I laugh! And I’m on my way.