Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: others


by Leave a comment

I climb.

Spring arrived not only on the side of the hill, but also in my step. I can buy it at the grocery store. In fact I did just a few days before. And it was delicious. But it can’t match the thrill of finding asparagus, petite stalk by stalk, just off the pathway. 

And when I say hill, mountain would be closer to my leg’s truth. It is quite steep. And can be challenging. But while searching for the wild asparagus, I noticed on my second trip up, I hadn’t heard a thing from my thighs. Now, I’m sure they didn’t feel any different from the day before, but I think they knew the task. I think they knew they were as much a part of the hunt as my eyes that scanned, my back that bent, and my hands that grasped. I think to complain would have set them apart, so they marched silently up the hill, and joined in the victory when the asparagus omelette was made just hours later. 

It was my grandfather who always told me whenever I was in deep struggle, (often self imposed), to focus on someone else. And I’m sure I struggled with that as well, screaming like an angry ascending quad, but he was right. He was always right. It’s a lesson I keep learning. Sometimes more quickly than others. But I still celebrate in the victory. He would like that — because in doing so, I am also thinking of him. 

He comes the day. I’m about to join in. I climb. I hope. I reach. I pray. I curse. I kick. I laugh. I rest. I climb. I hope. 

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

We’re Open!

The announcer said, “Today on the podcast, Beth Stelling…” Suddenly my French feet were on a Chicago sidewalk, entering the coffee shop on the corner. I called her Bethy then. She was so young. Fresh faced and hopeful, even after spending half the night at a comedy club. She made my vanilla latte extra-hot like I liked it, like the Chicago winter demanded. We were all going to be something. Comedians. Writers. Artists. Actors. We sat in front of laptops and sketchbooks and scripts.  I scratched out her portrait in charcoal. The men, uniformed in blue, on their fifteen minute break from the construction site across the street were plotting over their coffees. Just as it should have been, all dreams were being caffeinated. 

It has been years since I held one of her flyers in my hand. Since I walked into the coffee shop the morning after it had been vandalized, just a hole where the door used to be, with a sign on the broken window that read, “Well, we’re open…” We always found a way to laugh. And here she was, on one of the best podcasts in the nation. I was so happy! Happy for her! Happy that she is doing so well! Bravo, Bethy! Beth! 

I only mention it because it feels good to be happy for someone. To celebrate the joy of others. What if we all did that today? Whether we are talking about our candidates, our religion, our jobs, our families, towns, work…what if we found the joy, the pure joy in others, and in ourselves?!!! As the song says, “you may say I’m a dreamer…” and I am. Proudly. Still caffeinated with hope, with the possibility, that we all could be that something worth believing in! I tape the sign on my heart and mind, “Well, we’re open!”

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Touristing.

I’m not big on sport analogies, but there is one that always sticks with me, as I navigate this world, and other relationships. It was during a football game. He had just scored a touchdown, which we all agree can be exciting, but the player made a gigantic display in the endzone, far exceeding any natural elation. As he continued it back to his side of the playing field, the coach simply said, “Act like you’ve been there before.”

It’s exciting to be a tourist. I love it. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment. I understand. But it seems that a majority of us have lost the ability to recognize that we are wandering through, not just monuments, but other people’s lives.

We sat near the altar in La Cathédrale de la Major for Charles’ confirmation. Of course this is one of Marseille’s grand cathedrals. A coveted destination for sure. But throughout the service, tourists, in their brightly colored shorts and graffitied t-shirts that declared the latest concert attended, wandered beyond the velvet ropes nearly on to the altar, snapping photos, waving to the rest of their group to signify that they made it to the “endzone.”

I mention it mostly as a reminder to myself. Without our knowledge or permission, we are touristing through the lives of others. I hope that I, we, can ease up on the trample, even on the most exciting of days. Because on this day that we are celebrating our victories, someone is losing someone, someone is lost. I think our joy is meant to be seen — definitely. Never as a taunt, but as a welcome.

I want to get better at this journey. Maybe the best way to start is to realize we are all on one.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

A Schwan’s delivery.

It was hard to believe that something so delicious could make me ill. But it was evident after only a few tries, I couldn’t eat ice cream. Somehow still, I found it very exciting when the pale yellow blur of the Schwan’s ice cream delivery truck drove toward my grandma’s house. I began running up the gravel, hands waving in air, directing him into the driveway. I knew full well that my grandma’s love of root beer floats would never allow her to miss a delivery. I hopped and skipped and ran with the truck to the house. Uniformed and certain, he jumped the steps and went to the back of the truck. “You’re Elsie’s granddaughter?” “Oh, yes!” I said proudly. I could tell by the smiling way he said her name that he liked her. He unloaded two of the giant tubs as my grandma came out the screen door. Her hands ever floured or wet, or both, she wiped them on her apron before signing for our haul of vanilla. 

How wonderful, I thought, to deliver ice cream. Everyone must be so happy to see you. I was, and I didn’t even eat it. The only other delivery person that I knew was my Uncle Mike, who drove a beer truck in the Twin Cities. I asked him if people jumped up and down when he arrived. He looked confused. Like I do with the Schwan’s truck, I explained. Not so much, he said. Maybe you should paint your truck yellow, I said. He smiled. 

Surely it has to be taught. There must have been a million things my grandma delighted over with me. Things she had no interest in. How else would I have known, known this joy of feeling good for others. I loved art and clothes and drawing and crayons and “Look, look what I made! It’s flowers glued to a scrap of bark! Look!” And my grandma showed all of her teeth in love. An ear to ear joy. This is the only explanation I have for being happy, truly happy, to celebrate a Schwan’s delivery, not for me, but for her!

Joy is not owned. It is passed and given away freely. It is run along beside. A yellow blur of others. The day is pulling toward the driveway. I raise my hands in the air and skip to whatever joy it may bring. 

Shop Now!