Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: power


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Taut.

She was not unlike most of the super powers that I watched on Saturday mornings. All were contained in the tightest of fashion. It’s why, I imagined they could move through the world so easily. And so it was with Mrs. Bergstrom. She stood in front of our first grade class at Washington Elementary. No loose ends. Her hair slicked back in a perfect bun. Her black pencil skirt smoothed without wrinkle, making it impossible to see where the chalkboard ended and her waist began. That’s how all the words got in, I thought. This seamless transition. And wasn’t that her superpower, all those words that she spelled out, sounded out, drew out. I wanted some of that power. Just to stand in all that “super” for even a moment. I leaned forward in my desk. Pulled up my neck. Straightened my back. Reached one leg behind the chair to make myself into the straightest line. To create a path for all that knowledge she was passing our way.

It’s easy to let a day go by. To let the passage of time slouch us over. To drape in the fray of worry and get caught in every dark moment. But that wasn’t how we were taught. Not how I was taught. So I wipe the chalk from my hands and smooth them down my skirt and I stand. I stand tall. “Gather it in,” my heart tells my brain — be taut — despair can only slide down, slide off. And it occurs to me how similar the words are. This taut and taught. And it straightens me. Lifts me. Letting go the fray, I Bergstrom to the front of the morning.  

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Gentle gaze.

One of my first times driving in Marseille I experienced the wrath of an individual whose only damage was enduring the audacity of my wanting to make a left turn. It being summer, my window was open. She was near enough, as I waited at the light, that I could feel the spray of certain consonants, like p’s and t’s. And had I chosen to raise the window, it would have hit her nose.  The oncoming traffic continued, so I waited. She, on foot, could have simply kept walking. My route had no contingency to her plans. Yet her fury escalated into a language that I’m not sure was even French, or European, but simply rage. But I learned something quite powerful in this moment. It didn’t hurt me. (It was almost a little comical.) She wasn’t hurting me. Because I didn’t understand the words, I couldn’t give them any meaning. And more importantly, I couldn’t give them any power. I suppose I had heard it a million times before, in a million ways, that people can’t hurt you unless you let them, but here was direct proof coming right through my open window. 

I mention it only because I have to keep learning it. To not give the power away. When the language thrown in my direction is all too familiar — to stop “understanding” so much, when really I, we, understand so little. And control even less. And even more so on the days when my own brain yells at the open window of my heart.. 

To remind myself, I painted her portrait. An embodiment of this feeling. Under the gentle gaze of this woman, I make the morning breakfast. She reflects the look I want to give to heart and mirror. She is the breeze of spring. The grace that lifts. The beat within that keeps driving me. And I am saved. 

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Where the ruffles meet.

She said she liked my blouse. My heart beamed. Right there in the Walgreens in Sedona. I didn’t know this woman behind the counter. I will never see her again. It doesn’t make me a better person. I didn’t make the blouse. It wasn’t even really mine. Well, it is now, but it was my mother’s. She deserves the compliment. She picked it out. Looked in the mirror. Saw the ruffles frame her face. She added the small hook and eye where the ruffles meet so they would lay perfectly. And they did. Now they do on me. 

So that’s what she gave to me, this woman at the Walgreens, a trip back to the dressing room with my mother. Getting ready for an event in my apartment. She gave to me, in my mother’s voice, “You look good too.” She gave to me the after-giggle. With just a few words, she gave me all of this. 

I mention it only because we need to know it. Know how easily we can brighten a person’s day. With just the smallest of efforts, just a few tiny words, like a small hook and eye, we can bring us together, to the joyful place, where the ruffles meet.

Never underestimate the power of a compliment.

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In the light of the moment.

I had nothing more of less from the day before, but for the green light signifying that my iPad was charging, and I was extraordinarily happy. 

It turned out only to be an exchange of the power adapter, a simple fix, but in those 14 hours, as I was losing unreplaceable power, I had conjured up a scenario where not only my iPad would have to be replaced, but generally every electronic item in the house. 

I made her (the young woman at the Apple Store) check it three times, but I wasn’t completely convinced until I plugged it in at home. Only then, as the light shown beside my bed, did I allow myself the celebration, as if I had made it across the deep water that separated me from the Gatsby mansion. 

Everything seemed special. Not just my iPad. My phone, my earbuds, the new spring in my step. The path that I walked on, listening to a repeat podcast — all brand new. And I suppose the funniest part was when Joni Mitchell, on this podcast, sang her song from decades past, with a meaning relevant to my very second, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” 

Climbing the Montaiguet, I made the same promise to myself (that I have made and broken a hundred times) not to make the same mistake again. Sure this time, that my gratitude would last. Maybe it will. At least a few steps longer up the hill. And I can see the victory in that. So I keep on singing. I keep on climbing. In this moment, I know what I have, and I give thanks for this beautiful day.

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On St. Germain

“There are so many people who imagine that words are nothing. On the contrary, don’t you think, it’s as interesting and as difficult to say a thing well as to paint a thing. There’s the art of line and colours, but there’s the art of words that will last just the same.” Vincent Van Gogh

We were sitting in the car together on St. Germain, deciding on a place to eat. I pointed through the window to Sawatdee — the only Thai restaurant in St. Cloud, Minnesota. It was unusually warm for an autumn day. Did we want spicy? The slight breeze rustled through the fresh Daytons bags in the back seat of my mother’s car. I got a slight and welcome waft of her Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door perfume as she tapped her hand on my shoulder — the way you touch someone when you want to make sure they are listening. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “What?” “I was talking with mother (my Grandma Elsie) about your show. I told her how many paintings you sold. She told me to tell you that she’s so proud of you.” Her voice cracked as she said.

Now to put it in context, it was not the nature of an old Swedish woman to tell you how she felt. Oh, she would show you, with a belly squeeze, a rootbeer float, but words of actual praise didn’t come naturally or frequently. My mother, who let go of that silence long ago, gave me those words with such joy and such ease — these words that were almost visible as they ran the path from her heart, through her hand, into my very being. So filling, there was nothing for either one of us to do but cry. We swam in a magnificent tableau of tears of tenderness.

If I were to name this “painting,” it would be Saturday on St. Germain. It’s not lost on me, as I now sit here in France, home of the actual Saint Germain — a cradle of intellectual and artistic life. Renowned writers like Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and artists like Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway frequented its alleys, making Saint-Germain-des-Prés a significant hub of French culture. How delicious, I thought, that my first equivalent encounter would be in St. Cloud, Minnesota.

Did you come from a line of artists? People ask me this often. Not in the conventional way, I suppose. But pictures were painted with heart and words. And I see them. Live in them. I am indeed cradled to this very day.

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The grand torch.

I can’t say I ever followed boxing. Of course I had heard of him, Muhammad Ali. But my limited impression was mostly bravado. But then in 1996, when he appeared on the Olympic stage, fragile, all in white, I took notice. Arms trembling, he moved gingerly across the stage. No “floating” or “stinging”…but what I saw, what we all saw, was pure strength. I held my breath as the shaking flame tried to grab hold. Seconds passed. And then it took. The flame shot up to the official grand torch, and the sky lit with the power of vulnerability.

We have a tendency to ooooh and aaaah at the fantastic — at human feats of strength. And we should. But the truth is, they are happening all around us, all the time. I suppose the only real difference is the lighting. Not engulfed under an Olympic size flame, but rather within the subtle glowing of grace. Not emboldened by uniform or flag, but inner strength. Those who dare to brave the challenges of heart and body, and face the day with kindness still. 

In a couple of days, the Olympic torch will pass through our French city. A grand event, for sure, but it makes me smile, as I look at the pictures of my mother on the wall…my grandfather, my grandmother…the torch has already been passed. 

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