Jodi Hills

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


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Packaged and sent.

We bought the wrapping paper years ago at Anthropologie. It was one of our favorite stores. The clothing. The scented candles. The “You look fabulous in that!” My mom and I could spend hours. And even when the items were too expensive, the compliments were free, and so easily given. 

When we saw the artisan gift paper, we knew we had to have it. We could only afford one sheet. We cut it in two and wrapped tiny gifts for each other. The little green balls were like cheerleaders — jumping and dancing and spelling out praise with the letters of our names. I suppose we had always been that for each other — the one leading the cheers. And that’s what the paper did. Each year. We saved it for nearly twenty years. Sending it back and forth. From city to city. State to state. Country to country. I still have it. When I see the little green pompoms, I smile. I clutch my heart. The love my mother gave to me was always packaged and sent. Nothing wasted.

You won’t hear anyone say it — that it’s about the packaging. No, they’ll tell you it’s the thought that counts. The thought? Who cares? If you simply think about someone, and don’t let them know, what difference does it make? I would offer that it all needs some packaging. Some expression. Some action. Love, care, concern, joy, hope, congratulations, condolences, without the actual passing on, without the actual giving of these extraordinary gifts, aren’t they simply empty? 

This year, let’s wrap everything. In smiles and hugs. In arms reaching out. Thoughts actually expressed. Let our hearts be ribboned and bowed and ever giving. Let the Christmas cheers be heard today and every day throughout the year!  No thoughts wasted. No love unspent.


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Tagged.

There was a gift wrapping room in our last hotel. Everything but the presents themselves. Expensive colored papers and ribboned bows. Scotch tape. Scissors sharpened new. Candies — chocolated and caned. I wrapped our purchases while the carols played. Tagged each one by name.

I suppose that’s always been the most important part — the tagging. At first, as a child, it was to see your name on top. The “to.” Oh how glorious to be beside the “to.” What would I get? What could I claim? It seemed to be everything. I would have never imagined it differently. And I can’t tell you the exact date it happened, or even the time of year. But it did change. Without my knowledge or permission, it became glorious to see (feel) my name on the “from.” To be the giver. Just a simple tag, but oh, the power it held.

It’s always been love, I guess. On both sides of the tag.

It was no where near Christmas when I found them – this bundled string of tags. Weathered through years of neglect, I pulled them from a forgotten corner of my studio. I have no idea what the previous owners were going to give, but surely it had something to do with love, so I saved them. In the summer sun, I dusted them off, and began writing all of the gifts that I want to give. The gifts that I want to receive. (We need to be able to do both.)

We won’t be at our house in France for Christmas, but I have a strong feeling we will be home. My gifts have been tagged. My heart as well. I carry them with me.