Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: running


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“Go, little Quinnie!”

I had a box of trophies — statues, medals, pins — from my Cardinal days. I don’t think they made it to France. But I’m still surrounded by Cardinals. The ones I paint. The ones that visit my heart from heavenly places. Red and black can still lift me, in so many ways.

She’s almost always in red and black when we see her, surrounded by shouts of “Go, little Quinnie!” — as if the words could somehow jump into her stride and carry her along. Dominique picked up on it right away. Returning back to France, on the days when I’m scurrying about, running to get things done, he’ll say, “Go, little Quinnie!” And I can tell you that it works — they jump straight into my heart’s stride. To be connected still, even from so far away, it will ever lift me.

And that’s what I want for her — not the trophies or ribbons, they will surely get lost along the way — but to be ever lifted!  This is something!  Painting her, I realized in this moment, both of her feet were off the ground. These are the moments, I suppose, that we all want to capture. Isn’t that just like a Cardinal? To be in flight! 

Maybe one day she’ll make it to France. I just want her to know that a little part of her is already here.

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Journey home.

Had I known I was going to be running at full speed, I would have worn tighter underpants.

Yesterday’s adventure began in Marseille. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Checked our bags. Got yelled at by the girl at the coffee shop — “anglaise,” she said with disdain – meaning English. Sure I had a few tears, and then threw the coffee away after three sips because it took her 20 minutes to make two lattes and we had to get through customs.

But the flight to Paris was uneventful. We waited on the tarmac for 40 minutes. Dominique’s back is extremely broken at the moment – so we had reserved assistance to cross the airport for our connecting flight. 40 minutes of our 90 minute layover had already been used up. They would be boarding soon. The walkie-talkies were humming and finally we got the wheelchair and the woman took hold of it, looked back at me – as I felt the rush of her orange vest, I heard, “Run Mother F####r!” And she was off. Yes, in full sprint! I, wearing a dress, because I still refuse to wear what some dare to call lounge wear on the plane, grabbed a hold of my underpants with one hand, balanced my sack with my other and ran! And ran.

I caught my breath on stairs as she navigated the lifts. One bus and two shuttles later, we were on the flight, just as the captain announced a thirty minute delay.

In air, we wrestled with the usual subjects — movies we would never watch on land. I read most of a new book. We stretched. Laughed, replaying our airport run over and over. After landing, we realized no one had taken the time to yell the same encouragement at the baggage handlers — our bags were still in Paris.

But Minneapolis! This! Empty handed, full hearted, we were here – we ARE here. We stopped at Walgreens to pick up a few supplies for the night. Toothbrushes, etc. I got a little make-up – yes, my mother taught me well. Water. Hair brush. I was only hoping for one more thing that I couldn’t find. I asked the clerk in the aisle – “Do you have underpants?” She looked at me strangely. “Do I?” she asked. Realizing her hesitation – “No… the store – do you carry underpants?” Her relief was palpable. “Yes, in the back corner.” Exhausted, we were given, once again, the gift of laughter.

Home has never been perfect. But it has always welcomed me. It has always taken me by the heart and made me giggle. So yes, I will make that run – again and again! I will take that journey home!

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Last chance Texaco.


When my legs were short, and perhaps my faith in them as well, my brother put me on scooter, one he had made in the shed behind our house. A junkyard production, it was thick and heavy, but it ran, ran strong. There was an empty field beside our house on VanDyke road. Full of weeds and a possibility yet unseen.  I don’t know if he had just filled the tank, but the scooter seemed unstoppable, so I circled the field. He left me in that field, and years went by. My legs, too short to touch the ground, I wasn’t sure how I could get off of this ride. I circled. The sun burned my shoulders, and the engine never sputtered. It became clear to me that I was going to have let it fall, let myself fall. Truth be told, I wasn’t going a lot faster than downhill on a bicycle, but there was fear. Fear of the unknown. I would have to let go. I would have to fall. They say follow your heart, like it knows, and I prayed it did. I let go the handles and jumped. The scooter spun for a minute in the grass and dirt, and died. If I had ever recovered faster from a fall, I can’t remember when. I lept to my feet immediately. Grass stained and a little scraped, I began to run. Never had my legs felt so light, so sure. I ran and I ran. Nothing but joy.


Sometimes, when you run, people think you’re running away.  And that may be partially right…but sometimes you’re trying to get to somewhere…get to a place that will fill your soul with a love that has been waiting just for you, and a forgiveness that doesn’t care how you got there.


It’s easy to get stuck in someone else’s life. You can get trapped in a relationship, a job, a town, an assumption. But there’s a way out. It may be messy, even painful, but there’s a way. Your heart knows it. 


My brother built a life for himself in a shed behind our house. It is strong, and for him, it runs well.  I built a life for myself, trusting in the “last chance texaco” of my heart (it has always saved me), and I left.


I am not running away, but joyfully running along. My heart’s tank is full, fueling my legs and my faith. This truly is my somewhere, and man, it is something!!!!