Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: school


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All out loud.

I’m not sure when I learned it. Maybe on the school bus with wet hair, breathing so deeply. Holding blank, fresh notebooks tightly to my waist, to simulate the last hug from my mother at the garage door. “Be a big girl,” she said. Oh, I wanted to be. But then the Norton girls got on, all five of them, in all that comfort and bickering of a shared bathroom and last name. And I wanted some of that sameness, but I only felt more alone. I sucked in my lower lip, knowing that would be the first to go, to quiver. And I closed my eyes, willing the tech-school student bus driver to move, move… just get me to school and then I would be ok. I would find a friendly face in that circle as we sat on the cool floor. If I could just hold it in until, Cindy or Barbie, Wendy or Lori, or even Mrs. Strand, could smile at me and gather me in the warmth of “what did you do last night?” and “I’m so happy you’re here.”

I learned to hold it in. Mostly, I suppose, because I knew I had a place, a home, where I would never have to.  I don’t know if it was the first time, but it was a time, and I was struggling, bubbling, simmering from lips to eyelids, and my mother asked me, “Do you need to cry out loud?” I shook my head yes. She sat me down. Sat herself beside me. And I did. And it wasn’t for long. I suppose when you’re allowed to let it all go, it can go pretty quickly. And I was saved.

And it wasn’t just tears. She gave me the safest space to do it all out loud. To dream. To hope. To become. To laugh. To sing. To try. I didn’t have to hide or wonder, brace myself or worry.  I could just be — out loud, in living color. 

I can’t say I never stumble. Never quiver. I can find myself looking back for her shadow at the door. And there are places and times when I know I have to hold it in. But freedom is never far. 

We can do this for each other, you know. We can give one another the space to be who we are. We can join in the release of laughter, and tears — both out loud!  And either way, we can be the one who says, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

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Well written.

I imagine how the next day went. And the day after. Because their lives didn’t end when I got to the last page. Isn’t that what a good book does? With the same tools as every other writer, all the curved lines that form letters, the dots and dashes that make you stop in your tracks, an author can change the way you feel (not just in the moment) but for a lifetime. 

I suppose it’s the same with love, when it’s written well upon your heart. That has to be what draws us in. What keeps us thinking. Those whose lives are so developed, whose storyline runs so deep, it continues long after the final turning of the page. These are the lives I want to surround myself with. It’s the life I want to live, and not in a vain way, (although I do indeed want you to keep coming back – I want to hold your interest) but also for myself — I want to be interested in my own life — to see where this goes. What could happen next? I want to live so deeply that the only choice isn’t even a choice, but a continuation. 

The morning sun awakens the letters that tickle their way from heart to head to hands…and the story continues…

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Sometimes a dancer.

You think it’s an apron. And it is sometimes. The proof is the paint splatters that are beginning to gather. And it makes sense around my waist, as a quick brush off of excess water, or a change of color, but it doesn’t really explain the spots around my neck straps. Those are probably because of the dancing. 

While the music plays along with the strokes, there are some songs that just won’t take no for an answer, and soon I am dancing like no one but the portraits are watching. Partnered by the brush in hand, I will get pulled in, hence the paint on my collar. 

My neighbor continues to ask, though I’ve answered many times, “Are you a singer?” I’m sure she hears me on the way to my studio. I say, “Sometimes.” And I am a dancer sometimes. And sometimes a poet. Sometimes a baker. I suppose I used to give the answer no. Not anymore. Because I am sometimes all of these things. And more. And it’s not a judgement or declaration of things that I do extraordinarily well…but rather if I can say, “Well, I had a time!!!! Wasn’t that some time!” 

And the song will change on the player and I am a painter again, but I smile above my painted straps, tap my foot,  and know the truth of all that can be.  

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And other anthologies.

Receiving a letter in college was monumental. We shared a community phone for our floor, and had to pay for long distance, so it was rarely used. The mailboxes were the tie to the outside world. Located in the entrance of our fifth floor walk-up, what lay behind the gray square door was significantly tied to the speed at which I could climb the stairs. One small letter could erase the added weight of my backpack, loaded down with the likes of Shakespeare and other anthologies. Anticipation picked up each foot. Thumb trying to break the seal before opening the door. Books thrown on sofa, I cracked the remaining seal, and breathed in the connection. And I was saved. 

I could always count on the weekly letter from my mother. Sometimes my grandma. An occassional random boyfriend marked with a mascot of another school, or PFC. And I learned quite early on, to get a letter, you needed to send one. To be lifted, you had to do some lifting.

When I was painting her yesterday, the stories ran through my head. Up and down the staircase of my heart and brain. All those things I needed to say. All those things I needed to hear. And I wondered how you would see it. When you saw her. At first glance. Was she getting the letter? Or was she sending it? I suppose it depends on if you are needing to hear something, or if you have something that needs to be said. 

We’re always navigating through both. And I guess the key is to keep the chain open. To be lifted. To keep lifting. 

Life will weigh us with worry and “other anthologies,” but it will also give us what we need if we choose to participate. 

I live in the word. And I am lifted.  

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Before complete.

Forgiveness comes so easily as I allow the portrait to come to life. I actually enjoy the beauty of the becoming. I hope I can do the same in real life. With others. Possibly even me. 

It’s easy to get hung up on the timing of things. People often ask me, “How long does it take to make that painting?” “This painting?’ There is no answer. Or there is every answer. I know with repetition, some things come more quickly. A bird can appear readily, because I have ridden that wing so many times. I have fluttered and flapped. And still, not every time is the same. 

I smile because isn’t it the same when it comes time to “snap out of it” — the mood, the feeling, the getting over. I’d like to think it comes “more readily.” I think it does. But I’m learning it’s not just about the getting through, but the beauty of becoming. As messy and unfinished as it all can be, it can be beautiful before it is complete. Before forgiveness, before healing, before love, it is all still beautiful, within sight, within reach.

So I keep fluttering and flapping, from hand and heart, and with this morning sun, every answer awaits. And so I become. 

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Shouldered.

She asked me how I chose the bird for each portrait. “They simply fly in,” I said. 

I suppose I’ve always believed in the pure randomness of it all. That it could happen to anyone, at any time. Pain, happiness, confusion, even love. And there’s comfort in that. And if it does, simply fly in, I have to remember that one does not outweigh the other. If I can shoulder happiness, then I can do the same with the next challenge carried in. 

Sometimes I wonder, what if her kindergarten nap mat hadn’t been placed next to mine? What if she had transferred to Lincoln Elementary, from our beloved Washington? Would we still be friends? Would she still fly across the world to see me? And then we exchange emails on our current reads. Talk about the lemon boats at Roers’ bakery, our gym uniforms…and joy lands gently on my shoulder as wonder flings away. 

And isn’t it all barely more than air? Whatever the day may bring, this winged moment, all will be shouldered. Even, ever, love. 

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Big. Sometimes.

For five days I read the book. Eagerly returning. Thinking about the characters in between. On the last page, I flipped for another. That was it? The ending? Huh.  

It’s not the first time I’ve enjoyed a book without loving the ending. And still, I had to remind myself that time wasn’t wasted. Time was enjoyed, no matter how it ended, or didn’t.

How do we respond when there’s nothing at the end? It’s never promised. And it occurs almost daily. How do we react when the response is underwhelming? When the email goes unanswered. The post lacks response. Even worse the love.

We’ve all felt it, I suppose, the arms drop mid hug when you yourself are not finished. 

It’s then I have to think, why do I do what I do? I paint because I have to. Writing — the same. Loving, just as with both, it has to come out. And with it all, it is joyfully terrifying. 

And would I spend hours getting the reflection in her eyes, the soul that can’t remain ruffled in the dress…would I do each leaf, each flower, each stone, any differently if you cartwheeled or simply walked away? Singing as I paint, I’m reminded of the words of K.D. Lang, “I gave my love, didn’t I? And I gave it big sometimes!” 

So there’s my answer. I will reach for the words and the paint. Without knowing the length of hug, I offer these arms. 

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An open door.

And would I have known the difference, had I not opened a winter door in Minnesota? Had I not braced? Had I not lowered my head for impact as if the cold were not just a feeling, but an immovable object? Maybe. But I did. And I do know. I will always know. 

I will always be grateful opening a summer morning door. Head high and sure that the way is clear. My bare legs think they are wings, untouched, simply a part of sky. 

This is what love can do. When the cold comes. And not in the form of weather. To have the embrace, that requires no bracing, this is what gets you through. My mother was that summer sky. My grandparents. They kept my head, my heart, high and sure. They still do. 

I open this morning’s French door, with the ease of being loved. 

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Master Class.

There’s always a risk, I suppose, for both parties, when being seen. And when I say that I’ve studied the arts, the masters, of course I include the instructions at university, the museums, the books, but long before any of that my mother was giving a master class at Herberger’s. 

So graciously she added the fourth perspective as her peers stood in front of the three-way mirror. When it was good, oh, she praised them. But when it wasn’t, she didn’t fall in line with the store clerks, she gently offered, “I think we can do better.” She knew the right colors. The right fit. What to enhance, and what to hide. How to create the best presentation, without a stumble. 

When painting a portrait, I gather it all in. From the Dutch. The French. The Italians. The Herbergers. And while that may sound a little funny, oh, do we need the masters now more than ever!  I think about her daily. My mother’s whimsical and gentle grace. Then I see the news. I see the actions of people. I see the reflections of negative, cruel, and frankly, simply ugly people, I stand here, draped in my mother’s wisdom, and say, “I think we can do better.”

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If I dare the turning.

Today I get the Paris Review. Each one a treasure. Words and pictures. Stories and poems. A world held in the palm of my hands. Often clutched to my chest, as if the turning of the pages could not insert deep enough. You could think that it was simply the couture of all things France, but I will tell you, that I felt the same in our unfinished basement on Van Dyke Road in Alexandria, Minnesota, chubby hands wrapped around the newest issue of the Reader’s Digest. 

Seeking relief from summer’s heat, I curled into the damp cool of the cement, and traveled my way slowly, armed with the directions given in the previous school years, from Mrs. Strand, Mrs. Bergstrom and Mrs. Erickson. I sounded out. Acted out. Laughed out loud to gather in the medicine the funny section claimed to offer. Lived out loud on every page.

And the thing is, it didn’t tell me my future. But it gave me the assurance that I would have one. Each letter a small taste of what was to come, if I dared the turning. 

I don’t know what this day will bring. It may be the Reader’s Digest version of something glorious to come, or simply the cool comfort of what is. Either way, I will be saved. 

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