Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: see


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Otter to otter.

Maybe everyone who saw the otters that morning went home and played Wordle and thought that it was made just for them, but it still made me feel special. Imagine that, a little word like “otter” could make me feel a part of this big, magical world! It made my heart spin just like the seemingly Disney characters right there in the water.

The thing is, we never know what will connect us. I wrote it so long ago, but it holds true, and I try to remind myself daily — “If I’m not happy in this time, in this place, I’m not paying attention.” And when you start to see things, it becomes, well, easier to see things. Easier to point them out. I had a teacher tell me once, it can be as simple as changing the article. From “the” to “a”. Here’s an example: If I were to say, “I was wandering down the road,” – that sounds pretty ordinary, “the” road makes it sound like I travel it every day. Now, if I were to change that to “I was wandering down a road,” — oh, the mystery that arises! Which road is this? What could happen next?!

And isn’t that just like life? It’s always the small changes, I suppose — the little observations, the different perspectives, that can give us a whole new view. I suppose the cynic would call my otter to otter experience, simply a random force of nature. I’m sure they could evaluate the statistics. Show me the graph. I don’t care. For me, it was magic. I will always choose the joyful splash of magic!

It’s a new day! I’m going to wander down a road!!!

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Roadrunner.

I spent every Saturday morning in front of the television set (and it was a piece of furniture then). Not too close of course, because we still believed, or were told, that we would go blind. Still in pajamas, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. With each cartoon, I leaned forward. Closer. Nearly bent in half. My belly resting on my legs. My head in my hands. Still remaining in the safety zone, but believing I could will the roadrunner just out of reach from the coyote. And I always did.

All the glorious colors of Saturday morning danced in my head and made their way to my feet as we walked (me almost skipping) the Saguaro National Park. Having the luxury of living beyond the “fashion” of camouflage, I was well aware that actually seeing one of the animals they posted would be a stretch. So far I had only seen a woman in full Lycra step out of the shade of the sign posting “beware of the javelinas.” The timing was perfect. I could feel my mother’s wink from heaven and we both began to laugh. It was near the end of the trail, maybe only 20 feet from the car, when I saw it. My finger pointed as if to shout. I could hear the people behind me say, “She’s pointing out something.” Then the people in front of me, saying the same. A roadrunner I whispered, but pointed more loudly. And when it moved, they saw it. My first thought was not to grab my phone, but give thanks that I had remained five feet away from the television set. I hadn’t gone blind! (Those behind me probably sat too close.) I smiled and took the photo. I could hear the beep-beep (or was it meep-meep) in my head.

Sometimes, I think it’s all going too fast. It feels like time’s coyote is right at my heels. But in the glorious moments when I catch myself between decades, one foot on VanDyke Road and one foot in the desert, or even a country away, I can gather it in, and I slow it down, lean in just a little closer, and give thanks for all that is to be seen.

Let me always see the gift.
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A lot of special.

Yesterday we drove to a little seaside village for lunch. The restaurants were still filled with the breakfast crowd, so we strolled the streets. Within steps of the first store, a delicious waft cartooned its way toward us, hooking and reeling us into Monsieur Praline. The roasting of the nuts was simply too much for our wallets to bear, and we purchased a container before finishing the samples in hand. I loved the packaging. The logo. The sack. The taste. Never had a nut been so delicious! With one foot out the door, I broke the seal on the container. Holding and reading the sack, Dominique said, “Oh, we have one of these in Aix.” 

I suppose it’s often harder to see what’s right in front of us. Maybe it’s why I paint. Why I write. To try and capture all things so gloriously special. It forces me to keep my eyes and heart open. 

Many years ago, (and I haven’t missed a day) when I first started writing this blog, my mom and I were talking about one of these special days. It was what some might label ordinary, but it meant so much to us. Delighting in this one day, she said, “And just think how many days we’ve been alive — that’s a lot of special!” 

A lot of special indeed! And it keeps happening. Oh, I get distracted at times for sure. Blinded by minor problems. But then life, with all of its roasting, shakes me up and gives me a “Look at this! Right here!” And it becomes so clear, never has a day been so delicious!

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Honored.

Certainly we never wanted to fall, but when it happened, we did wear our Band-Aids like badges of honor. And the opportunities were plentiful. Bikes, gravel roads, monkey bars, all guaranteed that someone in a nearby Washington Elementary desk would be honored. 

From time to time, the scraped knee or elbow was replaced by the broken bone, which meant the wearing of a plaster cast. I took my place on this coveted throne the day after our Valentine’s day party at Noonan’s Park Ice rink. At the end of the string of students “Cracking the whip”, I was thrown hard against the frozen pond, breaking my left arm. As the doctor wrapped the warm plaster around my limb, he said I was so brave. I wasn’t brave, I was excited — excited to enter the fifth grade team room to the guaranteed oooohs and aaaahs of the other students. I handed out my Sharpie markers the next morning and all the class lined up to sign my cast. It was confirmation, almost a pledge really, that we were in this battle together. 

I can’t tell you when it started, when honor was replaced by embarrassment. When did it become shameful to have a misstep, a fall? It seems today, when tripping over a crack, the first thing that occurs is the look around. Did anybody see? Not like when we were young — oh, we did the look around then too, but not for the same reason. Then it was, “Did you see what I made it through?” “Look, look what I survived!”

Maybe it’s impossible to take that all back, but maybe we can give it sometimes, give the recognition to each other. Really see people – what they go through. And take the time to acknowledge it. Offer up the most deserved ooohs and aaahs. Pledging, once again, that we are all in this together. 

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My best Elsie.

We learned pretty quickly on the power of the wave. I thought my Grandma Elsie knew everyone. And on her country road, she probably did know most. Any car that passed got the Elsie wave. I didn’t know of Queens or parades, but she had one that lingered a bit longer than most, accompanied with a slight head bob and smile. Then I saw my grandpa do the same. The smile was a bit tighter, but it was there. I started to mimic them. My favorite time was when summer car windows could be open. It was then you could really make it clear. Arm extended in the breeze with a little more of a shake. I asked my grandma at first if she knew them…she glanced in the rear view mirror…No, she said, but I saw them. I shook my head yes. I saw them too. And I got it.

I suppose it was at school where it became even more clear — the power of this hand extended, sometimes even waving. To be called on when what you had to say felt so important that you had to use your other hand to keep that wave from flying off of your shoulder — this was something to be seen.

We do not live in a waving culture. When I first moved to France and went out for walks, I would give the passersby my best Elsie almost to no response. And if it got any attention at all, it was to stop to see if I was in distress. I suppose a lesser Minnesotan might have abandoned the wave altogether, but I have kept it through the years. And every once in a while I get the return. It was on yesterday’s path, descending down a large hill, I saw her, a woman going up the gravel just inside the trees. I have passed her a few times this spring. We have exchanged smiles and bonjours, but it was yesterday, from afar, knowing our paths wouldn’t cross she waved. And not only with a healthy Elsie open shake, but first! I waved back! I’m still smiling.

I mention it because I guess we all want to be seen. And we can do that for each other. So easily. It takes so little to change someone’s day.

Some mornings these posts come very quickly to the page. The idea shoots from my hand in the air, squealing “ooooooh, oooooh!” Today it feels important to tell you that I see you! I hope you can feel the wave, and pass it on. Share your best “Elsie.”

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An amazing wink.

I didn’t even know asparagus grew wild until I moved to France.  The first time Dominique pointed it out, I couldn’t see it. I was looking for the grocery store stalks, wrapped in a bundle. Right there, he said. Nothing. He had to finally bend over and pick it.  That?  I had no idea. Now, each spring, I can’t walk past one. 

It feels like they are growing just for me. No one else on the route picks them. Of all the people I see on the path, I’m the only one with a cupped hand full of green. And it makes me feel special. 

I suppose it was no accident that the man commissioned me to do the painting. I knew it for sure, after I sent a photo of the completed piece for his review. He loved it, but there was just one more thing he asked. Could you paint a little bird on the back of it, just as a special message to my wife?  I smiled from across the sea… could I paint a bird… (If you follow me, you know.). Yes!  Of all the painters growing wild across this earth, he picked me for a reason. Amazing!

I returned the wink of the universe with a little yellow flying wink of my own.  I’ve said it before, even put it on the cover of a book, “I am amazed.  Take a look around, and you will be too.”

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Somewhere.

It’s not always easy to see it when you’re in it, but the challenge usually ends up being the gift.

Living in a country where you are learning the language, you notice everything. You have to. Even the simplest of things. The most mundane of tasks are brand new. Going to the grocery store. Asking directions. You have to humble yourself to the fact that you don’t know — a lot! “In the middle of nowhere” takes on a whole new meaning.

We were driving through this very “middle” the other day. I was fully prepared to admit that we were lost. Dominique on the other hand, was simply looking. We were trying to get to a place to picnic with friends. We were supposed to bring dessert. We wanted to wait to pick it up at a nearby place because of the heat. We were overestimating the opportunities of “nearby.” The GPS wasn’t working. In its defense, I’m not sure that there was anything to base directions on. We were running late, and later. Desperately in need of dessert and directions. And then we saw her. A human leaning against the car. In my best French I asked if there was a supermarket nearby. Dominique was mortified. She laughed — a supermarket! (We were basically in a field, a very big field. We were “time travel” away from a supermarket.) But still smiling, she did lead us to a boulangerie in a neighboring village. Which sacked us with cookies and directions.

I think about how fast life moved when I knew everything. (Or thought I did.) Which direction to turn. How long the drive would be. Where to get the best dessert. Where to buy the best paint. How to mail a package (not to mention just finding the post office.) Everything was easy. And time blurred by. This, perhaps, is more frightening than a little humility. Time moves more slowly when you have to stop and think. Stop to wonder, how in the world will I get this done.? Or what is the word for that??? Because in this stopping, you also get to see everything. In the middle of a lavender field, beside a small church built centuries before, Centuries!, eating the best cookies you ever tasted, you get to stop and say, “isn’t this something!”

We keep up the wander. The wonder. Dominique can hardly believe that I permanently have a rock in my shoe. Both literally and figuratively. I always have. I guess my whole life mother nature has been trying to get me to slow down. Here, in France, she’s found a pretty good way. I stop. Take off my shoe. Tip the gift from my sole and see where I am. Look at where I am! Isn’t this something?!

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I handed him my business card, the one with my grandfather on it. Is that Rueben? It’s hard to explain the joy I received with those three words. He knew my grandfather. Remembered his name. Said it out loud. Such a small thing I suppose, but oh, how those small things can swell with pride, and connection. Oh, how they can jump through those tiny cracks in your heart and completely fill them. My grandfather had 27 grandchildren, fifty-some great grandchildren. And on. It was hard to stand out in that crowd. To hold that farmer’s hand for more than a few minutes. But yesterday, in this Caribou, with this Dave’s recognition, I was holding it all in my hand, holding once again this overalled man’s hand, my mother’s father’s hand in mine, and we were all connected.


I have told you before, we called it “the farm.” (My grandfather’s place) “The” – as if it were the only one. And for us, it was. Yesterday, after Caribou, we went to the bank. I had met the teller once before a year ago. I asked to make a deposit. He said, “Aren’t you the artist?” The artist. “Yes,” I said, heart swelling still and again.


To see each other. To give each other the greatest gift of all. “The gift.” May we all be forever generous.

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Awakenings.

I’m enjoying this practice of sharing a story each morning. It has become part of my routine. I had thought of doing it for a long time, but I was a little afraid of the process. How would I come up with a new idea each day? There are challenges, for sure (it’s not coal mining hard, but it does take some effort.) The key for me has been this, the art of noticing. It sounds simple enough, and it actually is, but you do have to practice it. And once in the practice, you will (forgive me) “notice” how easy it is to notice things.

But it can’t stop there – noticing is the key to gratitude.

This morning I was awakened by the sweetest sound – birds singing. And oh, how they say. So joyful. I woke up smiling. Thank you birds. Thank you morning. Thank you “not waking up to an alarm clock.”

Gratitude alone, though, can become complacent without action. So I painted the birds that sang to me this morning. I put the bird paintings on my computer so I can share them with you. And with a piece of luck, this yellow will make you smile. This smile will brighten your face, which will brighten the face of the person next to you. And we start a chain. A chain of gratitude.

Some of you will share the story that this brought to your mind. This yellow, this bird, this awakening. And your story will make me think, hey, did you notice the… and we’re off again! Thank you for that. Thank you for this chain.

We are only as strong as our connections.

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