Jodi Hills

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

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The comfort of shore.

Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock. 

Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe. 

I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did. 

Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth. 

I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore. 

The comfort of shore.
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No sharp edges.

For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within. 

I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)

I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other.  A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.

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Return to gravel.

It’s not to say that we took our wounds seriously, but my mother never purchased designer Band-Aids. There were no cartoon characters or Disney royalty. In fact, I’m pretty sure they weren’t even the Band-Aid brand.  Possibly Curad. Or simply flexible adhesive bandages. And often times, just a Kleenex (which was really only a facial tissue) and a piece of Scotch tape (most likely just tape). 

No matter what she used, she did accomplish the main goal, which was just to return us to the gravel road, be it on bike or foot, skinned knees and all, as quickly as possible. No time for worry, or to go over the latest spill. Nor was there time to take pride in the survival. Who hadn’t fallen on Van Dyke Road? Her goal, I see now, was to keep me at play. Sometimes I would look up from the tattered tissue barely hanging on, as if to ask, “Really?” She would answer, “You think Phyllis Norton can do better? Go get in line.” We would laugh. And for this I will be ever grateful. 

Injuries change from year to year. Some wounds go unseen. But the goal is to always keep pedaling. Keep walking. Keep living. Because it is where we were wounded that we will continue to find the joy. 

A country and a lifetime away, I race out the morning door with a bit of Van Dyke Road still on my shoes. 

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Higher still.

I have no recollection of it, but my mother often reminded me, when I was a toddler I had very wide feet. She special ordered “little tiny boxes” for my chubby feet from Iverson’s shoes. She mentioned it as we browsed the Dayton’s shoe department many years later, looking for the long and narrow, as we both balanced out that way. 

Who would have thought you could have two completely different situations with the same feet? It’s with all of living, I suppose, you just have to keep learning. 

The truth is, I don’t even remember what I was trying to get through when I painted the “Nothing here I can’t rise above” woman. I’m sure it felt unsurpassable at the time, and yet… here I am, giving her (me) the new responsibility of rising above, again. 

We never finish. And I guess you could look at that as a problem, or the gift that it is — another chance to rise up. Another chance to stand tall, on the once wide, now narrow feet that carry me strong. They remind me again and again, with each step that says, “What haven’t you gotten through?” 

Years from now, I will look back and wonder why I wrote this today. Smiling. Higher still. 

Nothing here I can’t rise above.
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Twice.

Gloria sat at the reception desk. I was in the next cubical. I was young and impressionable — and also eager to make one. Of course that youth made me think that I could do anything, and I suppose that’s why I gravitated towards Gloria — she was also a believer. Some of it was a bit fantastical, like the aliens building the pyramids and ghosts stealing her underpants while she slept, but that didn’t deter me, because she also said things that made complete sense to me — like when I would come to her in near defeat, telling her that “they” told me a certain project couldn’t be done. Her reply was always this, “Well, then you’ll make two.” And I always did.

I mention it now because France doesn’t celebrate Mother’s Day on the same day as the United States. It’s a few weeks later — this Sunday to be exact. Of course Mother’s Day is hard for me. I miss my mom so much. And now, I not only have to get through one day, but two. Even saying it, I see Gloria’s smiling face, and I have to join her. Of course it’s hard, but we were built to do hard things. To live the unlivable, bear the unbearable, and believe ever in the unbelievable. And I do! 

So on this Thursday before, I change my mind and think, not that I have to, but that I get to! And if ever a mother deserved two holidays it would be mine. My heart may feel the squeeze of all that love, but I will celebrate. Twice. 

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Like a French girl.

At first glance, this sketchbook probably doesn’t seem like a surprise. But when I tell you that I bought it in Iowa, suddenly it takes on a whole new meaning, and we’re all smiling.

And that’s the thing isn’t it? Context. I learned it pretty early on. But I have to keep learning it. I suppose we all do. 

It was something, the way my mother looked. Shopping with her, I could see the other women wondering what they were missing. It was the same Herberger’s. The same racks. How was she doing it? And didn’t they stand behind her in the same line for the Clinique promotion? But it was even more than all that. What they didn’t see, is for years she did it on no sleep. No money. Eating only Heath ice cream bars to keep the weight on, the weight that slipped with worry. As surprising as a French girl in Iowa. And just as beautiful.

And in watching her story change, evolve, get moisturized and dressed to the nines, it, she, taught me to look for all the stories. All the joyful surprises. To capture them in words and paintings, so everyone could see the beauty in what was far and near, and maybe most importantly, even in themselves. So if you want to give thanks for this, do it by taking a look, in every face, in every mirror. May you ever be joyfully surprised. 

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Free gift with purchase.

Of course I learned it at home, long before I shopped for make-up, but through the years, time and time again, it has served as a constant reminder. 

At first glance, you might think it’s shallow, this love of make-up, but I always saw it as so much more. It was transformative, what my mother did in front of the mirror on Jefferson Street. It was only a block away from where she worked. And it only took her about 20 minutes. But the leaps she made in time and distance from that condo, from those doubtful feelings, those “old tapes that played in head,” — this was nothing short of extraordinary.

Macy’s and Herberger’s were the go tos. Just shy of a power point presentation, she had it all figured out. What to order. When. Never missing a pre-order, a free gift. Her utility closet as crisp as the Clinique counter. I marveled. Strived. I keep striving. And the true magic never remained in that mirror. It was what she took in that reflection. The best self created and then reflected to her world. Anyone she encountered at School District #206 got her best. She knew it. They knew it. Even on her most difficult of days, the presentation was the same. 

Maybe it all begins with a gift. The kindness we are shown. The strength that is passed on to us. The hope reflected through each challenge. Oh, what beauty lies within! 

I went to Nordstroms yesterday. The first thing I asked was if there were any promotions with the mascara. There were two. She explained to me the best. We talked about make-up and France, and Iowa and shopping. We laughed in a way that lay all trust on the counter, and I was home. No “old tapes” to play — my mother walked that path, so I wouldn’t have to. Perhaps her greatest gift of all. Giving to me this joy. Take it. Share it. It’s always free.

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Into the Sweet Ivy.

(The boomerang that returns.)

I waited two years for it to come back. And yesterday, without my knowledge or permission. Without my asking or pleading. She placed it in my hand.

I chose the Starbuck’s at Barnes and Noble in the Galleria because I could walk to it within minutes. We had planned to have coffee, to visit of course. No chairs were available. (Which I can see now was clearly by design.) She said we could walk around a little. My feet, already on yes, were darting out into the mall. Climbing the stairs to the main floor, she said they had just acquired a new sponsor for their podcast. (I had done their podcast about a year ago. That’s how we met.) Somehow I knew which store it would be. She asked if I had ever been to “Sweet Ivy.” I smiled. (You’re probably smiling too.) That was my mom’s name, I said. She knew how much my mom meant to me from our interview. We started walking toward the store.

No, I said, I hadn’t been inside the store. I couldn’t. It first opened just as my mom passed away. Waiting for the next flight back to France, I walked the Galleria Mall. I saw the name of the new store. This “Sweet Ivy.” The tears flowed. I couldn’t go in. It was all too fresh. My mom loved fashion. We shared that. Deeply. We walked that mall a million times. Took the pictures. Gave the compliments. Shared the laughs. Hung packages on wrists. This love, this friendship, ever en vogue.

But yesterday, it was time. It was more than easy. My hesitation was carried by my new friend, and we went, nearly skipped like school girls, into the Sweet Ivy. I shared my story again. Gave out my business cards. Explained paintings. Laughed. Sipped the coffee. From mother to store, the Ivy connected. The woman behind the counter reached over to a rack of gorgeous, and pulled out a blouse, a blouse that couldn’t have Ivy-ed more — she said it’s a small, put it on, and from what I can only imagine was my mother’s hand, she placed it in mine. The boomerang had returned.

Of course it fit. Everything fits. In its time. In its place. I suppose we throw them daily, these boomerangs. Never knowing which one will return. Nor when. I guess you just have to be ready. Open. And grab on with all your might when they do.

So I hike up the cuffed sleeves of this beautiful silk, and tell you the story, giving it a mighty fling, knowing love will always return.

*** https://www.theviewinyourmirror.com/ (podcast)

*** https://www.galleriaedina.com/directory-04/sweetivy

*** https://shopsweetivy.com/

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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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Priceless.

Some of my first lessons in choice were given at Olson’s Supermarket in Alexandria, Minnesota. Perhaps she knew the budgetary constraints that lay ahead that would force her hand in making the tough decisions, so my mom took her time when picking out the best cart — finding one that didn’t fight her every step of the way. “There’s no need to struggle,” she said. I nodded in agreement, both in cart choice and team solidarity. 

I held my breath as we passed the books and papers. I had learned from experience that begging didn’t work. I simply smiled as we moved into the first aisle of the store. Nothing she chose was at eye level — that’s where all the name brands were. Cereal boxes, while sporting the same bright colors, had names that were just a little off, and rested high upon the shelf. “That’s what these long arms are for,” she said as she reached the top box. I marveled at her wing span and stretched my own arms as we made our way through the aisles. 

Nearing the checkout lines, she gave me the nod. I didn’t have to ask what it meant. I ran to the book aisle. Beside the Golden books were the sketch pads. Notebooks. Big Chief was the brand du jour – it stood out, right in the middle, in the brightest of reds. I climbed on the tiny footstool nestled in the corner and reached for the generic padded paper, just above. She smiled at me as I placed it in the cart. “I have long arms too,” I beamed. 

I reach for my daily sketchbook. The choice to make it a good day, always in reach. I have everything.

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