Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: slowly


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This is happiness.

It’s ironic, I suppose, that I’m always wishing for time to pass more slowly, but I often fight it while gathered within. I must admit I stumbled over the first pages. Perhaps even chapters. The book I’m reading encourages, in fact insists with the beautiful placement of each word, that the text be wandered slowly. To be paced under the heat of a summer sun, conserving the energy that each word consumes, as it makes its way from paper through hands, and head, finally resting in the heart. All the while with the promise, if you do tenderly barefoot each grassblade’s syllable, you will be lifted, winged to another time, another place, and fit directly in. Soaring mid the chaos and heartache with such profound joy, because just as the title says, THIS IS HAPPINESS.  

The question that’s always in the holster, “Well, what’s it about?”  I could no more answer that than if you asked the same of the day to come. Isn’t it always about living? My only hope is that I can take the same command of the day as I have come to in this book. To navigate with slow appreciation. 

Some will say, oh, people don’t read anymore. And I think, I’m people, aren’t I? And it doesn’t feel like I’m alone. I’m comforted in the fact that two of my most popular paintings of this bird series have been, not just with books, placed and stacked, but with people reading. (Over 80,000 likes on Pinterest gives me great hope.) Gives me, well, wings. And I think, I know, even for a few flaps, a few slow flutters, this indeed, is happiness. 

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No hurry.

It was my mother who listened to me with the patience of paper. I could tell her anything. No dream was too big. No concern too frivolous. No wonder dismissed. I could cursive my feelings throughout the house, and she would gather them in softly, gently, filling heart reams daily. 

I didn’t read Anne Frank until junior high. I had already been writing for years. On scraps of paper. Wood-burning notes into panels. Poems on birthday cards. Hopes onto sticky pads. But I didn’t have a diary. And it wasn’t until reading Anne Frank’s that I knew why. It was because I had my mother. Anne wrote in her diary, thinking she had “no such real friend” to confide in. My mother was that “friend.”

Through the years, as I made my living selling the words and images, I was constantly approached by my sales reps and store owners with “What’s new?” A feverish flurry to get to the next thing. An urgency to keep the writing short – “no one will take the time to read all that.” I would smile and think that Anne Frank was right, “Paper is more patient than people.” 

I’ve tried to stay true to my slow and looping cursive heart. Giving it the space and time it needs. Giving it the care my mother showed me it was worth.

I hope you have that friend. That confidante. If not, let it be me. Take your time. I’m in no hurry.

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Of heart, thought and time.

I have been guilty of it for sure. Waving things off. “It’s not that important.” Certain that another chance, another opportunity, another life bus, another Tuesday — all will be just around the corner. And I’ll get that chance. And I won’t miss the next opportunity, I promise myself. And I’ll be slower to anger. More quick to act. Love deeper. I’ll give it the attention, the weight it all deserves… won’t I?

I suppose just being aware of it is a start. But I like to give myself reminders. I bought a wax sealer earlier this year. It made me more excited about the hand written letter. Not that I will write the treasures that I have been given. Not that the recipients will save them. Not like I have saved the envelopes written from my mother and grandmother. But maybe they’ll know, in the moment, in that one moment, that I did take the time. To write slowly. In ink. Without word prompt, or spell check or “undo” — I thought of them. I heated the wax and sealed the letter and walked it to the post office. None of that weighs more than an international stamp will carry, but I think it has weight. Weight of heart and thought and time. What more do we really have to give?

I saw it yesterday in the Antique Mall. A small scale. A huge reminder. One like I had never seen before. A little brass device to weigh letters, and to hold the stamps. Small enough to fit in my suitcase. It will sit on my desk. Telling me, on this day, give it all the weight it deserves.

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Covered in the welcoming.

Walking into the entry of my grandparents’ home, I could feel my shoulders relax. Dropping down with the ease of the coats hooked on the wall. Nothing left to brace. No cold. No pretense. My first glimpse into the rumor of home. 

Of course I didn’t have any of those words yet, as I danced beneath the dangling sleeves. Cuffs that smelled like tobacco and earth, brushed across my face. My mother had already made it into the kitchen. But I lingered. Stretching my unmittened hands up and into the damp sleeves. With boots still on, I could slide my feet into my grandpa’s shoes. Almost completely covered in the welcoming. Nearly finished with her first cup of egg coffee, my mother waved me in. 

I suppose I’ve always been one to linger. Wanting the moment to last. It’s the 22nd and I want it all to slow down. I’m not ready to jump to the Christmas Day. I want to play the music. Loudly. Softly. I want to finger the wrapping. Nibble at the cookies. Drape myself in the entry of all the magic to come. I can see my mother’s feet in grandma’s kitchen. There’s no need to hurry. I know I am home.

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Buttericked.

The differences were many between my grandma and my mother. Grandma Elsie was much more of a Ben Franklin to my mother’s Woolworth’s. Grandma Elsie was penny candy and Crazy Days!  Grab bags and colorful aisles. Rules were loose and chance abundant. As a young girl, this was delicious, this fluorescent lit certainty — but not for every day. 

Perhaps it wasn’t as flashy, but I loved a Saturday morning at Woolworth’s with my mother. We went just as it opened. While most of my schoolmates rested on elbows before the television, fueling themselves with cartoons and Captain Crunch, I sat at the table in the back of Woolworth’s, thumbing through the Butterick sewing patterns. The ladies pictured on the front of the patterns were so glamorous. They not only showed you what the dress would look like, but what they would do while wearing it. 

My mother loved to sew. And she was good at it. Time didn’t allow her to pay a great deal of attention. Most of our Saturday mornings were spent at the laundromat, or the grocery store. But on those occasions when she placed the dream above the duty, we sat for hours inventing the lives we would live in pure Butterick style. 

I didn’t know for years that you could actually buy the patterns. I thought it was more of a library. They were expensive. So we pocketed the ideas. The dreams. And mostly, the time together. 

I can easily and often be overcome with Ben Franklin brain. The fast paced, bright colored, crazy day, sugariness of it all. It’s then my heart sits me down. Slowly. And says, let’s not be so sure for a while. Let’s just sit here and thumb through the dream a bit. It’s in this peaceful uncertainty that I can feel it — my mother’s lotioned hand, grasping mine. The glorious time slows to a Butterick pace. And I just breathe. In perfect pattern. 

“Not all of her dreams came true, but she was never sorry she had them.”

“Not all of her dreams came true, but she was never sorry she had them.”