Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: thanks


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Ever golden.

I used to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to begin decorating for Christmas. Of course it’s not a French holiday, but I still feel it, these precious days. And in a moment of good news, of special thanks, I began stringing lights. 

Even when I take the time to put away the decorations, they seem to have the capacity to knot themselves into a frenzy — into tangles that no Johnson’s baby shampoo could tackle. 

I smile, remembering how golden that bottle was, just like the lights in my hand. What care my mother took with my long blonde locks. Stroke by stroke, she brushed each strand, staying true to the “No tears,” just as the bottle claimed. But somehow I always knew, it wasn’t the shampoo that kept the promise, but the gentle touch of my mother’s hands.

And isn’t this what illuminates me still? Isn’t this what sets my table? So I make a new promise, to her, and all the loves that surround me now, to ever be gentle, never careless, with these precious days. 

Happy Thanksgiving. Today and ever golden.

Happy Thanksgiving!
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To simply marvel.

In my daily quest to swim away my summer days, I never thought of the green lillied lakes as beautiful. How easily I would have furrowed my brow and crinkled my nose, labeled it as a swamp, and pedaled with fury to a clearer body of water. I’d like to think I gave thanks for the abundance of lakes — that when blessed without weed or worry, I stopped crawl stroking long enough, even for just a moment, to simply marvel. Filled with it now, from green to blue, I struggle to explain to my French family and friends. I say Minneapolis, and they hear Indianapolis, and they say racing, and I say no, but racing on my bicycle to the any one of the 10,000, and they can’t imagine even 10, so I name two, Latoka and L’homme Dieu, and they say I’m saying it wrong (my own lake, imagine that), and they’re right actually, but I can’t say it like that, not after this many pedals, and they say but look the sea is so big, and I say there was romance in the small and we realize we are comparing gratitude, and have to laugh, because we’re old enough now to stop spinning and simply marvel. 

They renamed (or gave it back its original name) one of my favorites. Lake Calhoun is now officially Bde Maka Ska. When I first heard of it, I’m not proud that I heart stumbled. Did I crinkle my nose. I hope not, but I can’t be sure. I don’t now. The water. The blue. The sun dance upon. It’s all there. Still abundant. And the runners run. And the bikers bike. And the swimmers swim. I see the thanks in it all. And it is marvel-ous! 

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The music never ends.

They signed up for the choir like everyone else at Central Junior High, but for three years, Gail Kiltie and David Alstead held the added responsibility of accompanying us on the piano. I never asked if they had wanted to. I hope at least our director, Mr. Lynch had, but I’m not sure. 

Maybe we all just came to expect it. We often do that in our daily lives, so busy singing we just assume others will take care of it — be the foundation. We all have our roles to play. And I suppose, I hope, that we gravitate towards them, want them, but I also think it’s important every once in a while to stop and ask. To be sure. To give thanks for the support given. To let those around us know that the gifts they give us are indeed the music that we sing. To acknowledge them for laying the notes we climb. Notes we scamper upon with such joy, under the premise “well, it goes without saying…” But does it? Or does it just go unsaid. I don’t want to take that chance. So I say to Gail and David, thank you! I say to you who read, who comment, who join me in the words I plunk on my own sort of keyboard, thank you! 

What a pleasure it is to share the music of this life. To take to heart that our pianos will not go unplayed. Our love will not go unsung. 

The notes are calling. I must scamper. 

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By the handful.

I can’t say that I knew exactly what I was going to use it for, but I knew I had to have it, because it carries me through every day, lifts me, gives me hope and joy, sustainability — this recognition of the things that I count on.

At first I thought maybe I would click it each time I thought of her, my mother. Every time of the day that I smile or laugh because of her. Click on the hand-held counter each time I clutched my imaginary pearls in a warm memory. Because I imagine that’s what it’s for actually, this petite counter, adding up the repetitions that make you stronger. Then I thought, well, I could actually add my grandparents to that, my friends…all this love that I count on.

And then it occurred to me, this morning, at home, in our new time zone, how much I fall in love with on a daily basis. This good night sleep in my own bed. Click. Breakfast with homemade bread, and lavender honey across from my husband, smiling back. Click, click, click. This strong, fueling coffee. Click. These French and American flags that wave outside our morning window. Click. Click. The studio that waits for me patiently. Click. I guess it all adds up to gratitude. Thanks. Love. Click. Click. Click.

Maybe when the jet lag wears off, I will forget it. Which would be click worthy also. Maybe days will go by without a click, being lost in fun, or creativity. Or maybe when I need it most, just seeing it, sitting on a desk, it will remind me of all that I have, that I love…all the things and people that lift me on a daily basis. And maybe then I will give thanks for the reminder itself. Click. 

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In the light of the moment.

I had nothing more of less from the day before, but for the green light signifying that my iPad was charging, and I was extraordinarily happy. 

It turned out only to be an exchange of the power adapter, a simple fix, but in those 14 hours, as I was losing unreplaceable power, I had conjured up a scenario where not only my iPad would have to be replaced, but generally every electronic item in the house. 

I made her (the young woman at the Apple Store) check it three times, but I wasn’t completely convinced until I plugged it in at home. Only then, as the light shown beside my bed, did I allow myself the celebration, as if I had made it across the deep water that separated me from the Gatsby mansion. 

Everything seemed special. Not just my iPad. My phone, my earbuds, the new spring in my step. The path that I walked on, listening to a repeat podcast — all brand new. And I suppose the funniest part was when Joni Mitchell, on this podcast, sang her song from decades past, with a meaning relevant to my very second, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” 

Climbing the Montaiguet, I made the same promise to myself (that I have made and broken a hundred times) not to make the same mistake again. Sure this time, that my gratitude would last. Maybe it will. At least a few steps longer up the hill. And I can see the victory in that. So I keep on singing. I keep on climbing. In this moment, I know what I have, and I give thanks for this beautiful day.

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Saving Provence.

I always rationed out my Halloween Candy. Counting each day. Indulging in a piece or two. Doing the math. The goal was to make it last until Thanksgiving. I imagined that each piece was a link in the joy chain. Even on the days when I limped along with my least favorite candy, like a circus peanut or a Jolly Rancher, I was keeping the sweetness alive. 

Most of you celebrated your Thanksgiving yesterday. Here in France, of course, it is not a holiday. No days off. So the tradition that I dragged along with me won’t be celebrated until Saturday. As I read the posts of you already walking off your gratitude, I could let it get me down, but I choose to think of it as the luxury of keeping my chain alive. I give thanks again, and check the turkey parts thawing in the refrigerator.

I suppose it’s what I’m doing with everything, trying to keep the chain alive, with a painting of a niece, a grandma, a brother-in-law, a cousin. What if somehow we could all connect? In this most unlikely of scenarios, (and aren’t they all) we could come together and find the joy. 

Of course I have my days, my moments, limping through the “circus peanuts” of life. But even the worst days connect me to a chance of something better. So I give thanks. And wait. Today is going to be delicious.

Saving Provence.
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North-ending.

It was Mrs. Erickson who began to give us the language that matched our feelings. Up until then it had been mostly function. But here in the third grade classroom of Washington Elementary, every day new territories were explored. New emotions. She took us from fear to empathy without ever leaving our chairs. We sailed into the Bermuda Triangle, without getting wet. What a journey we had begun! 

I suppose it was this new knowledge that gave me the courage to further explore our neighborhood’s own “Bermuda Triangle” — the elusive and alluring North End of Van Dyke Road.

To prove I went there, into this great unknown, I would gather sticks or blades of grass. Certainly they were not different from what was growing 200 yards away, but I brought them back as proof of my journey, never to be questioned. A coveted score would be a fluffing cattail, or an abandoned feather — treasures of the braved passage — proof to any curious neighbor kid that I was in fact not only living, but alive! And most importantly, it did the same for my heart. 

I suppose I’m still doing it — nesting. I have “north-ended” my way across many countries. Sometimes trudging. Sometimes skipping. Alone, or hand in hand. Welcomed into hearts and neighborhoods that I could have never imagined. So I paint and I write. These are now the sticks that I gather. Each memory twigged and placed gently into my heart’s nest. My way of giving thanks. Today and every day. 

Thank you, for being a part of my journey. Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving!
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Not Without Thanksgiving.

Yesterday we began the search for turkey parts and red berries. Of course France does not celebrate Thanksgiving. The grocery store took down the one orange end cap, their small attempt at Halloween, and jumped straight into Christmas.  There are no napkins of thanks (not even a merci). No aisles of stuffing and cranberries. Not even a turkey leg in the freezer section. It is still a day that I try to piece together a semblance of an old tradition while creating a new one with my French family. Because it matters, this giving thanks. I suppose that’s what my mother taught me, not to have Thanksgiving, but to be thankful. 

My mom called me to announce her big decision to make a turkey. This was worthy of an announcement indeed, after spending years together eating bagels, Chinese food, or something from the coffee shop — the only stores open on pre-Black Friday.  I was definitely surprised, but perfectly willing to join in the celebration. She said she took the heavy, big brown sack out the freezer and it was defrosting on the cupboard. A few hours later she called with an update. “There won’t be a turkey dinner,” she said. “Isn’t it already defrosting?” I asked. “It turned out to be just a big bag of ice,” she said. We both laughed. “Do you remember buying a turkey?” I asked. “I don’t remember buying the bag of ice…” she said. We laughed about it for years. Mostly over coffee on the Thursday before the biggest shopping day of the year. I will be ever grateful for the endless laughter we shared. It is my favorite Thanksgiving memory. 

So we will push my empty cart through the grocery store in the south of France and keep searching — but not for gratitude — this I already have. Then and now. Always.

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The ample susan.

I suppose it’s always hard to see how special things are from deep within. I, like all of my cousins, took for granted that Grandma Elsie’s cookie jar would always be full, and the lazy susan in the bottom corner cupboard needed two hands to turn. (And I’m not talking about a little spinning spice rack, no, a lazy susan that could spin a small three to four year old into a dizzied frenzy.) My grandma stocked this beast of a susan with the entire Sugar family — Sugar Daddies, Sugar Mamas, and Sugar Babies. She also included the Black Cows, Slow Pokes, Junior mints, random candied corns and jelly beans depending on the season. There was not a mint or a lemon drop in sight. So when one of the girls in our jump roping gang at Washington Elementary began speaking disparagingly about her grandmother’s candy selection, I couldn’t believe it. When others chimed in, I dropped the rope to investigate further. No Sugar Babies? Not even a Slow Poke? No. Surely she offered you a rootbeer float from time to time. They laughed. 

It’s amazing what a little knowledge can do. I never twirled a jump rope the same. There was no need to flaunt it. It was my grandpa who taught me that. After arriving first in a race around the farmhouse with one of those sugar-fueled cousins, I ran to him bragging about my victory. He patted my shoulder. “It’s enough to win,” he said. 

Each afternoon recess, I quietly twirled the rope, deep in the knowledge that I was winning. 

From time to time, I can still get lost in the ample susan of my life, not seeing how special it is until life comes tripping with its little interruptions. And I see these breaks in fortune for what for what they really are — just little schoolgirls, telling me, showing me how lucky I truly am. I smile, and twirl in gratitude once again. 

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The keeper of.

It’s just a small bundle of price tags. I found them in an old bureau. Having nothing to price, I began writing on them the things that are the most valuable to me. Tagging what I’m ever grateful for. My priceless. 

On my best days, I add to the list. Writing with a fever all the good things happening. On my other days, you know the ones, when you’re knee deep in all that otherness, I still have the hand and heart free to give the bundle a little shake, a little shake that reveals my growing everything. A revelation that makes me add to the list — wisdom — short for, “On the days that I can’t create something beautiful, at least let me have the wisdom to see it.”

Since creating my gratitags, one thing has become so clear. I am the author. The keeper of. It’s so easy to think someone else has the power to change your day, ruin your day. I’m as guilty as the next person, this giving it away. But then I see my tiny tags. Still all tied together. I step out of the other, into the everything, and I am gratefully whole. 

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