Jodi Hills

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


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Expecting the unexpected.

Of course I read it in high school.  Possibly again in college. The words haven’t been altered these many years, in this book, Travels with Charley, by John Steinbeck. But visiting Monterey this year, the connection of his words to page to book to heart to the very roads we were traveling, this connection was so strong, I had to once again purchase the book.

Its subtitle, was perhaps the most alluring — In Search of America. Never, for me, has this been more important. On the back cover it reads, “he reflects on the American character, on racial hostility, a particular form of American loneliness he finds almost everywhere, and on the unexpected kindness of strangers that is also a very real part of our national identity.” I pause here. I hold the book tightly. And question. Is it? That kindness? I have experienced it for such a great majority of my life. I have found joy, and pride in it. I hope and pray that I have given it. Freely. That I give it. Still. Can we keep it alive?

I write daily of the lives that have enriched mine. That have held me up. Coddled me. Lifted me. Strengthened me. Brought me so much love and joy. That asked the same of me. And it occurs to me, when I see your comments, when I see you write my grandma’s name with such ease, such familiarity, my mother’s name, my grandpa’s, my teachers’ and friends’…. With each Elsie repeat, she lives on a little longer a little stronger, and I believe in that identity, our identity.

Years ago Facebook did a study. Feeding one group with negative thoughts, another with positive. The increase of negativity in those that received the negative feeds was profound. Now, did we need a study for this? Probably not. But it is important to make a daily decision of what we are putting out there. And it is a decision. 

What is our character? What is our identity? Maybe the quest never ends. From the northernmost tip of Maine to California’s Monterey Peninsula, as a nation, we drive, we pullover, we continue to ask for that “unexpected kindness,” and pray with each roll of the tire, that we are willing to give the same. 


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I have to believe.

I graduated high school with a cast on my ankle. I graduated college with a full length cast on one leg and an ankle cast on the other. I had over 20 surgeries. And I never thought of myself as weak. I think if you carry, (sometimes kick) your backpack filled with hardcover books across an icy campus, while on crutches, you can consider yourself strong.

In between the plaster I wore what Fleet Farm would call work boots. I wore them with jeans. I wore them with dresses. If this had happened in today’s fashion world of “the clunkier boot the better,” no one would have noticed, but I was well ahead of my time. And they did get noticed, and people were not always complimentary.

My mother, knee deep in grief during my teenage years, found a way to get herself dressed, and not just dressed, looking good dressed, fashionable well beyond her monetary and emotional means dressed, carrying herself with dignity, with purpose, with strength well ahead of her time. How could I not put on a pair of boots and believe that my feet would take me where I need to go?

Yesterday I wrote in permanent marker all over my Dr. Martens. These boots, I thought, need to tell the story I’ve been writing for years. These boots need to walk in the strength of all the words that have carried me. Remind me of where of where I’ve been. Take me, wherever I need to go. I believe.