Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: trees


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The changing seasons. 

Looking out the window this morning, I see the tops of two green leafed trees turning red. I had to look it up because I didn’t know, even after so many years of living through the changing seasons, if all trees change their colors from top to bottom. And the answer is no. It varies by species and environmental factors. Some do change from top to bottom, others from the interior, others still from the bottom to the top. And the thing is, none of them are wrong. 

We don’t judge the trees for how they change. Could we do the same with humans?

I suppose I’ve always been an “inner.” All my changes have come from within the heart. That is my natural way. But that’s not for everyone. The intellectuals will rouge their way from the top of the brain. Thinking their way into all the new colors. Others still will need to feel it. Seeking proof from foot’s bottom. 

And wouldn’t it be wonderful if we just celebrated the colors? Not worrying about how you got there, but that you arrived. 

I hope with all my inners that I can do that for you, and even myself. And gather in all that beauty of change to survive the next season. And the next. We are built for change. For rest. For growth. For greening. And starting once again. Bravo, I say, to all that make it though, the changing seasons. 

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Almost purple.

When we got to the end of a bag on a road trip, my mother always, with a grin, suggested we give the purple jelly beans to the birds by throwing them out the car window. So it’s not surprising that yesterday, in the Petrified Forest National Park, when the crow made no attempt to fly away, even after taking pictures, that I went to the back seat of the car and picked out a jelly bean. (Of course we have them, mostly only purple left, it’s a road trip after all, and I am my mother’s daughter.). I walked right up to the big black bird. Gave the jelly bean a little roll, and the crow plucked it right from the ground. I think he loved it. I watched. You know, just in case. I wasn’t sure a crow could eat a jelly bean. (I was prepared to do cpr.) But he pecked it smaller. Ate it up, like everything in my history told me he would. 

I promise I won’t make a steady habit of feeding the birds jelly beans. But how could I miss the opportunity to bring my mother along on our trip?

Gazing out over the painted desert, looking at the trees that now were made of stone, time could have seemed too big to imagine. But maybe there is no time at all. Maybe everything is, all at once. Trees are stones. My mother is with me still. The black wing of the crow, shines blue, almost purple.

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A branch of fools.


We used to see it all the time, my favorite tree, when we went to visit Dominique’s mother. I haven’t seen it since she passed. I suppose it would be a long way to drive just to see a tree. But I think of it occasionally. It had struggled with the drought of recent years. I painted it when it was full, hoping somehow it would be the hydration needed to keep it alive. 
Maybe I’m doing the same with all of my painting. Trying to keep the connections. Families branch out. Each limb gets thinner. That’s the nature of it, I suppose. But we can remain strong. 
Some say it takes work, but mostly I think it just takes care. You just have to keep caring. Even when it feels like love’s rain has abandoned us, we keep caring. Is that foolish? Probably. But for me that’s not disparaging. When I wrote of my grandmother and grandfather falling in love —
He said, “I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie. I’m stubborn as a mule.”She said, “I love you just the same.”He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”And he fell for her as only fools can,and the story of Rueben and Elsie began.
 No one grew things like my grandfather. This mule. This farmer. I want to be this foolish. So I keep believing. I keep painting. I keep watering the branches. I don’t have to drive by to know it’s there. Love ever remains. Ever green. Ever growing.

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Feel like blooming.

There is something to the spring cleaning. The refresh. And it’s probably no surprise that the new Home Edit series was just released on Netflix. I will admit that I am excited by their organization. Inspired to do my own. This, mixed with trees in bloom, the flowers singing along with the birds, I begin.

I am not one who believes I have to buy more things to get my old things in order. No judgements, just me. I’ve always liked shopping my own dwelling. And I do. Frequently. I started with a good clean of the bathroom. Changed out the painting. Changed the postcard. Took the candle that I was gifted for Christmas out of its red container (red wouldn’t do) – put that candle into an appropriate container (a previously used up candle), and lit it, of course. And I picked a small flowering stem from our garden. As we say here, quite loosely I might add, Voila!

There is something quite satisfying about a spring refresh, and I slept well. The next morning, not quite awake, I turned on the bathroom light, and my heart smiled to the tips of my mouth. That, my friends, is refreshing.

I’ve started tackling my office. And it occurred to me, maybe I could do this within, within myself. An edit. Let go of the old feelings I’m not using anymore, the ones just cluttering up space, gathering dust…wouldn’t that be something! And even if it lasted for a day, a season, and I did it again, wouldn’t that, just like the spring birds, give my heart something to sing about! I think so! My inner voices must deserve as much attention as the shelf in my office. And so I begin. The load a little lighter, a little cleaner, in my house, in my heart. I smile, and feel like blooming.

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Lush.

I don’t often use the word lush, so I looked it up to make sure that I had the definition right. “Very rich and providing great sensory pleasure.” Yes! Exactly right. The trees we’ve been seeing on this visit are just that — lush!!


In fact, I would say, some of the best artwork I’ve seen on this trip has been growing beautifully and naturally along the route, beside the capitols, outside the museums, free of charge. What a gift!


I must admit, I haven’t always stopped to pay attention. And I apologize for that. (I’m learning — “all need not be green to grow.”) Once I started painted them, celebrating each leaf, each branch, I can’t stop seeing the beauty. I guess it’s the same for people. Once you start seeing them…


Take a look around today. The world is lush! See something – someone – again, and for the very first time. We grow together.

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Welcome to the garden.

I was born in the springtime, every year. I can’t say that I’ve ever been much for New Year’s Eve. Sure, I’ll enjoy a glass of champagne and kiss in the beginning of the coming year, but for me, it doesn’t hold the magic of spring.

When the birds start to sing a little louder, the light lasts a little longer, the trees open up their branches in bloom, this, this for me, is intoxicating.

Our apricot and plum trees are covered in flowers. It is pure art. Coy as the Mona Lisa smile, the bloom says, well, I promised, and here I am. They just can’t stop smiling, and neither can I. I want to clean fresh, create new, enjoy every moment of this life. I am born again, for the first time and I too want to bloom.

The air smells not just clean, but sweet, and I feel lighter. Each step has just a bit of a bounce and I know none of it is to be wasted. I want, I need, to take that bounce and toss it against the page, the canvas, the hearts around me and follow it wherever it leads. I, we, get another fresh start. What a gift! I skip to the song of the birds, and know that I am new.