Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: trust


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Out gratitude’s door.

“If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the brook.” If she said it once, she said it a million times, enough to fill a brook, I suppose. We’d pull at her apron. Wishing we had this certain candy, when the lazy susan of the corner cupboard was full of sugary treats. Wishing we had the newest game, when an endless adventure waited for us in a yard filled with apple trees and cow gazes. We sucked in our cheeks, breathing like fish, filled our pockets with Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies and swam out into the summer sun.

Not truly knowing what it meant, I think we wished around her, simply to play our own fish game. As she sent us off with this string of words, we would swim for hours in a wheat field. On a gravel road. And this was one of the greatest gifts we received — the gentle shove out gratitude’s door into all that we had!

It still makes me laugh sometimes. I say under my own breath, puffing my frustrated lips, keeping my teeth clenched, “Well, I wish I had… then, I’d be… and the words puff from my angry mouth, and it sounds something like a fish. I shake my head, and realize how silly, stupid really. Then I swim through my list of everything I have, buoyant once again.

It’s so easy to get caught up in what we don’t have, and the crazy thing is, that only takes us away from the wonders that we do. I can still hear her voice as I head out this morning’s door. I am ever thankful.

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An American in France, speaking Double Dutch.

Almost everything that I learn today, I learned first on the grounds of Washington Elementary.

We started slow at first. Only one rope. We didn’t all advance at the same speed. Some caught on right away to this jumping in, jumping on, singing along to the song. The single jump rope for me was fairly easy. And I thought we were best friends, but one day Shari and Jan, without my knowledge or permission, added another rope. Double Dutch. I had no Google source at the time. Probably not even the sense to want to find a meaning. But here they were, twirling two ropes at a time and telling me to jump in. My hands couldn’t find the rhythm, nor my heart, nor my feet. Soon I was whipped. Tangled. Double Dutched right out of the security of everything I loved.

I don’t remember the length of time. I’m sure it seemed longer then, than now. I tried jumping in, again and again. It wasn’t until I asked if I could turn the ropes that I got it. I started to feel the rhythm. I had wanted so badly for the ropes to love me first. (I pause to laugh here, because I suppose I, we, still do that.) But then I got to know them. Feel them. Love them. And when I took my turn again to jump, they let me in. And it was beautiful.

It’s not easy to join a family. I married my way into a French playground. Rules of play already set. But there I was. So eager to jump in. Fumbling now in two languages. Now looking up the origin of “Double Dutch,” it’s not lost on me that it means a type of gibberish, something so indecipherable it would seem like ropes swinging through the air. That was me, an American in France, speaking Double Dutch.

When I first started painting their portraits, I will admit that unconsciously it was an attempt for them to love me. I wanted so badly for this to happen. To be loved. Let in. Time travel takes, well, some time, but through the years, I have made it back to Washington Elementary, and I learn again, and again, for the first time.

When I painted their portrait this time, the grandchildren, it was different. Certainly there are the ropes, the jumping, the missteps — it’s still a playground after all. But this time, the message is clear, simple. Not a plea for anything, only a statement, that I love them. I love them. That’s all I have to understand. And it’s beautiful.

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A dip in the magic.

My mother wasn’t one to swim, but she made sure that I learned. And right along with it she taught me how to take a DIP — how to access the Dream In my Pocket. “You never know when you’re going to need it,” she explained. So before anything ended, we made sure our pockets were filled. Before making a return trip home, a new trip would be planned. After an event, we’d plan our outfits for the next one. And one of the most important, in the last pages of a current book we would add to our “To Be Read” pile. 

I finished “Killers of the flower moon” yesterday. Within hours, I went to my TBR. I had purchased these two books about a week ago. I chose Paul Auster’s “The New York Trilogy,” because he had recently passed. I had only planned on getting this one, but on my way to the counter I saw the book, “The Details,” by Kira Josefsson. I had just listened to a podcast about it on my morning walk, so I grabbed that book too. They both waited patiently by my bed.

I was tired last evening. I had taken my actual first dip in our pool. This summer’s dream was officially out of pocket!  The water that may have been splashed onto the lawn was replaced with smiles.

Getting ready for bed, I randomly grabbed the top book, “The Details.” I wasn’t even six pages in, when the magic outshined the lamp clipped onto the pages. The character in the book began talking about her love for reading, specifically for her love of the author Paul Auster. My heart giggled. She went on, her favorite book was “The New York Trilogy.” You just can’t make this stuff up! 

I’ve always trusted the readers, and the dreamers. My mother gave me that. Perhaps these pockets were filled from heaven. I don’t know, but I slept in the knowledge that I was still surrounded by magic. And I will take a luxurious dip in all of it, every chance I get!!!

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Without fuss or fury.

If the truth has to come at you like a ton of bricks, maybe it really isn’t the truth at all.

Grandpa Rueben didn’t say a lot, but when he did, we believed him. He was one of the hardest working people I ever knew, (other than Grandma Elsie), yet I never saw him labor with the facts. There was a quiet certainty that rose from his overalls. His right elbow raised from the table. His open hand began with the slightest of beats. Like a conductor, his rhythm held our eyes. Chosen carefully, the words, without fuss or fury, slipped into our hearts and minds and filled them.

I suppose that’s why today, if it comes at me too hard, I can’t let it in. It’s only noise. There are some who think if you say it loud enough, repeat it again and again, then it must be true. I still am of the belief that the real work has to remain in the fields. The truth, when balanced on the uneven legs of the kitchen table at day’s end, should come lightly, easily, ever without harm.

It only just occurred to me — they often say before you speak, take a beat. I smile. I see Grandpa’s hand gently keeping time, and my heart knows what’s real.

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And flutter.

My latest commissioned piece made the journey from France to Texas, arriving safely in Lubbock yesterday. 

With the amount of bubble wrap that I use, you wouldn’t imagine that it still takes a lot of trust, but it does!  I always warn the recipient, it’s going to take some time. 

I suppose it’s always the letting go that tests us. Will the box survive the journey? Will the love hold?  But the magic only exists when released. And so we take the chances. Daily. On planes and breezes, heart strings and butterflies, it floats all around us.  Not to be captured, only enjoyed. 

Today I give thanks. And flutter. 


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Hop on.



I didn’t know about tides then. Didn’t know that trust itself, as easily as it came in, could be pulled away.

I saw the bikes, entering the lobby of the hotel in Long Beach, Mississippi. (Even as I’m typing the state, I can’t help but spell it aloud in the rhythm we learned at Washington Elementary.) They weren’t banana seat bikes, but my youthful heart beat as if it were my sixth birthday. Having learned the repeated lessons of adulthood since then,I timidly asked if the bikes were for rent. “No, you can just take them, enjoy them, and bring them back.” She said it so easily, smiling, not knowing the beauty of the gift — or maybe she did…

Dumping the suitcases into our room as fast I could, I raced back down to the lobby. “We’re going to take them out,” I exclaimed. She smiled.

With the first wisp of my hair, the Gulf coast became the road to Lake Latoka in the summer of my Alexandria youth. I was riding. Free. Balanced by the trust in everything. good. Because it was there that we could hop on and off of our bikes. Lean them on sides of buildings. Drop them in ditches. In vacant lots. Neighbor’s yards. And they would be there. Waiting. Ready for our return. And maybe this was the truest of freedoms. Even more than the wind in our hair, against our bare legs — this trust.

Time and circumstance has a way of pulling it back. But it can return. I have felt the tides. Even come to believe in them. Trust in their return. Trust in trust itself.

Sand sparkles the backs of my legs. And the depths of my heart. Reminding me that today is a day to hop on. I am free to believe. Balanced in love. Ever and still.

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Unconditional.

“You sneeze just like Grandma Elsie,” my mother often told me. It always made me happy.  Maybe that sounds silly, but it is true. I suppose it’s because it wasn’t something I had to work for. It was a connection I just had. Still do. A gift to this day. A reminder of this unconditional love. I received it from my grandmother. From my mother.

There is a fatigue that comes from wanting people to like you. To love you. And it’s not always a given. Being related is not a guarantee. Some people just don’t. Won’t.  

I don’t recall ever having to try with my grandma. From the days of being plopped in a chair, I can remember just watching her. Fascinated by this ever whirling plump that stopped randomly to poke my belly, or kiss my cheek. (And I was a momma’s girl from day one. The thought of being plopped anywhere other than her lap was terrifying.) But here, in my grandma’s kitchen, seeing the ease with which my mother passed me off to her, I trusted that I would be more than ok. And I was. 

I don’t edit my daily blogs. (Maybe that’s easy to tell.) I don’t plan them in advance. I let the memory come. And simply tell you the story. I hope you can see the love in that. Because I’m not sure that love can be dazzled out of anyone. Nor can trust be forced. When it’s real, it just comes. Naturally. 

Mowing the lawn yesterday, the dust filled the air. Filled my nose. I sneezed again and again above the sound of the motor, beneath the blue of heaven’s smile. 

Love remains. Plopped in the comfort of my heart.

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With all those who dare.

I must have thrown myself down the grassy slope of our house on Van Dyke Road a million times. Maybe it was aided by winter’s covering of snow, but our summer grass was always lush. A carpet of green.Safe for toes and hands. Welcoming of backbends let go and fallen cartwheels. I could tuck and roll, and only feel the tickling of blades.

I was living free from context. All was as presented, until it wasn’t. I remember the day perfectly. It was just as the day before.  The sky blue. The sun yellow. The green sprouting between summer-free toes. And I was pushed down that hill. It’s funny how something can happen so fast — your world changing in an instant — and yet, it all seems in slow motion. That same glorious grass felt sharp and so unfriendly. I remember thinking with each unstoppable roll, “you used to love me.” 

It took me years to get it back. I carried that unwanted knowledge for decades. I suppose I still do. I suppose we all do. But it’s ok, because I figured out a way, on the most welcoming still of summer days, to let it go, lay it beside me. Rest it in the supportive grass. The grass who was never to blame. And trust the freedom of greening giggles. Trust myself. Trust the day. Trust those standing beside me with wiggling toes, those, too, laying their knowledge down in order to trust. 

The grass grows thick with all those who dare. Welcome to the garden.

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Someone was.

I was thirty-something when my bike was stolen. I ran up to my apartment for just a few minutes. Left the garage door open. How quickly things slip away. When I returned, it was gone. I called the police to report it. I remember thinking how casually he walked, this police officer, to my garage door. Like he saw it every day. Well… He asked for the brand and style of bike. I asked if they ever found them. “No,” he said. And then he proceeded to talk about how the drainage system in our garages wasn’t correct. So that was it? My beautiful bike was gone and we were talking drainage. He put the report in his pocket and left.

I stood alone in front of my open, improperly drained garage, and thought about my first bike. My beautiful banana seat bike that I pedaled into the ground. That I abandoned in ditches on VanDyke road. In the Olson’s Supermarket parking lot while I ran in to cool off in the refrigerated section. In the front lawn of the public library while I read for hours. On the beaches of Lake Latoka while I splashed until summer’s end. I stood in the gaping mouth of my open garage, missing much more than my bike, wanting so desperately to feel surprised. Wanting to be that banana seat bike riding girl, that girl who trusted everything and everyone.

I wrote about it — that beautiful feeling of trust — in my book, Leap of Faith:

“It was the greatest. All my friends loved it. (my banana seat bike)
But Ididn’t even need a lock for it. Nobody ever stole
bikes from the beach. It was kind of like our sacred
ground. . . and we knew that in order to get to our
sacred ground, you had to have a bike, and to take
that away from someone, to take away their chance
to fly on the way to that glorious one of 10,000
lakes, well that would just be a terrible crime, so
we didn’t do it. I don’t think I realized how beautiful life without
mistrust really was. . .How could I know?
You can’t. . .until it is taken away —
and only in those rare moments,
when you let yourself remember innocence,
can you feel the slip of beauty.”

I reread that passage often, and I think, as Joan Didion wrote in her book, Slouching towards Bethlehem, “Was anyone ever so young? I am here to tell you that someone was.”

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This table is strong.

Some said it was in the way, my grandparents’ kitchen table. But for me, for my mother, it was something to lean on. The stability we craved.

The legs were at an angle, protruding just a little beyond the table top. You could kick it. Bump into it. Throw groceries, suitcases, all of your worries, on top of it. It was never going to crumble.

It took a while for my mother to get her legs beneath her. But she did. Oh how she did! And not just holding her up, but at that slight angle – that confident stride. Maybe they saw it in her first – the people of Alexandria. “Oh, I saw you walking yesterday.” “I see you out walking all the time.” “Aren’t you that lady that I see walking?” And when she answered yes to them, maybe she started to hear it herself. Yes. See it in herself. Yes, I am that lady.

I suppose we all have to become the stability that we crave. Table by table. Step by step. The sun rises with one question, we rise, and say simply, joyfully — Yes!

Whatever you need, this table is strong. Jodi Hills
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