Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: vulnerable


by 1 Comment

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.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Pinky swear.

It took so little to show that we really meant it when we were young. Just a simple reaching out of a pinky finger to wrap around another’s. We swore it to be true, and our curled pinkies confirmed it. 

I suppose it was fitting that our weakest of links, these tiny little fingers exposed like this, showed our biggest strength — a vulnerability, a trust. It was never with clenched fists or raised arms. Just our hearts exchanging beats. Pinky to Pinky.

I don’t know when we stopped doing it. Who was it that suggested a shaking fist deserved more attention? When did we start exchanging “vulnerable” for “sure”? Why did we think all that certainty would connect us? 

The truth is, I’m rarely sure. I think I lean more on curious. To what if. To what could be. I have garnered more there — not necessarily the answers, but I have found challenge and creativity, fulfillment and reward, friendship, even love.   

So take these daily words as my pinky promise, my reaching out, my hope for connection. I will give to you, not always “the best,” but it will ever be “my best.” This, I swear. 

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

Shadow a pear.

She was so popular. We used that word a lot in high school. I guess you can add it to the list of things we said and did without any real knowledge or permission. Even typing it now, I question the meaning. We said it like it was a good thing. Something to be desired. But why really? I looked up the definition. It gave a little of the what, but not much in the form of why or explanation. 

I’m questioning it because I recently found out how little she thought she fit in. How could it be? She even wore the official uniform of fitting in each Friday night as she led the team in cheers. 

I suppose we never really know. We can get so consumed with thinking of ourselves as the lone pear in a gathering of apples, that we forget we are in a constant rotation in position and place. And it’s funny, because it’s actually quite appealing. I can honestly say I like her so much more because of it, this one time pear. It’s what brings us together. 

These differences that we’re so afraid of, so determined to hide or shake, they really are what connect us after all. Maybe if we just spent a little more time being grateful for even having a place at this glorious table, this life, we could all be a little more gentle with each other, even ourselves. 

Just a thought, as I shadow a pear on the wall. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

A passing moo!It was the first language I ever tried to learn — cow. 

Of course the car windows weren’t automatic. We had never even heard of such a thing. You had to turn the handle round and round to make the window go down. (I think I still make the cranking motion to indicate opening a car window.) 

There were lots of fields en route to my grandparent’s farm. Sitting in the back seat of the chevy Impala, I waited to see them — the giant black and white beasts. If I caught a glimpse at 55mph, I cranked the window and urged my mother to slow down. I sucked in a giant breath and mooed out the window. They stopped chewing for one brief moment. Staring at me with such confusion. Almost bewildered by what was coming out of my mouth. 

I stare into that same look quite often here in France. With deep breathed delivery, I converse in what sounds to me like perfect French, but I understand what they are hearing — a passing moo. 

Some days, I really have to crank to return to that childlike confidence. That willingness to open myself to the world around me. To be brave. Vulnerable. Present. 

I suppose we all have to do that for varying reasons. Every day. 

The sun is up. I crank my arm round and round with youthful vigor! I am ready! I am here! Mooooooo!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

By name.

Maybe it was because of the pink nose. Maybe my name selection was limited to cartoons. I named him Bozo – the first cow that wasn’t afraid to come to the fence where I stood with fallen green apples.

No cow had come on his own before. I had stood by that electric fence so many times. Afraid one would never come. Afraid one would. And on this day, this beautiful clown came toward me. Lumbering. My heart beat so quickly. My eyes moved from my hand, to the fence, to his face. Then I started to call him by name. “Come, Bozo, come…” The pink of his nose came closer. My hand reached over the fence. I was terrified, or excited – sometimes I think they are the same. I may have closed my eyes when I felt it, the roughness of his tongue that slurped the apple from my hand. “Bozo!” I screamed in delight.

I have always named everything. And everyone. I still do. The trees in our yard. The plants in our house. If I feel the connection, I name it. To be named is to be seen. And we all want that. I can hear Mrs. Bergstrom, my first grade teacher, call out my name — perhaps the first non-family member to do so. I was seen in the world. From that day on, I suppose, I wanted to hear it – my name, again and again. I want to give that gift in return.

So I dare reach over today’s fence, and call to you. I am terrified and excited. It means something. To be vulnerable. Willing. To put ourselves out there. To call each other by name. To really see each other, and connect! To give each other this gift – again and again.

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Becoming.

My plan today was to show you a time-lapse video of me painting an apple.  There is no video.  I’d like to say that the battery died, which it did, right from the start, and I changed it. But I guess in my excitement to start painting again, I forgot to hit the button, and now I have a delightful little apple, but no video.  So today’s offering is not a video, but a painting of an apple.  I like the apple.  I liked painting it.  You didn’t get to see it happen, but it did. And I hope somehow, in knowing the story, you can see the love in that. 


I am not the same person I was when my canvas was blank.  I have worked and blended and stroked and changed, and I have become.  You haven’t seen each step along the way, but I show you now, who I am, who I have become, and I hope you can see the love in that.  Maybe we could all do that for each other — accept  who is here today, right in front of us — and know that it took a million strokes to get here — a million blends to reach these colorful lives.  And if we could see the beauty in these vulnerable presentations of these little apples, these little and beautiful lives, then I guess it would be hard to miss the love in that.