Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: water


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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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Pulling water.

It’s probably the closest I get to meditation. Swimming. The thing about water, you can’t bring anything. No phones or connections to the world whatsoever.  Just you and your thoughts. And even they can weigh you down. So I try to push them out with the counting of each lap. They are slippery though — they can fin their way in — with invented conversations, arguments even, completely fabricated. Even my arms will say, “c’mon, enough already”…wiggling fingers that urge the return to pulling water. It takes quite a few strokes, but I always get there. Into the rhythm. Soon my breath and arms and legs are in sync, and the numbers begin disappearing, so quickly I wonder if I actually counted that lap, and I do it again. I imagine it’s like a dancer, who finally learns the routine and can just let go into the dance. That’s my brain in the pool. Buoyant upon the sun-ripe ripples. Floating. Carried. Dancing between the two blues of sky and water. Weightless of what-ifs, just simply being.

I highly recommend it — this letting go. And maybe for you it’s not in the pool, but on the road, or in the garden, in a book, or within a song. It could be anywhere you are able to release the baggage. When I get stuck, dragging the day’s luggage, I imagine myself in the water, satcheled with such. And I laugh. I don’t imagine we were meant to carry any of it. Except maybe joy. Nothing is lighter. Go ahead and carry that with you. Everywhere. 

What was it all for if we didn’t have a little fun?
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Afloat.

Maybe it’s not youth at all. And if it isn’t, if it’s that thing inside of us, that buoyant promise, thrill even, of openness, openness that’s disguised as 60% water — then it never has to end. And maybe it’s all that water that we carry that keeps that hope afloat. Water that whispers in waves to fleeting youth, “it still can be done if you dare to meet me.”

So I, we, race to the water’s edge, some knowing ebb more than flow, but all assured that we will experience both. Knowing it isn’t a punishment, but a gift, if we keep believing. Keep looking beyond the sanded toes. Above the rocky waves. And feeling the strength of all that blue, all that open.

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Little things

It’s not a work of art, this scrap of paper, but it is the picture of kindness.  We were going to Pismo Beach. When we got close to shore, we saw that we would have to pay. We didn’t have a lot of time, so sitting in neutral, thought about just going on (the luxury of beaches in California). On his way out, an elderly man drove up next to us, signaling me to roll down my window. I did. He gave me his pass. “Just tape it to your windshield,” he said. The thank you’s rolled out of my smile. It wasn’t about the money. We could have paid, of course. But the thing is, he didn’t know that. And he gave us his pass. I taped my restored faith in humanity to the windshield, and we saw the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen, because it was lit with kindness.

We are in a period of time where hatred seems to be front and center. You can’t tell me that it’s normal. How? When, did this become OK???? It’s all around. It’s shouted through social media, on t-shirts, and face to face. We have to be better than this. We have to be the knock on the random window that passes along kindness. Please let me be that hand. May we all be that hand.

The tape will fade. The note will drop from the window. But the kindness will last. It is glued to my heart.

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Wiggle room.

They say you never forget your first love. I suppose that’s why in Santa Barbara yesterday, I thought of Cocoa Beach.

My ninth grade was full of firsts. My first plane ride. My first time in Florida. My first time seeing the ocean. My grandparents had rented a condo on Cocoa Beach. It is fitting that I experienced it with them — they had given me a sea of golden grain before that —and now an ocean of blue. Perhaps they were, and are still, the horizon to my every view. 

Maybe it’s always about the people. I know it is for us. As we travel the country, the world, the memories we make come down to the people we connect with — some for the first time, some again and again. And maybe it’s because I saw my grandfather’s bare feet for the first time — this midwest farmer who fit so perfectly shoed and working in the dirt — was toe-wiggling in the the open sands of Cocoa Beach — and I thought at that moment, we, I, could go anywhere. 

And if I believe it for myself, allow it for myself, I have to do the same for others. We should all be given that opportunity, that privilege, that chance to be open, to be free, to give a little wiggle. 

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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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The paddling.

I wasn’t even sure they were real, these pelicans racing across the lake. They looked like little boats, moving so quickly. So still and beautiful on top, but the paddling that had to have been going on beneath — it must have been extraordinary.  

My mother was the face of ISD #206. And even in her hardest days, she gave them a good one. Not one teacher or administrator entered that building without her smile or direction. By 7:30am each day, after sleepless nights, she was lipsticked, coiffed, dressed – impeccably. And she wasn’t faking it — she loved her job. Her people. But for a select few, they never saw the paddling. 

I suppose we miss it with most people. We never really know what they are going through. Struggling through. What waters they are holding their heads above. And I’m not sure we need to know everything. See everything. But we could be kind. Can be kind. Empathetic. And it goes for everything. Sometimes we see successful people and think, oh, it’s so easy for them, not seeing the hours of practice, effort, sweat. 

So today, at the grocery store, the coffee shop, the office, or bank, wherever you go for your daily swim, maybe we all could just be a little more aware of the paddling. 

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Scraps of life and growth.

I began using the paper purchased this summer at the Fontaine de Vaucluse. It’s handmade. The mill sits right next to the river. It is the most beautiful, accepting paper I have ever used. I suppose because it’s natural. Nothing to fight against. The paint goes on so smoothly and becomes a part of the paper. And the most amazing thing is I’m low on paint. I need to reload. I’m down to my most average. But even this paint takes on a whole new life when combined with this paper. 

And the paper is far from perfect. No, in fact, that’s probably what makes it so special. You can see, feel, all the flecks that go into it. The scraps of life and growth. Beautiful!! No shame of imperfections. 

Maybe it’s too simple to say, but I’m not sure everything has to be so hard. I think we need each other. And I’m pretty sure we can bring out the best in us if we want. So I come to you daily, with my humble, most average of self, and ask you to join me. You, the imperfect paper. Together, we can make something beautiful. Together, we become!

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Further.

As the extreme heat continues in southern France, I can hear her voice. “Just sit quietly,” Mrs. Erickson said, pulling down the long black shades of our third grade classroom windows. Returning from the heat of recess under a sun that grew stronger bouncing off the black paved playground. A sun that said, “Come on, it’s almost summer, just stay, play a little longer!” But she rang the bell and we dragged our feet inside Washington Elementary. Sticky thighs against the wood seats, we wriggled and squirmed. We could barely sit, and quietly seemed impossible. “Just relax,” she urged. “Lay your heads down on your desk.” We placed our sweat-slicked hair on arms folded across desktops. The whispering began. Heads bobbing with playground secrets that needed to be released.

“Shhhhhhhh…” she said from the front of the class. “Think of the water,” she said. Living in the land of 10,000 lakes, it was fairly easy to bring to mind your favorite lake. Our heart rates slowed as she described the waveless water. The calm of the blue. The coolness, first on tippy toes. Then ankles and shins. Cooler still on thighs. We smiled flat cheeked on our desks. “Will you go further?” she asked. We shook our faces. “Whoop!” she exclaimed, “Up to your waist!”

Completely distracted now from the heat, as our ever-coiffed, nyloned and dressed teacher had “whooped” just for us. “Go all the way under,” she said. For me it was Lake Latoka. I held my breath and went down, down, down. It was so cool. “Look at everything,” she said. “The fish, the rocks…” And we did. For ten minutes we swam from the calmness of our desks.

She led us slowly back to shore. Lifted our heads. And then, no pun intended, dove into the math lesson of the day.

Whenever I think of my favorite teachers, I think of the question, “Will you go further?” Because that’s what they did for us. Daily. Took us beyond the lessons, into the living. It’s a question I continue to ask. In love, and trust, and hope, and forgiveness, in curiousity, creativity and knowledge — I want to go further! I want us all to go further.

If you want it too — maybe you can join me — all together now — Whoop!

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Magical gifts.

There is a natural magic that happens when the air is perfectly still and the outdoor temperature is just slightly above that of the pool. I can close my eyes, raise an arm out of the water, and not feel the difference. For a brief second, I am part of it all. I am a leaf on a tree. A blade of grass. A bird on the highest branch in the sky. I am not trying to fit, I just do. 

I suppose when catching yourself in this moment, in any moment of happiness, the moment does pass, but maybe it is the impermanence that makes it so special.

Everything will end. That is the very nature of, well, nature. 

There are only a handful of people who are this air to my water. People with whom I can be myself. Just be. And it works. People with whom I can fall, secure in the knowledge of being caught in these moments. 

This magic can go by many names. Love. Friend. Family. Whatever you call your magic, call it often. And when it calls to you, be it whisper or shout, go without hesitation. Be in it. Live in it. Without worry of time or loss — both are out of reach — but the joy of being, the nature of being, is right here. Right now. Shhhh. Be still. Can you hear it? That’s the magic calling.

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