Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: wizard of oz


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In the Sunday evening.

I had already seen it several times, The Wizard of Oz. I had it almost memorized. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say it changed from black and white to color. We were about to leave my grandma’s house when it came on the large console tv set in the living room. Recognizing the music I ran in and plopped directly in front of the television. “Not too close,” my grandma urged. We were still of the belief that the screen could make you go blind. “We’re leaving anyway,” my mom said as she tapped on my shoulder, reminding me it was a school night. I knew it was a Sunday evening. All the good shows were on Sunday night. “I just want to watch a little…” I said, staying cross-legged on the floor. “It’s getting late,” my mom continued, purse in hand. “You know I’ve never really watched it before,” my grandma said. “Oh, look,” she continued, “it’s in black and white.” “She doesn’t even know,” I screamed to my mother. “We have to stay until it turns (I then whispered the rest behind my cupped hand) to color. Or else she’ll be afraid.” That is what sealed it for my mom — this not wanting anyone to be afraid. My grandma sat down in the recliner. I backed away from the tv and leaned against her legs. My mom put her purse down and sat on the organ bench. It was only a moment, I suppose, but a rare one, where three generations sat together, waiting for the change to come.

I mention it only because I’m afraid we’re losing it. These moments. The changes never stop, but we often forget to. Maybe it would be better if we faced them together. Leaned against one another, in the Sunday evening of all that is to come.

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The power within.

After a vacation, I need to get unpacked immediately. I don’t like hovering “between two kingdoms.” With both suitcases emptied, something seemed to be missing — a small candle that I found at a bookstore. I looked through my purchase pile. Emptied the sacks. Nothing. Went back to the closet. Felt through each zippered pocket of the suitcases. Still nothing. 

I went to bed that evening, still hoping my jet-lagged brain would kick in the next day. Sleep came quickly, and left with the same speed. Just after 2am my eyes blinked open with the knowledge — “It’s in your shoe!” Smiling, I went back to sleep. It was always with me.

After breakfast the next morning, I checked the inside of my New Balance tennis shoe. And there it was. My beautiful little candle. And bonus, also the tiny Native American vase I forgot about. Both safe and sound. 

Going for a walk, the French path seemed brand new. I saw the blooming trees, again, for the first time. My feet steadied the way as my head circled from bird to bird, branch to branch, curve through curve. Years ago I wrote, “I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.” I still believe. They still do. Short of clicking my no-heeled shoes together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I returned home, understanding that I still, and always, have the power within me.

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Where bluebirds fly.

For me it’s like meditation. To focus on just the canvas. The paint. My hand. Put down what I need to see. What I need to feel. And let it come to life.

The bluebird has long been seen as the harbinger of happiness. Its origins may date back thousands of years. In Chinese mythology. Native American folklore. European fairy tales. The bluebird is everywhere. I suppose we all want to be happy. We would do well to remember this.

It wasn’t until recently that I noticed it. I’ve sung it a thousand times, “Somewhere over the rainbow.” But it became so clear when I was painting. Humming along. “…where bluebirds fly.” Maybe it’s because I was a child when I watched The Wizard of Oz. Maybe it was because it was in my grandparents’ living room. But with this childlike brain, I thought, if the bluebirds were always spreading this happiness, they had to fill themselves with it, go somewhere to gather it in — over the rainbow, for example. And if they did, allow themselves this time, then they would have something to give. 

I want to be that bluebird. I hope it is in us all to want to spread this joy. But to do that, we need to allow ourselves the time to gather it in. For me that is painting. For you, it might be baking, or gardening. Reading. Or actual meditation. Wherever your “over the rainbow” is, you need to allow yourself the time to visit. Gather all the happiness in your beautiful wings. Then, only then, I think, can you truly fly.

So if they ask you today, “Where are you going?” Smile, and reply, “Where bluebirds fly.”

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Pink tornado.

I have sat cross legged on cement basement floors many times, waiting for a tornado.  I have heard sirens. Nestled against transistor radios. Imagining flying cows and houses. Everything in black and white. Waiting for the technicolor of the Wizard of Oz’s ending. Sweaty hands folded, I stayed until given the all-clear. Then climbed the stairs to blue skies. 

I never saw one – a tornado – until last night. It was pink. In my dreams. It sped toward the house. Terrifying, but almost beautiful. In full color, right from the start. I waited in the corner. Holding my breath. Wanting to close my eyes… watching. A pink blur passed by the house. I survived.

In moments of imagining the worst, I have been my own tornado. The wind twirling and blowing in my chest. It’s too full. Too much air. I can’t breathe. I blow and I blow, praying to slow it all down. Breathe. Just breathe. Praying for the all-clear. Please give me the all-clear. Eventually I give it to myself. I suppose Glenda was right — “You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.”

So I learn again and again. To just breathe. To be patient with myself — amid the winds of change. Within my heart’s tornado — it’s almost beautiful — it IS beautiful! I breathe, and climb the stairs.

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Again.

On our last trip to the US, we had a bit of a snag. (I can say that now, at the time it felt completely devastating.) After leaving Minnesota, we flew to New Orleans. As per usual, my husband kept our passports in his large pockets, for their constant referral. The next day he asked, “Do you have your passport?” “No, you haven’t given it back.” And so the nightmare began. Tears and panic. Because for me, no passport meant, no going home to France. And oh, how my mind raced. Do I live here, by myself, in New Orleans… no, I could make the next flight without my passport to New York, but I can’t live there…check the website… 7 weeks… I can’t live here 7 weeks… We made more phone calls. 

We still had two weeks left of vacation. We didn’t want to ruin every day. So we moved on. Got our car. Started our wandering as planned. Made it to Mississippi – we so wanted to see Laurel. But it was looming. A dark passport cloud. Tiny bits of hope from phone calls – possible emergency status… but the looming.  We loved Laurel. Such a great city. We were enjoying it. After two days, in our hotel morning routine, somewhere between yoga and showers, I saw him standing there, holding a blue square in the air. My passport. I fell to my knees in joy! If ever I had had a Dorothy moment, this indeed was my Wizard of OZ. It had been with us all along, buried deep in his carry bag. “You’ve always had the power, my dear…” (Glinda, the good witch, was so right.)

I’m not sure how many times I need to learn this lesson…

Yesterday (home in France) I was working on a computer project for hours. It just wasn’t coming together. I knew there had to be a way. But it just wasn’t clicking. I was just about to give up. And there it was. What if I did this, moved this, and yes, wrap this around the tripod, light this, move that, photo this, first, illustrator, no, photoshop, no, yes, indesign — there. There it is. I smiled. “Oh, Dorothy!”

Today’s sun is rising. I don’t have all the answers, but maybe, just maybe, with each day, I trust myself a little more and I believe a little deeper, and just a little sooner. I’ve got this! We’ve got this! Straight from within. “Good morning, my dear!”