Jodi’s Blog ... From the Artist’s Heart



A drink from the fountain.

The first movie (without Jiminy Cricket) I remember seeing in grade school was The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, starring Cicely Tyson. The teacher wheeled in the television, pulled all the shades, and we sat on the floor with our legs crossed (I am ashamed now that we called it Indian style – I won’t any longer – when you know better, you do better). It felt important, and it was.  Miss Pittman aged before us like magic.  And I wasn’t sure if it was happening in real time. I was so young, and television was still magic, and I didn’t know if Cicely Tyson was young, or if she too, was 100 years old. I know when she drank...

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Here.

“You only are free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great…”  Maya Angelou It took me a long time to understand this quote. Decades. Oh, I was familiar with the “no place at all.”  That didn’t seem to be a problem. I never thought I fit in with my town, or even my family. And that is a lonely place. Because we all want to belong, it’s our nature as humans. It’s why we have gatherings, schools, religions.  And so I began my journey. Away from this town. Away from this state. And eventually, away from this country. But each new place,...

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I saw the world and found my heart. I opened my heart and became a part of the world.

The first time I brought home a piece of paper from school for my mom to sign, it carried me 120 miles away. These words, her name, a pen… released me from this town. Our class was going on a field trip to the Minnesota Zoo in Minneapolis. 120 miles away. I carried my permission slip with such care. I folded it twice, no wrinkles, as deep in my pocket as it would go. I knew the power these words held. These few words on this scrap of paper would take my feet from Washington Elementary onto the big yellow school bus. Up the three giant steps, past the bus driver, onto one of the green bench seats. Open windows,...

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Le pic et la belette (The woodpecker and the weasel)

Since Covid began, I have made my daily walks inside of our yard. It’s a grand yard, so no complaints. Lots to see, smell and hear. I walk past the pool, the olive tree, under the pines, past the mailbox, the driveway, the fruit trees (all named) Officer Bob the peach tree, Becky the cherry tree, Abigail the apricot tree, Prune rouge – her name was just too perfect as is (the plum tree)…past the American and French flags…I walk over the space where Daniel used to grow – the almond tree – he didn’t make it – nothing to do with Covid… and past the back gardens, the art studio, the green house, the swing set… it’s lovely, full...

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W.W.I.D.?

I accidentally fell in love with a French man. Thank God, for accidents, random acts, chance meetings, fate, worlds colliding, (maybe they are all just the chances we take) (whatever you want to call them)! These are the unknown gifts – the risks we take – the dreams we pursue without knowledge or permission. And that is the gift, I suppose, the uncertainty, because maybe if we knew everything involved, we might not do anything.  If I had known how hard it was to actually learn a new language (French) in mid-life (that’s maybe generous), I’m not sure I would have made all the same decisions – and how tragic – I would have missed out on the love of...

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