Liz Huston

Liz Huston is a modern mixed media artist based in Los Angeles, California. Her art borders on the symbolic and the surrealist, creating an esoteric narrative that hints at a logic far beyond the average and mundane.

Home.

Spontaneous sharing of deep thoughts on a Saturday in September...

Today I’m thinking about home. My whole life I have been searching for home, and my whole life it just keep slipping through my fingers.

What is home, really?

Is home carried within you, as the saying goes, “home is in your heart”?

What does that mean, really, and why does it feel so elusive? Is it trauma, experienced at a very early age, which separates some of us from our own, internal source of home? Perhaps that’s true. One of my teachers explained trauma as the interruption of a cycle, or a circle. It could be as simple as the ice cream topped on a cone falling off as you go to take your first bite. It could be huge as in the loss of someone great in your life. The trauma is the interruption, an inability for completion. We have little traumas, and we have big traumas. And we store them, an internal warehouse of incompletion. So we search, intuitively, unknowingly, trying to complete those circles.

Like all of us, I have had many experiences of deep pain, loss, dare I say trauma. As a result that has caused my spirit to flee my own body, in order to compartmentalize and protect itself. A lot of what I’ve done in my shamanic path is reclaiming those bits and pieces of my own soul. We even have an energetic process for it, called ‘soul retrieval’. There have been so many times I’ve called those pieces back, but didn’t do the follow up work in integrating them. Sometimes I have done the work, but if I’m really honest, sometimes I haven’t. I wonder if there are only so many times you can call those pieces back, only to ignore them, that they stay out of your reach until you’re really serious. And that’s where home comes in.

I have found home in people. I have found home in places. I have found home in songs, and poems, and art, and books, and ceremony. Those are fleeting, but they’re still home.

I met a friend on the beach this morning, in a place that was actually home for many years for me. One the drive back, all I could think about was this idea of home.

I wonder if, when we find a sense of home in other people, is it just that their heart beats to the same rhythm as ours? And if we’ve successfully compartmentalized ourselves, just being in their company, the confusion of the modern world slips away... For a moment, however fleeting, they remind you of your own rhythm? And in that rhythm, is home?

Is that why the sages, in instructing meditation tell you to keep returning to the breath. For what is the breath but the path to the rhythm of your own heart?