Liz Huston

Original Art, Musings and Photography

Category: Uncategorized

I danced

From my journals, post trip:

I’ve been home from Greece for a few days now. It’s 3am, and I have still only slept in fits and starts. The jet lag is so much worse than ever. Every night, if I can sleep at all, I wake up every two hours confused, looking desperately for the Libyan Sea or some other now familiar landmark. I am glad to be in my house with a purring cat on my lap – but it all feels different. I feel different. There has been a deepening in me, and there has been a wounding and a profound healing.

The world is full of terrors, I feel shallow and selfish being so preoccupied with this feeling. I should be doing something more productive with my time, something to help others, but what can I do when I my heart is howling? I found that place in my soul that has been calling me for a lifetime – and now I weep from the feeling that I left it all behind.  It is a sad, frightening feeling when I wake up at 3am looking for the sea. Where is the sea? Where is my heart?

There is work, there are art shows and deadlines, collectors and ideas pushing me forward to get back into the work. Of that, I am so very thankful. I use that lifeline to re-enter my life. I lived something mythic in Crete, honoring it with making new artwork is my gift back.

And yet, the sadness. My priorities have shifted ahead of my life. I dream of going back there to Crete. And yet somewhere inside I believe that once you have left, you can never return. The pain is tremendous. What am I mourning?

I explore the contrast, which serves to give shape to everything. The night gives way to the day, the hot to the cold, the happy to the sad, the deep to the shallow. We receive tremendous benefit from experiencing the contrasts, they clarify and refine all the edges, sharp and blurred.

Looking to the contrast of this extreme feeling, I realize that even though I have worked very hard to make something of myself as an artist, that in so doing I have been isolating myself to the point of danger. I don’t think I am actually meant to be alone. I don’t think I actually want to be alone. This revelation blows my mind.

In Lentas, I grew close with a small group of medicine women who gathered there from around the US and Greece. We were looking for healing, community and sisterhood. We each brought a unique piece to the puzzle, sharing our gifts with the group, and in our close communing, were prompted to see our shadows and our light. The support in those moments was overwhelming in its vastness, its wisdom. I was at home with these women, we became a family of sorts.

I had the sea, beautiful and bountiful food, the support of a community, all in the lands and the ruins of a culture that venerated the Goddess. If I had a religion, it would be of the ancient Goddess cults, that has always been where my heart knows itself. In the sweetness of all those experiences, what else was a single woman to do but fall for the handsome stranger at the local tavern?

Our moonlit encounters on the beach were the archetype of every beautiful and trashy romance novel. I was utterly smitten. For his part, for what he felt, I do not really know. I want to believe the same of him, but perhaps that is naive. Our ending was a bit tragic, full of miscommunications and missed opportunities. So many evenings together and in the end, we never even said goodbye. There are no pictures, he has no presence online. That part of the story is done, and I feel I cheated myself there. Was it fear and old stories that kept me from truly finishing what we had started? Or did it just go as far as it could? I will never know.

Yet, because life is generous, on my last night, despite that abrupt ending, my heart was expanded even greater, and into more joy than I had ever known!

There was food and community and an incredible Cretan band played who played for hours upon hours (five hours or so, I think). Their music stirred me profoundly. I danced and danced and danced! Tried to learn the traditional dances, which were fun and centered around community. I was not great at them, but with a heart as overflowing as mine, they didn’t seem to care. They welcomed me anyway! The band bought me drinks, the other patrons bought me drinks, and we danced some more. When the others were tired of dancing, I kept going, my body could not stop!

In my dance, I was following the ecstatic spirit of the music, my heart, the sacred land and the magic sea. I danced for the joys that were revealed to me in that week, and I danced for the sorrows at leaving it all behind. I danced for the beauty that is yet to come and I danced for all that is strange and frightening in the world. I danced for the sisters I had found, and the love we all shared. I danced for the man in the tavern who was not there, and I danced for the man who would come next. I danced for my heart coming home to herself, and I danced a prayer that this would please please please come around in some form, again.


This is me. Happiest I’ve ever been in all my life, on the last night I spent in Crete, as the band played on. October, 2017. (Photo by Demeter)

In the quiet, I came to know something

The shoppe has been busy today,  but there was a moment of utter quiet. That moment brought an epiphany, which I quickly scribbled on a greeting card. I am presenting it faithfully here with very few changes to capture the essence of what I felt.

When there is space
(in our schedules, in our days, in our physical space, in our mind, in our hearts),
it will be filled with something.
(Maybe that’s why we keep ourselves so busy?)
Lucky for me, today’s moment revealed itself to me filled with something sublime.

In that quiet, empty space I wrote this.

22 September 2017

Inside, the music lends a refined ambience
thick with ethereal voices and angelic magic.

Outside, the hall is empty and quiet –
My thoughts are my own for a moment
I hear my name and dive in.

My eyes gaze upon
“Where You Meet Yourself’
and she stares back at me.

I marvel that it even exists at all.

I made it.
I remember the journey so well I could get lost in it.
Moving from the muscle memory of painting and making
and an entirely new feeling comes.

Suddenly I know;
I have been so fortunate…

The art life was a dream –
forgotten and remembered the way dreams are.

I took the long road on my way to becoming an artist, I joke.
But oh, I have been so fortunate…

It was Life itself that met me in the middle.
(early one morning, in soul crushing traffic)

Or was it the Eternal who met me in the middle
(and is there any difference?)

Who whispered, “art is the answer”?
Because I heard you.
I listened and made form,
I made a whole life from that moment,
only to return again and again to dialogue some more.

The dialogue with the eternal,
could there be anything more sublime?

I have been so fortunate to worship,
not at the feet of some abstract god,
but at the altar of life and mystery and soul.

The place where wisdom tempers fear,
where wounds give gifts.

I am so fortunate to know the way,
and even more fortunate to return bearing gifts to share.

Day after day I showed up and made the work.
but not alone. Never alone.
Always in the company of the Eternal.


What We Have, What We Want, and What We Believe About it All


“Self Help as a Competitive Sport” Original Art by Liz Huston

On paper, I have a pretty lovely life.
I’m a full-time artist, operating a little shoppe which sells my art inside the best bookstore ever.
My daughter is incredible, our cat is fat and happy, and the guest house I rent is just big enough for a little garden and an upright piano of my very own. I have not missed a single daily meditation in over two years, visit the gym nearly every morning, and am surrounded by the kindest, fiercest, most brilliant and loving women around.
So why did I fall into the worst depression of my life recently?
Burnout? Un-fulfillment? Loneliness? Lack of love? All of the above?
I have a lifetime history of depression, as I’ve already mentioned ad nauseum, but this was different. This was bigger. Possibly exacerbated by the intense energy of our world right now (the litany of which I will spare you).
From where I am today, I see now that it had been creeping up on me slowly; stalking me for months. Once panic attacks became the norm, then the tears couldn’t stop. Surrendering to the sadness I let myself fall into despair, which is not a recommended path.

However, I am clearly a survivor, and did emerge, thanks to friends and shamans. I learned something big in the process that wants to be shared.

What we have.
I began this blog with an inventory of the things I “have” in life.
Small accomplishments worked at daily to create a life I like and sometimes, I love. It’s important to look around at all the miracles, gifts, blessings we do have. Mindfulness is helpful for this – it keeps us present. Also helpful to remember is that mindfulness is a practice. Not a perfection. Practice.

What we want.
It’s hard to measure the elusive happiness by what we have. We spend our time chasing something for happiness or fulfillment, and once we get ‘there’ we learn that ‘there’ has moved. We want something more. Something else. I think that perhaps wanting, in its essence, is a good thing that keeps us growing and expanding. In its negative sense, it keeps us from ever feeling the pleasure of where we are.
We want a good relationship. We want money in the bank. We want a certain kind of lifestyle. We want world peace. We want to learn, to travel, to love. Wanting so many things…

What we believe.
This is the kicker. What do we really believe about what we have? What do we really believe about what we want?

Getting into the nitty gritty of what we actually believe isn’t as easy as you’d think. We have a lot of internal defenses protecting our precious beliefs. If you doubt this, just think about the last time you questioned someone else about their beliefs. Pretty hard to change their mind, huh? The same goes for us, on the inside.

One of my teachers once said, “A belief is just a thought you keep thinking”. That stuck with me, and has taken years to unwrap. It spontaneously unwrapped today at the gym. I wasn’t looking for it. In the rhythm of my run when BAM! An internal belief suddenly revealed itself.

That belief was rooted in a desire: I want to be an artist.
Which is good, because I am an artist. Yay. But…

What do I believe about being an artist?
Oh, well, artists paint *this* way with oil paints. And they live in this place (which just happens to be Paris in the 1890’s). And they have lots of painter friends that they get together with and share secrets at the local cafe. They smoke a pack a day and drink exotic booze. They rarely sleep as they’re up all night painting. Oh, and they’re men.

Deep down inside, THIS is what I believe about being an artist?
Is this why no matter how many pieces I create, no matter how many pieces I sell or where I exhibit – I never really feel like a ‘real’ artist?
Because deep down inside I believe real artists are men.
Deep down, I believe they paint exclusively with oils. In Paris. In the 1890’s.

Logically, these beliefs are absurd! I’ll never, ever achieve these things without a time machine – except maybe the oil painting part (which I’m diligently working towards, I might add). But I digress.
I’m a woman who lives in Los Angeles in 2017, who tends to be a bit of an introvert, who is primarily a digital artist that also paints. I quit smoking and don’t drink very much anymore at all. Hm. Not at all like what I ‘believe’ an artist looks like.

It occurs to me that what I believe about being an artist is rooted in a very shallow lifestyle. I don’t really consider myself a shallow person, so this revelation was disturbing – and sharing it in public, even more so. Examining this, the truth about what I want is revealed. I want a life, THE ART LIFE, not a lifestyle. Why is what I want in direct opposition with what I believe?

Where did I get such an idea? How did it become such a deeply held belief? What do I do about it now that I’ve realized it? Well, if it’s true that a ‘belief is just a thought you keep thinking’ then, maybe I could cultivate a new belief. A new picture of what I believe an artist looks like. I don’t know that it’s as easy as all that – but it’s worth the consideration and definitely worth the practice.

Gotta tell ya, now that I’ve seen this so clearly, am looking around in my internal house at all those beliefs which are covered in thick cobwebs and wondering, “what else is in here?”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, I’ll tackle one big belief at a time. I mean, it is a really big one…

* * * *

Here’s to unearthing our beliefs, one at a time.



Why are you sad?

These days I am having a hard time keeping my mind still. So many distractions, fears, worries, tweets – all striving for the seats in the front row of my mind. They are not the thoughts I want, but they are the usual suspects, and they are seemingly always there. And their message? GLOOM and DOOM, baby. Nothing but gloom and doom.

The ones I want? Those thoughts filled with hope, inspiration and love? They are always there too, though much quieter, and usually relegated to the background. Which is perhaps why meditation is so valuable, it just occurred to me. The constancy of love is always waiting patiently behind the fears and the worries. When we get quiet, that is when we can find the way to the quiet voices in the back. It is a sensitive but formidable force, love.

A friend recently asked me via text message, why I’m so sad. He said he’d only known me melancholy and wondered what I’m sad about. Why am I so sad? I have been struggling with the answer for days.

I admit. At first I was infuriated.
How dare he?

Then I felt ashamed.
How dare I?
How dare I infect this troubled world with my sadness.
That’s not the ‘legacy’ I want to leave behind. I don’t want people to remember me by how sad I was. Yes, I’m sensitive. I often cry and feel the weight of the world, like so many of us do…but I don’t want to be remembered that way.

Why am I so sad?
Maybe it’s because the world is broken and it hurts me to see so much suffering. Maybe it’s because I gave the bullies in my mind a front row seat so often that they are rooted there. Maybe it’s because there are bullies in charge and they want to destroy society. Maybe it’s because I still miss my husband. Maybe it’s just what I learned at a young age because of rape and abuse. Maybe I still have a medical condition (bipolar) that needs treatment. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe this friend pushes my buttons so much so that I have learned to just not be well around him so as to avoid the uncomfortable confrontation, and in the handful of times we have been in each other’s company, he has never seen me truly happy, only guarded.

Maybe it’s all of these things and none of these things.
I have a predisposition towards melancholy. I have a fondness for nostalgia. I feel out of place in this time and space. I’ve often longed for a time and place that may have never existed, but I can find it in my dreams, and that tends to come out in my art.

I think his question and my impulse to answer it suggests a power over the melancholy, the power and ability to choose thoughts from the back row, from the well of love instead of the loudest and brashest of voices. There is value in that, for sure. Choose your thoughts wisely, become aware of the stories you tell yourself.  Someone (or somethings) are weaving the story of your life – it might as well be you.

So, would I choose melancholy? Sometimes, yeah, I would.
It’s comfortable, familiar and quite beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I choose joy.

And sometimes (oftentimes), I feel like I have no choice at all.
This is all part of the life I am living.
I manage my sadness in many ways, and remembering that I can choose a slightly different voice is helpful. Sometimes.

Day One of One Hundred

Today I recognized the miracle of being alive. The miracle of being in a healthy body.

It was a remarkable sensation.
But let me back up first.

Yesterday was a low day for me. A very, very low day. My tendency towards melancholia crept in, and I was listless, devoid of energy or inspiration. It hurt. Physically. It hurt. I spent much of the day crying and trying to make art of out of the sadness which I could not name. But, in the end, had little to show for it.

Needing to get out of my house, needing to get out of my head, and into my body, I took myself on a hike. It was a late enough in the day where the sun was mild, and the shade abundant.


I walked.
I hopped across the stream multiple times, and for the first time in 8 years, I fell. I slipped, slid, caught air, and landed firmly on my butt. Knocked the wind right out of me! (I’m okay, just some minor scrapes). But I realized my punishing thoughts were consuming me and distracting me. After the fall, with each step, I practiced being completely present and wouldn’t ya know it? Gained a certain clarity.

In that clarity, a dare came to me. A dare to commit to a specific set of goals for the next 100 days. It seems like a lot to commit to; but I’ve already been doing it more often than not, so it’s really a fine tuning of the practices I’ve come to love. This 100 day personal challenges includes the gym, meditation, drawing practice, journaling, social media, practicing the piano, and of course, eating well.

When I got home, I plotted my challenge, arranged my goals and counted from July 6 (day one) to 100 days in the future. I was shocked at the date. October 13, 2017, is 100 days from today, July 6. October 13 would have been my 13th wedding anniversary.


Now that I realize the personal significance of the date, this challenge means more than ever. I’ve come to think of it as: who do I want to be on that day? Do I still want to be suffering? No. I don’t. The tricky part is that I do have a problem with depression, and I have my whole life. So it’s not just lifestyle adjustments and positive thinking – there is medication, too. I take Sam-e every day, because I must. Finally I realize that taking Sam-e serves essentially the same function (metaphorically speaking) as wearing glasses to correct a vision impairment. No shame in that anymore. (small, but important victory)

So, this morning, I got up promptly. (yay! No snooze button for me today!) Went to the gym and ran my best time yet; 3 miles in under 30 minutes. Not bad for someone who smoked for 20 years, only quitting 4 months ago (and joining the gym then, too!)

While I was running, I started to really tune in to my body. It was amazing. I felt the muscles, I imagined what they looked like. I imagined my lungs pumping air through my body, my brain all lit up with the oxygen…
I started to realize that all my years of berating my body for not be thin “enough”, for those times I was made that I wasn’t pretty “enough”, or good “enough” were all bullshit. Total, complete bullshit.

For the first time in my life, I came to recognize the incredible gift of just being alive and in a body. A body that can run and jump. A body that can learn to play the piano, that can draw and paint. A mind that can dream, and the body that can make that dream tangible. My body is utterly imperfect, I have no delusions about that. But it is MY imperfect body. And it has been my most faithful companion for 4 decades. Today I recognize the gift of being alive, of being Embodied. And the gratitude, the real, true, deep gratitude, brings me to my knees. I am very happy to be in a body, right here, right now. And my body, if it could talk would say, “Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.”

Depression is a thief.

I wrote that line, “Depression is a thief” in my journal one bright day. It was a rare day of clarity, when the sadness had lifted just enough for me to realize all the joy, love, creation, even achievements depression had stolen from me in this life.

I’ve written about my depression before, but never when I was in the grips of it. I’m in deep today, and I write this because I desperately want out of it.

It’s a hard day, emotionally. Another in a long line of difficult days – and I can’t even tell you why. It’s my day off, so to speak, I should be enjoying it. This is a day I am not expected in my shoppe, a day where I can be in the studio sun-up to sun-down if I so chose. Or I could hike all day, or clean my house, or just read a book, or run errands or see friends. But it’s afternoon now, and I haven’t so much as left my bed.

I have been thinking of my childhood a lot lately – not because I want to blame anyone, but because I am looking for the original wound. I am looking for the injury that caused this sad, skewed view of life and of myself. I am looking for the brain injury so I can heal it. But…maybe there isn’t one. Maybe my brain is broken and all I can do is try and work with it.

The way I remember it – I grew up deeply frightened, abused, neglected, misunderstood and isolated. Trauma after trauma visited me, and already being a sensitive creature, I didn’t have the tools to deal with any of it. So I isolated myself further and tended to hurt myself. I hated myself, I was ashamed of myself and I just wanted to vanish. Which I did. Not wanting to bring anyone down, not wanting to burden anyone with my nameless pain, I suffered alone, always.

Somehow I found a way out of that darkness. Part of it was an official bipolar diagnosis when I was 20. Outside of that, I had to learn to save my own life. A lot of my healing had to do with finding a creative outlet – first in writing, then singing, then filmmaking, then photography, then mixed media and looking forward, painting. There were a handful of spiritual teachers over the last twenty years who taught me meditation and mindfulness. They modeled loving behaviors and taught me shamanic journeys. My spiritual path healed me in ways I still marvel at. A lot of it had to do with the birth of my daughter, too, who still brings the greatest joy to my life.

Wow, that’s interesting. I already feel better. I already feel like I want to get up and out of this house – feel the sunshine on my face, the earth under my feet. Maybe sometimes the depression comes when there’s a kink the prevents output. Like a hose that can’t shoot water because of a kink somewhere.  Maybe depression isn’t a thief, maybe it’s just a kink.

I nearly edited all the real time shifts out. But I have decided to leave this blog as it is. A record of my downs and ups. I think maybe if we saw less polish and more authenticity, we’d be a healthier society. I know that if I stumbled upon similar words, I would relate and appreciate. So I leave it as is.

May you be well.
May you be happy.
May you be free from suffering.

~Liz, June 6, 2017

Never Not Broken

(original art by Liz Huston)

Introducing my latest piece, “Never Not Broken”

I read about this Hindu Goddess in my studies, Akhilandeshvari, who is one of the main forms of Parvati. Her name translated means, “She who is Never Not Broken”.

It was August of 2016 when I first learned of her, and She has been beckoning me to make a piece about her ever since. Her creation was a long 10 months, full of resistance and doubt. She tested me energetically, emotionally, spiritually like no other piece. She brought me to my knees and in sharing her with you today, I feel as if I have never been more vulnerable.

Looking at her with fresh eyes, I think she is what happens after The Tower. After everything falls apart, we are never not broken. But we are never not whole, either. There is a strange paradox at work here, as we often encounter when pondering our essential natures.

Today, she is telling me to be careful not to fall in love with one static version of yourself – either the idea of being whole or the idea of broken. There is a natural flow in our identities, personalities, beliefs. When we become too rigid in who we believe ourselves to be, we deny the other parts and the multitude of potentials. When we insist on being broken, we ignore the ways in which we are whole. Perhaps in embracing the paradox, or at least viewing it, we may come closer to who we truly are in our core.

#Akhilandeshvari #shewhoisnevernotbroken #flowing #identity #awareness #Parvati #lizhuston #mixedmedia #art #surrealism #divinefeminine

…blue (the color?)

In the creation process, I treat my pieces like stories. As an idea begins to form, instead of just stumbling around in it, I have learned to create a dialogue with it. I ask the idea questions (sometimes aloud) and allow the answers to come. Even if the answers are strange – I try to stay open – which isn’t always easy. Sometimes I just wish the idea would tell me its entire plot at once. Sometimes I wish it would be less poetic and more concise – the better to get straight to work on it.

But, if the idea, in its entirety, was clear from the beginning – there would be no search. And what is creation if not a search?

I have these fragments, pieces of the puzzle that will eventually become a painting or a photomontage. These are fragments that I don’t understand right away, if ever.  If the thread of the story is stronger than the visuals that come, and I tug on that thread to get closer and closer to the core of the story, magic happens. Sometimes to better understand the narrative, I’ll write ideas and character development on index cards. A process perhaps you’d expect from a writer, not a visual artist. But it’s worked for me so many times.

Today I found one of those index cards tucked away in a strange place.

I don’t remember what this was in reference to. But I started to write the word ‘important’, so clearly I wanted to remember.

Today I do not remember.
But I kinda love it.


Entry 2. Re-membering myself

IMG_8139-cI finished a new piece of art recently which was 10 months in the making. Even with such a long creation time, I am waiting until the right moment to release her into the world. It’s possible that she won’t be revealed until my Sunday tea reception on June 4 – exactly one month from now. And I’m kind of okay with that.

Something has shifted in me recently. It’s a paradox, to be sure. I have been cultivating a painful awareness of the passing of time and the preciousness of each breath while deliberately slowing down to savor life more. All this rushing around to get from A to B and back again, and for what? To be exhausted when you get there?

I used to go as fast as I could for as long as I could. I got a lot done on sheer momentum. These days I am recognizing that my body has limits and am trying to pull back before I crash into one of those limits. These days, if I run myself full tilt for too long I need at least that much time to recuperate – if not double. It wasn’t always like that – this is a new development. My health could be better it seems.

And so I slow down a bit.

I notice myself choosing my time and companions more wisely – if I choose a companion at all, for most of my time is in solitude. In companions, I opt for kindness, a depth of character, a joyful disposition, even a peaceful one. I pay more attention to how I feel about and with them, than worrying about what they think of me. Maybe that’s the blessing of arriving into your fourth decade – and if only I had learned that sooner…

Toxic people, people who take more than they give – they no longer interest me. I am no longer interested in that which will rile me up. That is to say, no thanks to the drama. I’d rather put the drama into my art instead of my life, if anywhere. Another adult shift in perception, perhaps…

The title of this new, unreleased piece is: ‘Under a Waning Moon, She Re-Members’

It began as a piece about being broken, and coming to acceptance of that broken-ness. Somewhere along the line it was less about being broken/dismembered and more about being re-membered. Remembering yourself. Putting the pieces back together, while knowing that they will never-not-be-broken. Even repaired, they will never be exactly as they once were, and there is a certain exquisiteness in that.

My personal re-membering process started to heat up over the last couple of weeks as I began to revisit old writings. There was enough distance between me-now and me-then that I could see clearly her. I dropped the judgmental attitude about what she/I should be and just recognized her for her strengths, for her bravery, for her tenacity, her loving heart, her love of words and even her many weaknesses and faults. I just noticed…

The re-membering leaked in to my visual art repertoire, too. I recently arranged all of my art into a book chronologically as a gift for my Patreon patrons. Standing back and viewing them in order like that – the growth in my art and process was fascinating to me. A personal timeline is probably more interesting to me than you, but the growth and the phases are evident I think, even if you don’t know the stories. And I realized I had it all wrong in my memory. But arranged in actual order of occurrence, I re-membered…

So with this new piece, it seems I have once again made something that reflects a deep internal process – rather than the story I thought I was telling. Wasn’t it Rumi who wrote, “he who steps inside the orchard also steps inside the orchard keeper?” That is true here, for me, even with the creation of this piece. The art allows me to step inside the orchard of myself and I re-member.


Fall in love with your own life…

There was this period of time in my life which I have been thinking of often lately. It spanned nearly an entire year beginning around August 2010, I think. I had been divorced for about a year at that point, so was on the way to emotional recovery. In my memory, it was the happiest time of my life. Except that it wasn’t. Not as I lived it. Back then, I thought it to be the worst time. My heart hurt, physically. But because of some simple actions I took, that’s not the way I remember this particular year of healing.
IMG_2329My tiny apartment in Venice was close to the ocean, situated inside a beautiful (slightly delapitated hundred year old building). My abode was not more than 200 sq ft.  That futon you see was also my bed (for seven years!). I loved this small, charming apartment, and in it, managed to create lots and lots of art and happy memories.

My neighbors were the most vibrant, brilliant people; especially the man next door (that’s his patio in the bottom right corner). He’s a brilliant artist. And there was the feisty-loyal woman who lived across the hall. There were many others, but these two were, and possibly still are, my favorite neighbors. We would spend hours talking art and philosophy – where did we ever find that kind of time? We were all self employed, working from home. I suppose we philosophized instead of commuting.

I was hurting, emotionally. Did I mention that? I was dangerously depressed but doing so in a beautiful location, serenaded by the sound of the ocean, surrounded with wonderful people, and my job was to make art from all of it. One day I decided that I needed to document my life, and so I started a blog on Facebook. Here’s the first entry, should you be interested

The thing that happened as a result of my year-ish long photoblog experiment:
I started to pay attention. To my life.
Not only did I start to pay attention, but I started to fall in love with my life. Not with how I wanted it to be, not with how it should be, or how I could best present it. I fell in love with the actual present moments. Sometimes I’d indulge in a good nostalgia – but overall I became a witness to my own experiences and as a result I fell in love with them.

I started to notice things about my environment and myself, and then, gasp!, I’d share them, openly. I didn’t take myself or my “image” (whatever that means) as seriously then. I was an artist, but there was no rep to remind me about my “brand” or message to consider. Likes were so scarce it didn’t even matter. It was just me and as long as it was honest, and didn’t hurt anyone, I shared it all.

It was a remarkable time in my life. Things changed, deeply. I changed. I fell in love with my new single life, and I made peace with it all.

And I wrote blogs like this, which is quite possibly my favorite of all my writings. And the thing I didn’t say in it? I was falling in love. That’s what that blog was all about. Learning to really love another.

My life is beautiful, it really is. And you know what? Yours is too. But we are so consumed with all the problems (and there are many) that we fail to see the beauty.
Life is short, and it’s so very very precious. I am intending, right here and now, to bring back my practice of regular blogging. Witness and sharing about my life, art, love, learning. I hope you’ll join me.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

And since I started this in the past, let me bring it current. The view from my couch. As it looks now.


My living room. May 2017