It is hard to explain what has kept me from writing poorly for you those who love bad writing to read. Sometimes life just happens and you find yourself navigating through a shit storm of your own dreams. Hopefully, I can finally dedicate more time to sharing my grammatical errors that define my worldly mishaps.

Its May, spring is here, the weather is as lovely as San Francisco gets. May marks so many pivotal points in my life. There was May of 2017, when I knew I was about to loose everything and had to live an entire month existential dread waiting the swift and brutal blow that would that would be the catalyst for all the events I have experienced in the past two years.

Some people hold on to grudges. In my case, getting tossed deep into the abyss of the unknown and not loosing my shit was an act of grace. Not all blessings are beautiful. In my situation, winding up in the middle of nowhere with only a poorly packed backpack and 150 dollars with no one to call for help, was shitty but necessary,

It's easy to have faith when life is easy. You are not so much worried about keeping your head above water when you are safe on the ground. So that fight I went through just to seek a way to help myself and the strength to trust others is something I will not just forget about. We all have the moments in our life when turn of events in what Joseph Campbell called the "Hero's Journey". And the tragic ending of my Van Life was the beginning of this much better story.

So when one year ago, which was a year after the Van Coup of 2017, when the call came to me I had no idea of the power that was inside of me. A year ago I found myself trolling the aisle of Dick Blick dreaming. I slowly walked through every section making mental lists, pricing all the materials I use to have on hand before I gave everything up and away in 2015. In the brush section I touched the bristols of all the brushes and brushed them against my skin. Each stroke brought back a memory from a life I had totally dismantled and didn't know if I would ever get back.

Then the call came, my every desire, my every hope, and all my fears, culminated to one point. I was in Noe Valley in San Francisco and where I would revisit my life's work. From the moment I heard the call I finally shifted in my focus, I finally was able to connect with my power.

It's been almost one whole year since that moment, and I feel so grateful because not everyone gets the chance to rise back up. I have just been lucky to have understood the meaning of Dharma. This past year of dedicating myself to art has also been a dedication towards my greater goal in life. I love making well-made beautiful art that activates spaces. But my greater goal is to share and inspire others to seek their inner bliss, to hear their call and beautify their truth.

My latest piece, "Resting in the Garden of your Temple", is an attempt at this.

Happy Holidays to all the lovers (and non lovers)  of bad writing

This season has been rather unusual. It has just felt like a  series of days that have woven themselves together. The only way if felt like any holiday was the lingering anxiety and the fear of the unknown that is predominant around these celestial times. This year is ending the way it started, with a journey back into the unknown.

There is one major problem with the unknown, and if you haven’t guessed it yet, well it is the fact that it is the unknown. Inversely there is the greatest gift one can receive within the unknown.

Today is a special day for me. Today, December, 26, 2018 marks my one year anniversary of living in San Francisco, CA. One year ago, on this day, is  when I loosely packed a messenger bag, hitched a ride and left everything I had behind to start a new chapter in life. One year ago, I started off with a plan, I had ideas about how it would all work out. But, like most major life plans, the moment I started planning the moment the universe conspired against all my plans.

One year ago, I climbed to an epic view spot in Russian Hill, what is also known as Lombard Street, and I realized I had no idea what the fuck I was actually doing and how I was going to make anything actually work. I didn’t have much money, I didn’t even have a place to live. I thought I was going to go back to school and become a Holistic Life Coach. Also, I  didn’t have the money to actually pay for school. One year ago, I sat at the top of the hill starring at all the beautiful shimmering lights of the Bay Bridge and vast landscape of buildings that pixelate the jagged terrain of San Francisco and became frozen for a moment. As for the first time, I had felt something new in my adventurous spirit.

I have felt fears before, but none like this. This was a fear that had no face, this was a fear that had no voice. I stared at the vast array of shimmering and blinking lights and for the first time I felt the fear of the unknown. It hovered around me like a swarm of flies. I wanted to gaze at the potential of the future I was going to create. I wanted to dance in the joy of the exhilaration of taking another plunge. I wanted to believe that I followed my intuitions, that I was communicating clearly with source. Most of all I wanted to feel comfort, in this decision I had made that would cost me everything I had.

Every attempt I made to follow my plan would fail, and the future was seeming grim. The problem  was that in my reality, I didn’t have a home or family to go to. I was alone, and now in one of the most expensive cities, with not a lot of money, no job, no housing, and most importantly no idea this reality slapped me in the face. The unknown was acting relentless, demanding my attention. The fear of failure was squeezing my chest, and my sense of self, was lost in a maze of unfamiliar streets and people. There was no plan B. There was no other options, which in my reality has never been the case. This was my unknown. I was confronting the moments that nightmares  and anxiety are made of.

My situation may have been extreme, because for the first time I felt something I had avoided the feeling of. For some reason, in my youth I decided that I would bypass what ever part of my brain that defines a single reality. That I was truly alone. For the first time there is no imaginary golden parachute, there would be no imaginary benevolent family to bail me out. There would be no friends to turn to, as I would be too proud to ever ask for any help. For the first time I was truly alone.

I am only grateful that I was able to witness this feeling. I was on a walking adventure to Fisherman's Wharf when this all came to a crux. A feeling arose within me, and the unknown came back and along with it a slew of fears and worst case scenarios. I battled up another vicious hill. I couldn’t crush this hill like I had very large mountains in my past, I had to go slow. As I could feel the weight of my thoughts pressing down upon me.

I finally got to the top, and took a moment to rest. As there would still be more hills to climb. As I moved myself in a circle to see everything that surrounded me the anxiety and treacherous thoughts where still there. I looked back to see the glow of the water below me, once again memorized by the tiny lights of boats reflecting from the water.  They glided silently, on the Bay. They looked so far but in reality they where so near. Just like the unknown that had been looming around me for a couple of days.

There is a common thread in my inner dialogue. I am constantly asking myself, “Are you fucking crazy”; obviously, with the magnitude of thoughts I had and all the setbacks I was experiencing it wasn’t a question anymore. I knew apart of me had snapped. There was something in the aloneness that I had felt that had affected me, but couldn’t directly put my finger on.

I had not gone mad, yet something had snapped. What had snapped was the root that held onto fears in the guise of denial. I was alone for the very first time, all I had was me. I had spent a lifetime of never wanting to be alone. Yet, there I was as alone and as vulnerable as a human can be.

In the acceptance of our aloneness, there is no greater act of faith. There is no greater sense of self  can be experienced. When we become truly alone we surrender. The fighting stops, the questions are answered, and peace prevails. In my moment of aloneness I reached out and I reached for the unknown.  And like the white scarf of compassion sutra I surrendered myself to unknown and I allowed myself to be held by it. In its warmth I learned that the unknown was not there to challenge me, rather it was there to guide me. As do most of our fears.

After that moment, life began to happen. And one year later, I am grateful to reflect and to be here again and back in the unknown. At least on this turn I know that this is the only place that I can be. Good thing I make the kind of life  scary life choices that are in alignment with the unknown. Inthe year I have been here I have done the things that the fear of the unknown would not allow me to do. I finally became a full time artist, and I am making some of the best art of my life.  I built a website for my art; which is always a work in progress. And now, I am living out my life long dream of writing the worst blog ever written. Most importantly, I have found the thing I have been recklessly searching for my whole life. I found a home, and oddly enough, although I may live in San Francisco, CA my home resides in the unknown; which basically is San Francisco and the Bay area.

So here is the skinny on how to work with the unknown. To work with the fear of the unknown is to embrace it. If the unknown is present in your reality and you are trying to escape it, you may be missing out on the greatest present it is offering you. Feeling and experiencing the unknown is a calling towards Samahdi. The experience of the unknown stimulates awareness, and in our individual moments of  awareness we experience a little enlightenment. The gift of the unknown is the presence of not only your fears, but of you. The you that has the strength to see your fears and heal within them.

Happy Holidays! Thanks for reading the worst blog ever written!

Do my rants count as blogging? Well it doesn’t matter. I am a terrible writer, and therefore, a horrible blogger. So whether I am trying to inform or just sharing badly written prose it makes no difference at all. The cold hard fact is that only a very small percentage of the actual world population would actually read a blog called the worst blog ever.  (those that do, actually gain a small place in my heart)

My career as a blogger and where this blog is going is comparable to getting and E on an assignment. It is barely a pass, It kind of sucks, I got most of the answers wrong but there  was some actual real effort involved so not a total failure. And at this point as I am growing and learning I can only say, “fuck yes! I just kind of made it!”

So on that note. Shall I start to venture into this evenings musings that have me quite amused.

There has been a few  questions being thrown around these days about a certain issue that has been the elephant in the room since this all started in October. I can hardly be upset about any of the criticism that comes with this question. The answer is not as easy as not really having thought my actions and words through. Maybe I should share the questions first. (see another act of bad writing)  The questions I have been asked are: what the fuck am I actually doing and what the hell am I promoting? What kind of goals do I have with this blog and this website? What do I offer that is new, different, or even interesting?

At first I wanted to run and hide in a deep dark hole of despair as non avoidance is a great option. But then I realized these are not just questions about the reality of selling and promoting my artwork and ideas. These are the questions that I basically have avoided my whole adult life, and for a couple of good reason.  Reason number one, no one really wants to read my shitty writing or hear what I have to say to begin with. I have zero influence on anything. Two, what I have to say makes me sound kind of unoriginal in a pathetic kind of way.

Obviously, I am newish to all this. Although, the sad truth is I have been around forever. I have always wanted to jump into the waters of sharing my vision with the world. And I have spent some time trying. But I have statistics that I have gathered throughout this endeavor to prove that this has not worked out in my favor. So the questions arose and it is now time to attempt (of course through poor writing skills) to clarify my vision and cultivate an authentic voice.

It's hard to see a clear anything and especially a vision amongst the constant self criticism and lack of outside feedback.  I have to ask know if I am giving my readers who love bad writing an honest voice, is the laughter and humility there?  Or do I come off as as a whiny misguided white person that struggles in her everyday life of hardly won privileges. All I can hope for percentage of 80/20.  80% on the humility and 20% on the obvious misguidance.

In all of my sincerity and bad writing, I am hoping to share with my readers, who actually read is some kind of vision.

Trying to pinpoint what that vision is has been a tremendous experience. It is my vision is what carries me into the deep. That journey that I take into the deep is Zen in Being, it is my art, it is the life I live then have ran away from more than a few times.  I realize that I don’t exactly match up with my lifestyle, and I am kind of happy about this.

Zen in Being is the middle path. My art is about mediation.  When I make it, I genuinely do feel some kind of Samadhi. It is just not total and complete Samadhi. (i might just be high from the fumes of some of the mediums I use on the canvas)  Nonetheless, this is what I believe because this is what I have been seeking.

So back to the questions, what is Zen in Being about? What goals does it aim to achieve? Why the worst blog written ever? And furthermore, why the hell do you love reading bad writing?

Zen in Beng is a lifestyle. It is an identity that I have created. It's the life I have chosen for myself and have beat myself up about.  Because sometimes it is also a life I don’t always believe that I deserve. ( I have considered rebranding it as the pains of living with white privilege in America)  

To me making great art means exploring the inspiration behind what motivates me.  The goal is not only to sell art, but share in the experiences of not only being an artist but being alive in this day an age not only as an artist, but as a seeker searching for a holistic vision that adds something new to our collective consciousness.  Having a blog called the worst blog ever written a factual account of this experience as I am experiencing it.

I still can't say what is new and different about what I have to offer, other than the original pieces of art I make and share, and my story I guess. Somehow, I am just like every other wokeAF and brokeAF artist that is trying to come up. And just like all great things this is going to take a bit more time.