The Last Few Years

I'll be the first one to admit it: the sting of rejection is a painful one.  There I was, fresh out of college with my Bachelor of Fine Arts in hand, stoked on life, ready and willing to do what I had to in order to preserve my art-making, but I wasn't fetching any bones in the day-job market.  The yearning in my soul was relentless; all I wanted was to create art--to paint overwhelming, honest expressions on towering canvases.

Of course, I had to find a way to survive while painting: rent, bills, art materials, food--each had its price.  So I started a job search.  Cover letter after cover letter, resume after resume--the count was high, the return was low.  On a good day, I would get so far as the interview and then . . . poof, opportunity made itself disappear.  My heart was spent on the rejection.  It was  frustrating.  I was about as close to pulling out my hair as the next unemployed college graduate, but what good would it do me if I showed up to a prospective employer with patches of hair missing? 

The hardest part was that I knew my potential--my capabilities, my abilities.  Not being able to showcase it or convince employers of it left me questioning everything I was doing.  It wounded me to the very core.  Using the term disdain would only cheapen my feelings for that time.  

People used to tell me they could feel my passion as a painter simply from my speech.  My words were genuine and my need to express was raw.  Painting was what kept me sane.  It was the flame that brought light into a darkened space.  However, for the life of me, I couldn't catch a break to support it--I couldn't seem to get anything together.  During those last six months living in San Jose, I would go to church every Sunday, sit in the back pew, listen to the pastor speak, and let roll a sea of tears down my cheeks.  My spirit was crushed. 

I was moving back to San Francisco, back to my parents' house.  I was clenching teeth, wrestling demons.  The thoughts of flying far and free were fleeting.  As much as some people enjoy living with their parents (free rent, free food, free access to laundry machines), I was about as receptive to the thought as I was to the experience.  Plain and simple, NO.  Heck, I was moving back into my parents' place for goodness sake!  How could I be thrilled with that idea?!  I was about ready to shoot myself.  The relationship I have with my parents only works when we live apart . . . not under one roof.  I was convinced my return to San Francisco meant I couldn't secure independence from them.  More importantly, the move merely underscored the truth: I was failing miserably at life. 

From grueling to experiential, the last few years were definitely a period for the books.  I ended up finding a day job in San Francisco [to support my painting], meeting some exquisite and uplifting souls, losing my paternal grandfather to cancer, turning some birthdays, exhibiting some artwork, and resigning from the aforementioned job because it was unfulfilling. 

That came full circle, didn't it?

Settling into a life that wasn't meant for me isn't something that I want or need.  Contentment, happiness--I don't think I know the meaning to either one.  What I do know is I'm a painter.  Plain and simple.  Struggles (financial, emotional, physical) come with the territory.  The world doesn't call us starving artists without reason.

Through all the good and bad, one of the most profound lessons I learned is not to strain myself trying to figure out those things that cannot be figured out, but to come to terms with them from wherever it is I am standing at the moment.

Let's be honest here.  Innately, we want answers to the occurrence or non-occurrence of events so there isn't some gaping hole in the formation of our brains.  The desire is embedded in us.  We force-feed ourselves with the notion to gather all the answers to the Why's and How's of life so we can sleep better at night.  Life doesn't work that way though.  If the Why's and How's elude us, perhaps it is because their answers are beyond our finite realm of comprehension.  And I'm okay with that.

Quite frankly, there are many things I would like to have done differently, many things I wish I would have said in the days that are now long gone.  However, I am tired of moving around and shuffling in the past--replaying and altering situations in hopes that my efforts would yield a more favorable outcome for the present.

I'm not writing this entry to say life has miraculously changed to an unspeakable better for me.  Because it hasn't.  I am probably closer to where I was three years ago than where it is I want to be three years down the road.  I am writing this entry because it's important to see how our humanness and perspective can change by way of experience, faith, and determination to fulfill our life's purpose.  Keep at it.  It's got to be worth something.

Love & Light.

23 January 2014
Day Log No. 4