Jen Knox's Blog, page 11

On the digital detox & week 9 of 52

“The more ways we have to connect, the more many of us seem desperate to unplug.” —Pico Iyer

My students inspire me. They keep me up-to-date. Usually, I rely on them to tell me about new technologies or what’s going on in the world since I live (happily) in a bubble of words, theories, and reflections.

One of our recent grads and one of the kindest and most talented young men I’ve ever met told me about this app (shout-out, Yundi, if you read this blog). It’s a simple thing. You set it when you want to reduce your screen time. When you set the timer, it begins to countdown and a digital tree grows. If you log onto social media or your email before the tree is fully grown, you lose. The tree dies.

If you win, you’ve spent some time offline, and after so many successful attempts, the company plants a tree to celebrate your win. The idea is to restore humans to a place of connection and maybe more appreciation for nature. My student said that staying offline helped with focus and clarity when he needed to study.

But what about focus and clarity of mind anyway?

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To embark on a “digital detox” is no easy feat. I’m not sure it’s entirely possible for most of us. The online world has become our means of income, connection, and source of information (if we are willing to cross-reference).

I remember when tech-as-lifestyle was emergent. I remember thinking tech was listening to my Walkman, then CD player, then iPod as I made my way to the bus stop. Earlier than that, I thought it was playing “Oh No! More Lemings” for a half-hour and thinking that was a long time to be on the computer.

I remember MySpace and AOL.

I am a little too young to remember the video below, but I often show this to my class at OSU when discussing unwavering vision as an aspect of leadership. (start at 4:26)

Now look at us. How much time do we spend on electronic devices every day? What is it doing for our sense of self, connection, or appreciation for our short time on this planet?

These are the questions driving me this week.

I have to go to work, coach people online, and write on my computer because my longhand is horrible, so I am unable to take a total digital detox, but I am feeling the urge to unplug more than usual, and after the news this week, I know that I’m not alone.

Because it’s a relatively quiet weekend ahead and the big plans are to spend time with my husband and pups walking in the park, I plan to take at least one day completely offline. Or as offline as possible. I will set my timer for 4 hours and see if I can make it. If I can, I’ll do another 4.

I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I can do it. I’ll report back.

I invite you to do the same. Or, feel free to start much smaller . . .

Writing prompt(s):

Write (or create) for anywhere from one to four hours that you would otherwise be online. If you want a more specific prompt, imagine the entire world unplugs for a day. What happens?

AYTL prompt:

Same. Or do something else you love. Something that feeds you in an analog way. This is Week 9 of our AYTL experiment, so why not indulge in those things that make you get out of your head and into the body? Into nature. Into the world.

I’ll see you on the other side (sometime this weekend) with a very odd and funny story about two endearing characters who work in animal control.

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On Maranasati, Momento Mori & Week 8 of 52

“Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s books each day. … The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time.” —Seneca

What does it mean to live and die well?

One of my favorite living philosophers, Kieran Setiya, asks this question in a lot of his work. He also makes the distinction between what it means to live well and how this is different than mere happiness or the absence of negative emotions.

I am a strong believer that the desire to personally avoid negative emotions is not a goal that will bring us true well-being. I see having a whole-picture view of our impact on the world as a more urgent way of living well and feeling good about our impact when we say farewell.

One of the most powerful ways to live well is to consider our death honestly. This means facing fear (a negative emotion). Many global thought systems and practices do this beautifully. Maranasati, a series of meditations, comprise the Buddhist practice of focusing on death with awareness.

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Some of the visual prompts in Maranasati meditations can be quite intense (imagine the body decaying, for instance). In the Nine Contemplations on Death, many such concepts are looked at squarely. But as uncomfortable as imagining our death sounds, the driving force of such practices is, paradoxically, a powerful mechanism for gaining new appreciation for every living breath. In other words, for experiencing life. Fully. Completely.

The Stoics contemplated similar ideas. “Memento Mori,” meaning to live with a remembrance of death, is another reminder to cultivate respect for the short time we have in this physical form.

The phrase is attributed to Socrates, and it's become a touch cliche. I’ve seen it reflected in everything from forearm tattoos to an HR employee’s email signature line. But pop usage doesn’t detract from the truth of sentiment. The true message: find meaning in everything. Every thing. We're not here forever. We can only create and share so much.

Many more cultural and religious explorations on death range from it being considered a portal to magical lands of judgment, good and bad, or a transition to another form. It could be a ticket to bliss or pain.

"Just as when we come into the world, when we die we are afraid of the unknown. But the fear is something from within us that has nothing to do with reality. Dying is like being born: just a change." ― Isabel Allende

From a scientific perspective, death is about going from consciousness to organic matter that can, in the right conditions, provide the earth with ample nitrogen that helps other lifeforms grow.

Whatever your belief, embracing the inevitability of death can be a lifestyle, and it doesn't have to feel depressing or uncomfortable. Nor does accepting death need only be for people who want an excuse for hedonism.

Death, ultimately, is a solo journey. An inevitable solo journey. Even if you’re surrounded by others, you make the transition alone. If this scares you, hey, you’re human. But behind this fear lives the ultimate ability to create beauty.

And this close examination can support everyone, from people with terminal illnesses in accepting their mortality to those with severe anxiety. It is a way of confronting the dragon (so to speak) and realizing it is not coming after you but is, instead, a companion. Possibly, an empowering one.

Death awareness can put petty desires and silly worries in perspective. It can make a peach taste sweeter or a hug feel more like an exchange. Whether death feels close or far away, these practices can make everything brighter.

“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” -Marcus Aurelius

So while most of us don’t want to talk about it, and I get that, I think we should. We should remind ourselves that this time here and now is a gift.

We’re all just shooting stars here on Earth.

Below is a practice that will illustrate what I mean here. It's a gentle way to contemplate the process of death by reflecting on our material awareness. On the other side of this contemplation, which might be tough for some, is invigoration, gratitude, beauty, awe . . . and on, and on. What's on the other side is life.

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Writing prompt(s):

Write a story in which death is the protagonist.

AYTL prompt: Today’s post is laser-focused on the AYTL experiment because while self-awareness, creativity, and evaluation are important in our daily lives, ultimately, the thing we’re doing with this experiment is remembering we’re going to die.

If this post wasn’t too much for you, and you were able to schedule 7 minutes to try this meditation, my challenge is to do this practice then write about your experience.

And if you share here, I’d love to know how it went.

On birches, the unknown & week 7 of 52

What if a little mystery isn’t a bad thing?

Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer,"

- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet

After reading The Hidden Life of Trees, I’ll never look at birches the same. In the book, Peter Wohlleben shares that birches—who love full access to the sun—prefer to be no more than three feet from their neighbors. No matter the size or shape of the birch, they do not compete for resources.

Instead, families of trees work in harmony so they can all photosynthesize at the same rate, which is only possible because they share sugars and other nutrients through their roots. When you cut down a birch to give another more light, the standing trees will not accept this. They will continue to feed the stump.

There are few things I enjoy more than walking in the small park near my house. Daily, I take time to appreciate the trees or wrangle their craziness beneath caponies. From the vivid fall leaves to snow-dusted winters to the buds of spring and summer’s proliferation of green, my park brings me peace.

Part of the reason is because nature holds so much mystery. It can be beautiful and brutal, much like humans, but what seems to rule, ultimately, is a sense of greater harmony.

To know that a birch will not accept the loss of its counterpart brings something new but no less mysterious to the way I see the trees. Do I need to know more facts about birch? Maybe. Maybe I can study how they handle predators and their strategic growing cycles, but knowing just a little goes a long way.

Insight into nature without claiming all-out expertise can be a beautiful thing. I know that the birch, as an analogy, is lovely. I also know that birches may compete with other species for light, so I’ll stick with this part of the story.

What I loved about this book is that Wohlleben, an expert on his topic, maintains his sense of wonder because he understands that there’s always more to the story. Revelations are just thin layers of insight when it comes to something so vast.

The mystery of natural patterns keeps us humble and present. So my focus this week is on living the mystery. After all, unknowing is not always about ignorance. When met with reverence, allowing the mystery is quite beautiful. And it’s often more honest.

So let’s explore…

Writing prompt(s):

Write a story about a natural phenomenon that has always interested you. Do so with no more than light research. Let the mystery drive the story forward, maybe even let it lead the way.

Write a story about the struggle between maintaining mutual support and independence. Which will prevail, and what is the outcome?

AYTL prompt: Take this week to focus on what you don’t know and appreciate that. Allow yourself to be mystified and explore the beauty of that and why it matters.

Learn more about the AYTL experiment here.

On mindful journaling

Mindfulness is trendy. It’s advice to feel better in almost every situation, but some of us have no idea what being mindful is about. We know the research studies are there, and creativity and mindfulness seem loosely linked.

But good writing comes in fits and spurts. Is mindful journaling the same?

I say no. I consider this an entirely different type of…

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On mining the messy feelings in creative ways

“Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets trying to find you” -Hafiz

It’s Week 6! Are you with me?

When I think about this year-long experiment, I think about how not to waste time and, instead, embody each moment. I think about taking all my messy feelings and putting them to work.

I think less about managing emotions and more about listening to them. After all, creativity can be sophisticated reactivity. Feelings like anger and angst have fueled much of my creative work, especially when I was fresh out of grad school.

I’ve been angry lately, but I won’t tell you why. Not yet. Instead, I’ll broach the topic of anger retrospectively to get to the present. The question driving today’s blog is how we can work with feelings like anger and not let them distract us from the true potency of our experience and artistic voice.

Guernica by Pablo Picasso, painted after the bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War

Here’s an example of what used to FUEL me.

As a grad student, I remember the sinister mixture of imposter syndrome and anger, mostly at myself. While I was grateful to be there as a high school dropout, and I met incredible friends and teachers, I also met those who were less supportive or passive-aggressive—the human animations of my inner critic.

“How are you even here?” a semi-famous writer and CNF teacher once asked me.

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I didn’t know. And the question asked so overtly in a breakfast diner in Vermont—the farthest I’d ever been away from home—lit a fire.

I began to notice how certain people were groomed for success. Without getting too in the weeds, I saw upclose the literary world was no meritocracy. And even if it had been, I wouldn't have had an advantage. I was academically and monetarily behind.

But my writing sample had gotten me in, and I knew I had a story to tell.

So. From a place of inadequacy and anger, I wrote my thesis draft about how, as a rule, only the wealthy were historically famous writers (esp. memoirists) for a reason—the practice demanded time and resources that people hustling for a living do not have. I wasn’t wrong. I did a lot of research to back up my claim, and my husband, a student of economics, put together an economic model that substantiated my obvious but unspoken truth.

Not surprisingly, I was shot down quickly by a professor (a different one from above) who said, “Your argument is nothing new, and it’s not literary.”

But it felt new. It felt urgent even, because no one talked about the privilege of art in 2008 or 2009. The “no” answer is one I wouldn’t accept today, especially not in my final year (see: AYTL), but at the time I acquiesced and wrote a new paper.

The undercurrent of anger I felt about her response and the guilt at my inability to stick up for my idea fed my desire to write and publish the following years. I was determined to defy the odds. My perspective and experience may not have been new, but they would be shared. I was sure of it.

As counter-productive as that sounds, anger became my friend. She gave me great pep talks. I would share the working-class story and injustices of currency exchanges—socially and professionally—again and again. That’s what I wrote, in myriad stories, for years.

As I matured, my anger about human rights violations broadened. I got slightly more political. Anger led me to explore topics where I felt there was no justice, such as women’s healthcare violations and the sickening cloud of superiority some people seem to be surrounded by. Anger was an endless topic to explore on the page.

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Now, I see anger differently.

I still get angry, as aforementioned. And according to the number of listens to my meditation on anger, I’m not alone in feeling the emotion regularly. I think that's just fine. Let’s get angry! I want artists to get angry. I want teachers to get angry. I want good people to get angry. Not to be violent or waste time, but to explore the power of that emotion and see what's on the other side.

What better than anger to note who we are amidst the ever-flowing change of life? What better than an artist's anger to explore the world with less apology and more momentum? After all, we have no time to hide from what's uncomfortable.

That said, we all know how harmful anger is if she sticks around too long. I think of her as that toxic friend who showers you with empty compliments, but after a certain number of hours or days, transforms, stealing back the compliments with veiled jabs.

In the short term, our friend anger can give us a boost. She can visit and tell us to make a mean face. We cross our arms and enjoy the self-satisfaction of a good scowl, and she cheers us on. But if we're truly clear-headed, we notice ourselves in the mirror and can’t help but laugh at our self-importance.

Anger doesn’t understand humor. We say, “A fish swims into a wall …” We say, “Dam!” We say, “Get it?”

But she continues to scowl. “Fucking wall!”

This is when we need to see anger to the door.

I have committed to (and am recommitting to) letting my anger with current events go. I will use it, but I also find humor in the jabs and try to stay humble enough to remember perspective is always limited. Because behind that angry energy, there might be something beautiful, even magical—something like happiness, just waiting, as Hafiz says.

This week, I am focused on working with anger, and moving beyond it. My writing is focused on what lives behind the veils, behind the obvious. And I am nothing short of elated as I allow this unveiling, one week at a time.

AYTL/Writing prompt: You read about my creative journey with anger. Now, explore your own. But if you’re in this yearly challenge, don’t just write. Embody your anger. Let her bring up everything you’ve not been addressing. Turn on some Jinger if you have to (if you watch that video, go past 1:14), or take a run. Let it surface in meditation, but don’t try to be polite. THEN, write for 10 minutes and let anything that pisses you off come up as raw and organically as possible.

If you do this with intention, you’ll have material. But more, you’ll begin to see what irritations have been accompanying you recently. Just because we do not acknowledge our anger, does not mean she’s not there.

Give her some space. Let her open your eyes to the FULL experience of life, even the unpleasant parts. When we confront rather than circumvent emotions we call negative, as Levine notes, we liberate ourselves to live.

We open to the little angers, fears, and doubts, not circumventing them just because we are able to, which decreases aversion to pain and displeasure, and increases our ability to do the work that we were born to do. —Stephen Levine

What lives behind your anger? Is it humor? Happiness? Hurt? Joy? Ecstasy?

On writing your letter & week 5 of 52

This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me—

Emily Dickinson

What would you write about or share if there was no fear? What would you write even if there’s no guarantee anyone will write back?

The topics that we feel strongly about are often the projects we put off. Maybe because most humans will do anything to avoid negative judgment.

We want to be liked, to be taken seriously. We want to be impressive and important. But if we get all that, does being the best or the most important end up being what we really want?

True creative fulfillment comes from authenticity and feeling content with who we are and what we do. It’s not complicated, not in writing and not in life. But it’s something we’re told, repeatedly, not to do. We need to fit the mold we’ve been given and color inside the lines (or only outside of the lines if that’s what’s popular).

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We need to conceal anything that might “expose” us. Sure, many people own their labels and identify with family or class or race or gender or what-have-you, but when we root out who we truly are, there is always something unique and potent beneath all that.

That potency is what connects us. It is what holds the message you feel compelled to share but are fearful of, the one that many put off so that they can focus on work with a clear outcome.

Maybe it’s not just judgment but the fear of being ignored, which (let’s be honest) happens to most artists when compared to their expectations. But to go into a project that you are passionate about is to go in with vitality. Life force. It’s to go all in. To do that at the risk of being ignored or attacked is courageous and, at least to me, admirable.

“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.” ―Audre Lorde

Let’s go all in.

Why? Because why not?

The reason something is done or created or exists is rarely tied to short-term public opinion. Also, you can do nothing at all and still be ignored and/or judged.

This claim can be backed by the numerous influential artists, such as Emily Dickinson, Kafka, and Zora Neale Hurston, who were not recognized during their time but whose work remained influential. It can be further backed up by the template-based commercial artwork that is popular in its time but fades away in a month or year, which is most of it.*

We may not be able to predict responses, but we often try. We do so to keep ourselves safe and secure. But assuming we all have that divine thing beneath the surface identities, it’s worth asking what that inner, authentic part has to say.

That inner part is not always screaming. It might be quiet right now.

But it will speak and when it does, that’s the magic of creativity. That’s the muse. That’s the daemon. That’s the passion. That’s the purpose. That’s the thing we are here to share.

So again . . .

AYTL: What would you write and share with the world if you didn’t have to witness the reaction? Would there be a guarantee of no judgment, attack, or embarrassment? What letter will you leave the world, even if it doesn’t write back?

Learn more about the AYTL experiment here.

Writing prompt: Ask your muse what it wants to say and see what happens.

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*Quick shout-out to jingle writers from the 90s who were VERY good at what they did. What Midwestern woman my age doesn’t still remember the “My Buddy, My Buddy …” or “I’m a big kid now” songs? *Shudders*

"After the Gazebo"

Photo by charlesdeluvio“After the Gazebo” was originally published in the collection, After the Gazebo: Short Stories. New York: Rain Mountain Press, 2015. Print. It’s also featured Great Writers Steal: “What can we steal from After the Gazebo.” This piece was republished in Germ Magazine, Change Seven Magazine, Fox Chase Review, and The Original Van Gogh’s Ear.After the Gazebo© Jen Knox

She felt it in her toes that morning—dread that she would shove into ivory heels and dance on beneath heavy clouds. He felt a surge of adrenaline that he thought must accompany every man on his wedding day.

Everything had been set into motion when they adopted a pug abandoned in a nearby apartment complex. They were unsure they’d have the proper amount of time to devote to the puppy, but the pug’s bunched face and little square body endeared them. It would be a responsibility test, a trial run before they had children.

The pug had dermatitis between his folds, which cost money to correct, as did his shots and medications. It was enough to tear a small hole in the couple’s new car fund, so they had to reevaluate the year and model. The older car they selected had good reviews, and the salesman even admitted—after realizing they had told him their actual budget—that it was more durable than the newer ones. They sped off the lot, drove the periphery of the city and metro areas, and stopped for Jamaican jerk chicken at a restaurant they agreed they must return to regularly.

They took the pug to the dog park on Saturday mornings. He enjoyed overeating and watching Animal Planet. They babied and indulged him, learning everything about the breed and how best to care for him. They decided on a name after reading that the strange little forehead wrinkle pugs share is referred to as a prince mark because it resembles the Chinese symbol for prince.

She got a corporate job that replaced her occasional gigs as a yoga instructor. She hated the work but made friends, fast, and thought it an okay trade for now. He too had a corporate job, and he rather enjoyed it.

They made resolutions often. They both wanted to be somewhere else but were unsure exactly where. They lived near his family but far from hers, so they spoke of moving somewhere in the middle. Her sister would call some nights, crying because her husband was out late again. She longed to go watch bad movies and make orange cinnamon rolls with her sister, tell her she deserved better.

Her mother, an artist, presented her with a black and white painting of Prince when she arrived at the hotel. She loved it. Her sister offered an apologetic hug, explaining her husband couldn’t attend due to work.

Prince refused to wear the doggie tux. She understood his apprehension and clipped a bowtie on his collar. She hoped her fiancé would remember to pack the collapsible water dish. His father was picking him up. His mother was in a wheelchair after having reconstructive foot surgery. She was a loud, beautiful woman. Her three grown children, husband-to-be included, had blinged out her chair while she was in surgery so that it now resembled a throne.

The gazebo was perfect. Nothing was overdone. The couple didn’t see each other until the vows. The sky was overcast but with no threat of rain. The clouds framed them in pictures. The couple kissed. Prince jumped up and down. His mother danced from her chair. Her mother sketched the children’s faces. Her father smoked cigars with his father as they talked about drone strikes and then football and then the quality of their cigars.

The recall notice hadn’t reached the couple because they’d forgotten to write the apartment number down on the paperwork, and his email had filtered the e-copy to junk. This would strike the parents as ridiculous, seeing as how all the bills had reached them just fine. The recall notice concerned hyper-acceleration and asked that all owners of the make and model and year get their cars checked. The parents would file a lawsuit, and they would become quite rich. 

His mother’s foot would heal, and she would walk with only a slight limp to the two graves that sat alongside the back of the yard by an old, abandoned house the city was unsure what to do with. The family would gather here on the anniversary of the couple’s wedding, and they would sob and laugh and smoke cigars.

The money would not reconcile the odd chain of events—how the car surged due to faulty brakes, how the SUV that was taking over the lane eventually did see them but the momentum of the shift had caused the tail end hit. It was a slight hit that sent the couple’s small car spinning into the median strip. It was instantaneous for him. It was drawn out for her. She had that brief window, a chance to say goodbye. She’d told her sister that she knew, somehow, that she had dismissed it as cold feet, but she knew.

The family was smaller now. The sister divorced, and Prince rested his wrinkly head on her belly as she cried. Until his final days, Prince would continue to comfort the sister, but he would never jump up and down for her. Instead, he would conserve his energy and spend every night at the door, waiting, unable to believe in fate.

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"An hour before sunset"

Photo by Simon Berger This poem was originally published in Midway Journal. An hour before sunsetText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedGrumbling arrives as we workshop creative ideas in a volatile space.Better to cluster, align. Like a starling finding its …

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"Always a Story"

Original title: “Columbus, Ohio.” Narrative Magazine. 2011. Photo by Delaney Van Always a Story© Jen Knox

When Grandpa’s unable to move, he yells at my grandmother, and she yells at my mother. The residue of this yelling sticks to Mom so, to lessen it, I make her house look nice.

Rain taps away at the roof as I wait on Mom's porch. She's a little later tha…

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"Circling Home"

Slowly, I’m adding my poetry and older flash stories/essays to this blog. I genuinely hope you enjoy them. Most will be open to everyone and some to paid subscribers only (newer work, primarily). I will not send out emails as I add most work so as not to inundate you, but I will do so occasionally. Like today. :)

This poem was originally published in Poor Claudia. It was also read before a Che Malambo performance, which was a strange, wonderful, and intimidating opportunity for me.

Circling Home© Jen KnoxText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedAway from home, we converse with nature. We laugh at what seems a drunken raccoon in the dead of morning. Mosquitos clean their legs on our fly swatters as we gulp hot coffee from metal cups. Blinking ourselves awake, we realize the creature is sick.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedLonging to go home, we balance freedoms in still-soft palms, swaddle guns like babies and carry them close to our chests as we march in the bone-splitting cold. Heading straight as the crow, we invite history to circle round.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedCircling home, we wander with stories, sit with art. We carry theory on our backs and balance opinions on our heads like books, waiting for an accepting nod. We dance slowly, eager to find the suggested formation, the perfect shape, until we learn to break away.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHere, at home, we turn over memories as though they are tangible things, play them like instruments in our minds. Fingertips tapping keys, we create new meaning, reframe reality. It is here, with senses numbed or heightened; it is here, with nature and conflict and art; it is here, where we realize we’ve been all along.

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Author’s note: I altered this poem at some point but cannot find the revision. If I do find it, I’ll post it below.