Jen Knox's Blog, page 16

On friendship & worldviews

Conflicting worldviews always make me think of a friend, a best friend, who ghosted me.

When we were in our twenties, we called each other daily, and she was my sole confidant. So when she stopped answering the phone, I was worried something had happened. Had she been in an accident? Was she injured? I called her mother and a mutual friend. And, ultimately, I found out that she was just fine.

After a few days, I stopped calling, thinking she was busy. When I didn’t hear from her for weeks, I started calling again. I couldn’t think of any reason she’d avoid me. We hadn’t fought. What was happening?

When she finally called me, she told me she was “born again,” and I was no longer in alignment with her values. I found this, for lack of a better word, idiotic. (I was young and a bit reactive, so it was my genuine thought.) Now, I have different thoughts, but it took me a lot of time to get there.

We’d been through everything together, after all. We cried and laughed. We got each other both in and out of trouble. We were best friends, “besties” before that was even a term. We were each other’s unconditional support. Always. What would I do without her? And what had I done?

After a while, What’s wrong with me? was the recurring thought. A thought I wouldn’t wish on an enemy.

I didn’t try to convince her to keep me as a friend, nor did I vocalize my knee-jerk diagnosis that she was an idiot. I didn’t even ask her what was wrong with me, I only asked myself. Instead, I simply said, “OK, I understand,” and I hung up.

I did not understand. My heart was broken in a way I didn’t think possible, and we wouldn’t speak again for over a decade.

Why is friendship so fragile? Why are so many unable to allow human connection with those with whom they don’t share “values” or specific criteria that they believe they must live their lives by? Why can’t we just love each other anyway?

To this day, no rejection has hurt more. No breakup, no rejection of work or projects, no lack of an offer after interviewing for a job . . . nothing. It was, by far, the most another human being ever hurt me emotionally with a single act. Physical violence couldn’t come close. Not because it was the worst thing to happen to me (far, far from it), but it was the most unexpected of worst things. It was the most personal.

I still love this friend, but I doubt we’ll ever be connected in the same way again. As hard as I’d like to imagine I could rise above the hurt, I doubt I could trust her emotionally in the same way. But I do miss and love her. I wish her well.

An Australian map of the world

Today, I think about the past and believe said friend was merely going through a transition, and the best way I could support her was absence. She needed to find a new way to live, and I was part of her old pattern. Looking back honestly, I was almost ready for my new trajectory, too. Her decision helped us both.

A Chinese map of the world

It seems as though everyone imagines they exist on the upper-middle lefthand side of the world. I find this curious and as though we’re all trying to be the heartbeat—the propelling force. But sometimes, we’re jolted from that view because others make our decisions. And in the moment, the pain can be fierce.

A U.S. map of the world

All this leads me to a prompt I’d like to invite you to try.

When has something that felt abysmal, even unjust, propelled you toward something more aligned with who you are? When has heartbreak led to growth?

Wishing you all a creative week. xo

On flow and slow

“One life was never quite enough for what I had in mind.” —Seymour Krim

My husband and I had spent a lovely Thanksgiving morning with my mother, then drove to the woods to camp for a few days. Okay, not really camp. We stayed in a tiny cabin with large windows surrounded by a forest. In fact, the cabin had a flatscreen, and we ended up having to buy fire starters from a Logan, Ohio Walmart on Black Friday.

So we “camped” as I’m guessing most American middle-class people do.

As we walked around the store in the middle of a holiday sale kickoff, I got a little nostalgic. I used to work in a store akin to Walmart, and I remember the holidays—the repetition of the same pop Christmas songs and the irascible customers who were all looking for something that existed beyond the sale. On this Friday, I wondered if that was me.

When we returned to the cabin, my husband made a fire, and I sat out on the porch with the pups cheering him on. The wood was wet, and it wasn’t easy, but he had fun trying, and I had fun watching. We weren’t working, and while it took some time to adjust to this (and I cheated a few times), we had at least 48 hours ahead of us in which silence and nature would reign. After which, we’d go to another family function.

For two workaholics (see a post on my love of work here), a 72-hour vacation sandwiched by holiday get-togethers is pretty ambitious. It took us about 24 hours to stop thinking about all the work that was piling up and another 24 hours to finally settle like boiling water removed from the range.

I wrote a little (nothing of note) and did some yoga, then sat and watched the trees. We hiked. We didn’t talk about much more than what we saw. Potato, our more extroverted dog, made friends with everyone, while we simply smiled and said hello.

It was quiet. So, so quiet.

Silence offers an opportunity that many of us sorely miss right now. It offers time to reflect and appreciate (or soberly take stock of) our lives. Chris and I did just that, and something shifted.

I couldn’t stop thinking about working at a megastore during the holidays and being able to find the same silence in my breaks and in the times I’d escape to the bathroom just to sit and stare at the Sharpie-drawn messages people left to amuse themselves in the stall. Back then, in my early twenties, I daydreamed a lot. I was bored a lot.

Now, I’m never bored. I’m on the other side of bored (era-wise and class-wise). A person who is never bored is always producing or consuming (for money and not for money). And in many cases, doing so in a desire to find something more. Something better. We’re all aimless Walmart shoppers in our way.

As we hiked, with dogs on either side of us, we indulged the silence as we stared at the trees and path ahead. I wondered what odd memories were surfacing for Chris, but I didn’t ask.

Eventually, we arrived here, at Rose Lake.

We sat and appreciated this spot as other hikers wandered by. Then the silence broke. It started with me mentioning “happy little trees.” We talked about how Bob Ross might’ve painted this with soft words and a rather aggressive beating of the brush. And how he would’ve done quite well given that this was a pine forest and trees seemed to be where he thrived. Still waters and pine trees, to be more specific. We judged Ross’s mountainscapes and odd rock formations. The man was just better with soft shapes.

Then we talked about how much we wished we had easels and could paint what we saw.

But why?

Why do we need to constantly make our own happy little trees? Why not just sit and appreciate them now and then? It seems the end goal is always to get to a place where there’s no worry and only presence, fulfillment, and appreciation. Yet, we destroy these moments with tasks and a feeling like we need to do . . . something.

I stared at the lake and remembered this for an instant, the way I used to remember it while stealing a few moments in a bathroom stall, staring at discount store graffiti. But I forgot again as we started talking about what we’d do next. And after that. And how long the drive would be to my sister’s the next day and all we’d accomplish next year.

I remember doing the same at the superstore, thinking about all I’d do after my shift, then the day, the week, the job, the decade.

In many ways, I’m living what my former self dreamed of. I’m a lady who can afford to go camping at a place with a flatscreen. But now the dreams have changed. One day, I thought (and think), I might be the version of myself who can be okay being still because she’d have done it all or, better, didn’t need to do it all. I would be the embodiment of the lake.

But in the meantime, a river has to flow. Right? I’m honestly not sure.

Next week, I’ll talk about friendship. Wishing you all good things. xo

On flow and stillness

“One life was never quite enough for what I had in mind.” —Seymour Krim

My husband and I had spent a lovely Thanksgiving morning with my mother, then drove to the woods to camp for a few days. Okay, not really camp. We stayed in a tiny cabin with large windows surrounded by a forest. In fact, the cabin had a flatscreen, and we ended up having to buy fire starters from a Logan, Ohio Walmart on Black Friday.

So we “camped” as I’m guessing most American middle-class people do.

As we walked around the store in the middle of a holiday sale kickoff, I got a little nostalgic. I used to work in a store akin to Walmart, and I remember the holidays—the repetition of the same pop Christmas songs and the irascible customers who were all looking for something that existed beyond the sale. On this Friday, I wondered if that was me.

When we returned to the cabin, my husband made a fire, and I sat out on the porch with the pups cheering him on. The wood was wet, and it wasn’t easy, but he had fun trying, and I had fun watching. We weren’t working, and while it took some time to adjust to this (and I cheated a few times), we had at least 48 hours ahead of us in which silence and nature would reign. After which, we’d go to another family function.

For two workaholics (see a post on my love of work here), a 72-hour vacation sandwiched by holiday get-togethers is pretty ambitious. It took us about 24 hours to stop thinking about all the work that was piling up and another 24 hours to finally settle like boiling water removed from the range.

I wrote a little (nothing of note) and did some yoga, then sat and watched the trees. We hiked. We didn’t talk about much more than what we saw. Potato, our more extroverted dog, made friends with everyone, while we simply smiled and said hello.

It was quiet. So, so quiet.

Silence offers an opportunity that many of us sorely miss right now. It offers time to reflect and appreciate (or soberly take stock of) our lives. Chris and I did just that, and something shifted.

I couldn’t stop thinking about working at a megastore during the holidays and being able to find the same silence in my breaks and in the times I’d escape to the bathroom just to sit and stare at the Sharpie-drawn messages people left to amuse themselves in the stall. Back then, in my early twenties, I daydreamed a lot. I was bored a lot.

Now, I’m never bored. I’m on the other side of bored (era-wise and class-wise). A person who is never bored is always producing or consuming (for money and not for money). And in many cases, doing so in a desire to find something more. Something better. We’re all aimless Walmart shoppers in our way.

As we hiked, with dogs on either side of us, we indulged the silence as we stared at the trees and path ahead. I wondered what odd memories were surfacing for Chris, but I didn’t ask.

Eventually, we arrived here, at Rose Lake.

We sat and appreciated this spot as other hikers wandered by. Then the silence broke. It started with me mentioning “happy little trees.” We talked about how Bob Ross might’ve painted this with soft words and a rather aggressive beating of the brush. And how he would’ve done quite well given that this was a pine forest and trees seemed to be where he thrived. Still waters and pine trees, to be more specific. We judged Ross’s mountainscapes and odd rock formations. The man was just better with soft shapes.

Then we talked about how much we wished we had easels and could paint what we saw.

But why?

Why do we need to constantly make our own happy little trees? Why not just sit and appreciate them now and then? It seems the end goal is always to get to a place where there’s no worry and only presence, fulfillment, and appreciation. Yet, we destroy these moments with tasks and a feeling like we need to do . . . something.

I stared at the lake and remembered this for an instant, the way I used to remember it while stealing a few moments in a bathroom stall, staring at discount store graffiti. But I forgot again as we started talking about what we’d do next. And after that. And how long the drive would be to my sister’s the next day and all we’d accomplish next year.

I remember doing the same at the superstore, thinking about all I’d do after my shift, then the day, the week, the job, the decade.

In many ways, I’m living what my former self dreamed of. I’m a lady who can afford to go camping at a place with a flatscreen. But now the dreams have changed. One day, I thought (and think), I might be the version of myself who can be okay being still because she’d have done it all or, better, didn’t need to do it all. I would be the embodiment of the lake.

But in the meantime, a river has to flow. Right? I’m honestly not sure.

Next week, I’ll talk about friendship. Wishing you all good things. xo

On giving

This time of year magnifies life’s game of give and take.

Some people give too much and become very tired. Some give only to stroke their egos or maintain some status. Some give because they want to make a difference based on their values. Some give just to help. Some tell others to give and take credit.

Some just take, and they wonder why they never feel full.

I try to give the right way in a world full of need. I try to donate time and resources as I think it will make a difference. I hope that I make a difference in my smaller circles—to students, friends, family, and maybe even a reader or two—by sharing what has helped me or by reminding them how capable they are.

But at the same time, I understand that intention does not always equal outcome. And I am also conscious of how much I get when I give. Teaching feeds my soul, for instance. It is an honor to be there for someone or get a kind note about a story I wrote. It feels good to share knowledge, resources, or time—whatever I have to give at the time. But to give wisely means to listen to those we give to and what they want or need. Not what we think they need.

True giving must come from a place of steadiness.

So many want to give conditionally. Most of us have heard the argument, for instance, that goes something along the lines of “That man will just drink up any money I give him, so why bother?” Well, to my mind, that’s none of the giver’s business or concern.

We can give without expectation or condition. And if the best way we know how to give is a few dollars to a man we see on the street, we’d be better off giving it without judgment and wishing the recipient well. We can give and hope that our efforts make a positive difference. But that’s all we can truly do.

That said, we should only give when we have. To give until you are exhausted (circling back) is to incapacitate yourself from giving genuinely and fully.**

One of my brilliant alum came back to lecture my current class and reminded the students (and me) that while we need to “fill our cup,” we also need to be careful when it overflows. That overflow is an imbalance the same way a lack of something is.

We can also have too much work, too many opportunities, too many responsibilities, and, on the other hand, too much time. We can even have too many people to keep up with in our lives or too much success. We can even—dare I say it, Bezos? Musk?—have too much money.

All of it can be uncomfortable and heavy. Lack and overflow are perilous in different ways. One hurts the body, the other hurts the soul.

I write all this because I am grateful this time of year, and the quiet space the holidays allow often reminds me to assess how I give. But to give, truly give, is without condition, and without draining myself.*** But doing so without context or the right kind of listening (giving what people need or want, not what you think they should need or want) can be a bit of a dance.

But when we dance . . . when we engage in that heart-centered balancing act of giving and receiving, we can find something pretty damn close to a remarkable sense of fulfillment.

This holiday, I am giving time I’d otherwise dedicate to work. I’m giving attention and those things I hope others will benefit from. I’m giving all I can give without losing myself.

That’s the goal anyway. To you, I give thanks. For reading, for being here, for your attention and grace.

Happy Thanksgiving, Friends!

**Here’s a site full of ideas for giving in small ways when you already feel overwhelmed.

***A holiday gift for paid subscribers (fill your cup).

A holiday offering

If you need a little escape, a little release . . .

Photo by Álvaro Niño

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On the beauty of work

Hard work has always offered me a sense of comfort. Or maybe it was the necessity of hard work that invited me to embrace it. Either way, I was never one to coast. In part because I never felt particularly gifted or talented.

There’s nothing to acquire, nothing to abandon,
nothing to assert, nothing to deny. 
What are marks of high rank?
Even the hills and mountains crumble to dust.
I use my mysterious spiritual powers
to carry water and haul firewood.

—Layman Pang (translation by Sam van Schaik)

My sister, on the other hand, was good at everything—writing, art, coordination (“Jen’s getting stitches again?”).

I didn’t mind working a little harder to get where I needed to go. Work ameliorated anxiety and gave me purpose. While working, there’s predictability and structure. There is a clear goal and challenge associated with any job or gig.

And the role itself—be it mind-numbing, values-aligned or not, provocative, political, helpful, soul-nourishing, or simply passable—carried with it the promise of being some use to something or someone. Work can offer meaning or, at its worst, make us feel as though we will live with meaning once it’s complete. (Either way, work helps us find meaning.)

I got my first job at fourteen as a bagger at a grocery store called Big Bear. I worked in factories, gas stations, clubs, megastores, clothing boutiques, banks, and restaurants (from fast food to steakhouses). I worked at a small nonprofit, in academia, and finally, I worked for myself and the community.

The earlier jobs inspired the manuscript I’m currently writing. And as I write scenes from my life, the connective tissue of the work is clear. It’s a book about day jobs (well, a few were third-shift). But as I write, I’m revisiting this idea that work promises meaning . . .

I’ve been told more than once that I have a Protestant work ethic. Except that my parents weren’t Protestant, nor was I. In fact, at age eight (or so), after BEGGING my father to take me to church one time, I listened to a sermon and decided (politely) not to pursue eternal salvation.

I decided was of the world, and being of the world I was in, I figured I’d do what felt comfortable. I’d explore said world through work.

Working meant money, too, which helped me to fix my teeth and eventually (slowly) attend college. It became all-consuming at times. Other times it drained me.

I have an incredible work ethic to this day. Even the pandemic couldn’t shake it (boy, did it try). But I also get bored easily, and I wonder if this is the plight of the writer. Just curious (see above survey).

The writer can continue to “work” at her craft and never get bored because the moment she’s bored, she can research something new. The writer can take a journey, navel-gaze, turn the same subject every which way, or turn herself inside out just to construct a few beautiful sentences that will cut through time and space and be received by a willing reader. If she’s lucky.

AI is promising to ease our loads as workers. Rather, the AI itself and its evangelists are promising such things. It could even help me write this blog, and I could use the help because I’m busy and often confused.

Meanwhile, it is the confusion of this topic, the messiness of writing, and the challenge of plain old work that offers me a way to truly focus my mind. Work can be meditative. Work can be immersive. It can be boring, sure, and even toxic, but we can leverage our ability to work in a way that will allow us to grow.

When I am being lazy about anything, from flossing to chores to writing, I feel guilty. Not because I am risking eternal salvation but because I am disappointing myself. I want to impress myself. Because who else will I impress if I can’t do that?

When I packed groceries methodically, I felt good. When I threw a bag of frozen peas atop a loaf of bread to move a little faster, not so much. When I caught myself cutting corners, I knew it was time to go. Perhaps that’s why I had so many jobs. I’m not sure. I suppose this is what my essay collection is aiming to figure out.

To praise the value of work as though it were the deepest meditation wasn’t my original intention when I sat down to write this. Nonetheless, the “work” reveals what it does.

And here we are.

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On the seven thoughts

When it comes to art and writing, what is style? Is it just a matter of repetition?

Many authors have clear tells. Elena Ferrante, Haruki Murakami, Mary Gaitskill, George Sanders, and Neil Gaiman come to mind. I return to their writing knowing that I will find the same story and literary grace (or abruptness) repackaged with varying narrative delivery or plotlines.

There are fewer authors whose writing doesn’t in some way repeat itself, in sentiment and style. Amor Towles is the best recent example I can come up with. And I’ll be honest, it drives me crazy. When I love an author’s work, I want more of the same. I want the essence of the writer as much as I want the writing itself.

It is often said that at some point writers will begin to “find their voice” and stop copying others. But finding one’s voice might just mean we’ve created a groove, a way of telling the same story over and over again, and merely adjusting the lens.

Photo by Adrien Converse

I’ve been thinking about this a lot because after I complete my essay collection, I’d like to try something new. Something less fed by my past and more influenced by a sort of vision or presence. But I wonder if, ultimately, the tone will be the same.

John O'Donohue, an Irish philosopher and poet, in his works and talks, says that much of our reality is what exists behind the face. Meaning, in the darkness within, that which no one can see. Our “doing” or accomplishments or lifestyle are only a fraction of our existence. I appreciated this idea but wonder if that which lives behind the face is revealed through the lens of art.

And if so, can the story change?

In another slice of brilliance, O'Donohue suggested in a talk he offered over a decade ago, before his passing, that those receiving his words would benefit from challenging themselves to think about the seven (7) thoughts that dictate their inner lives. I churned on this and began to wonder, if there are seven (or more or less) dominant thoughts, and we change them, will that change our work?

Take a moment and ask yourself what seven thoughts dominate your inner landscape. Perhaps one will come quickly, maybe two. For me, about four surfaced immediately. I thought about the beauty of small moments, the discomfort of being copied or not being given credit, the journey of my life and whether I’ll leave anything of value, the longing for security and health among my small family, and the simultaneous challenge and love I feel when I teach and write. I struggled to find more, but when I got honest about it, the others were less ideal. I found more worry and pain in their messaging, which would be counterproductive to share here.

I think a lot about philosophy, the meaning of pain, the way breath is shared; and I think quite less about what feeds most small talk or popular subjects. I don’t watch sports or most popular television shows, and I don’t care about brands or prestige. All of this is evident in my fiction, CNF, and poetry. At heart (or perhaps soul), I am looking for certain things in the world by looking at the world in a particular way.

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The idea that so much of what sustains our mental space every day can be encapsulated in seven or so recurring thoughts is profound. Maybe more or fewer, but if you can distill things down to seven, it’s a self-study practice like no other I’ve done.

In response to what arises, John O'Donohue suggested to his audiences that we then ask ourselves what we’d prefer these seven to be, and he invites us to do the work to change them. The call to action is that our most transcendent capabilities lie within our projection of the world itself.

Perhaps we share the same stories again and again. Perhaps we do this to rid them of their power over us. Or perhaps by sharing the same stories we are taking small steps to better understand them and move beyond, somewhere yet unseen and so full of potential.

If you try this practice, let me know how it goes.

xo Jen

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Embracing the Shadow (meditation)

“To light a candle is to cast a shadow.” —Ursula K. Le Guin

This is a meditative journey to explore the shadow feelings and emotions. We will explore the polarity of the shadow impulses and find compassion for ourselves at all times. Get comfortable and practice the ultimate self-care: meeting with your shadow head-on.

Music: "Adrift Among Infinite Stars" by Scott Buckley.

Embracing the Shadow

“To light a candle is to cast a shadow.” —Ursula K. Le Guin

This is a meditative journey to explore the shadow feelings and emotions. We will explore the polarity of the shadow impulses and find compassion for ourselves at all times. Get comfortable and practice the ultimate self-care: meeting with your shadow head-on.

Music: "Adrift Among Infinite Star…

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On shadows

“The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.”

—Michelangelo

Happy Halloween! Blessed Samhain! Wishing you a celebratory Day of the Dead.

Yes, I’m a fan of these holidays and even more a fan of the human drive to celebrate the dark months by reflecting on those who have passed while eating lots of sugar.

For Halloween last year, I wanted to be Blanche from The Golden Girls (I tried)*, but my costume contained the wrong wig, so I was a Blanche/Dorothy hybrid. This year, we’ll see . . . And while I’d like to claim I dress up for my nephew, I do it for fun.

These holidays anring with them celebration, and if you’re me, a bit of goofiness, but they also invite us to slow down and pay attention to the shift of season and mood.

In the Northern Hemisphere, there is no more birdsong or crickets to be heard; there is darkness earlier, and the air begins to bite. With this, we have more time with our thoughts. We can bundle in the quiet and reflect. Many people begin to assess their own lives while thinking about those who came before them.

How has the year gone? Where have we succeeded or failed? Where are we shining and where is the shadow? Ah, the shadow. What a delicious topic.

Carl Jung came up with the concept of the shadow self, which is all that we like to hide or run from that exists within us. It is often associated with unsavory emotions such as greed, envy, fear, or shame. The very concept can be uncomfortable to some people. Others might think they’ve reconciled their shadow—done, thanks (see: lacking a bit of self-awareness). But I tend to think the shadow self is here for life.

Part of the human condition is having a variety of emotions—the positive, the neutral, and the undeniably maladaptive. Facing what hurts and what doesn’t make sense will always be difficult.

The shadow material itself might change form but there will always be thoughts and emotions that are less than ideal, and within them just might be a storehouse of creative energy.

In art, shadow is how an object appears to be 3D. Shadows can be used to express emotion and contrast; without contrast, there is no story or dimension. In writing, you might say the same is true. Without shadow, where is the story? The premise to explore in an essay? The question that drives poetry?

“To light a candle is to cast a shadow.” —Ursula K. Le Guin

Prompt: Think about the thing or person who most triggers you, who brings out your less-than-ideal self. The defensive, the petty, the angry. Write about that thing/person for a minimum of ten minutes. Then write about that same thing or person from its or their point of view. Go for ten minutes. See what happens.

*Here is a short meditation and talk for paid subscribers. In the meantime, my Dorothy/Blanche failure is partly captured below.

My shadow side might have peeked out when I opened that wig — ah, to have expectations destroyed. I ate some Reese’s and got over it though.

Dorothy/Blanche Fail ‘22 (not actively in character)