Jen Knox's Blog, page 3

Mindful Words, Empowered Leadership

This is just a short offering. Thank you for practicing with me.

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Meditation Focus: Do this for you, no one else.

Use visualization to imagine your ideal future self.

Focus on feelings of empowerment and possibility.

We'll write about what we see as our most empowered future self.

Practicing patience as we explore different ways to reignite creativity

A few weeks ago, I read about the eternal flame nestled behind a waterfall in New York’s Chestnut Ridge Park. Before realizing that there are numerous eternal flames worldwide, I thought it was just another bad metaphor captured in a nostalgic song by The Bangles.

Personally, I think we should all be negotiating the unexpected wonders of life right now. Rather than trying to escape or numb out, we should trust our creative strength and open our eyes to the inspiration that lives wherever we are.

“Music is your own experience, your own thoughts, your wisdom. If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.” —Charlie Parker

Living and exploring, after all, are what makes the work worthwhile. We do not have to be productive all the time. But we do have to trust that every part of the process matters.

I was only a little disheartened to realize that even eternal flames go out from time to time. A passerby will throw a lit match in the area, or the wind will blow an ember just right to reignite. Then again, this felt right. There are times that we are simply not productive. Even if we force ourselves to sit to write or work on our project, what comes seems to have less meaning and impact.

I just returned from a writing residency where I got about 10,000 words down. Coming back to my routines and over-scheduled days after a week of doing nothing but writing reminded me of how creativity can feel like a luxury, how it can go dormant when we’re caught up in the whirlwind.

But let’s return to the metaphor, shall we?

Eternal flames are always ready to reignite, no matter the conditions around them.

This reminds me about the drive behind what we create—how it’s always there waiting to swell and expand. We just have to pay attention and live our lives. To paraphrase Parker, let’s live our own lives, so we can play our own horns.

We have to respect where we are in the process.

A close-up of the gas-lit flame below Eternal Flame Falls in Chestnut Ridge Park, Orchard Park, NY.

This means patience. We all have different ways to reignite, and I believe the more mundane, the more magical. I’ve found great benefit in exploring the world to find those tiny sparks.

To get my creative spark and touch that greater something, I made a list of what is igniting my creativity right now. This list is always changing and reflects where I am in a particular project. This is the latest iteration.

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Thresholds

Silence

Windchimes

Honest disagreements

Underreported histories

Inconsistencies

Long walks with no tech

Sentence analysis

The man who drives 20 mph for miles on a single-lane 50 mph road

Those brief instances when I forget self

Those brief instances when I remember self

Tough questions

Contradictions, polarities, multiplicities

A drastic and sudden change in sensation

A curtain of clouds hangs heavy in the sky

A string of words that make no sense but contain rhythm

Anger that turns to laughter

An unexpected show of compassion

The flickering light in another’s eyes

Leaning in during a conversation

As a creative life prompt, I encourage you to create your list and make it as long as possible. We are always creating, whether we feel like it or not, but what are your signs and symbols? What reignites your eternal flame? Subscribers, Let’s debrief! We’ll discuss all things writing, mindful living, and creative resilience. Join me Saturday, June 21 at 9 a.m. PT /12 p.m. ET and Friday, July 11 at 2 p.m. PT / 5 p.m. ET for this community Zoom get-together. To RSVP, go here.

Diamond Mason: I write because it saves me, and I hope it saves someone else.

: I still write because only I can share the stories that come straight from my heart and may land in the heart of someone I’ve never met.

: I want … to share my work, some of my perspectives, and things I’ve wrote/built along time. I’m trying to do something with all the study and production … I hope to contribute something with it and also hope to get to know people.

: AI can do a lot of things but it can’t replace real voices from real humans. I write because I love to express myself. I read to connect with other humans.

: Dedicated to this slog because for me it’s essential that we don’t lose our connection to the Soul of humanity. We are divine creator beings, and if we begin to outsource our creative capacity to something outside ourselves, we’ve lost touch with the very thing that makes us human. […]

: I’ve noticed that writing allows me to speak my mind, and learn at the same time. It’s hard but somehow calming at the same time. The process also allows me to block out other daily stresses in my life […]

Why do you write ? Let me know.

Conscious Breathwork for Creatives: A Short Course

"When walking, walk. When eating, eat." — Zen Proverb

I’m publishing this quietly, without the email. It’s a thank-you for subscribing and supporting my words. This will be open to all for a week, then available to paid subscribers only. As always, if you cannot afford a paid subscription and would like access to meditations and workshops, please simply email me and let me know. I will comp it for you—no questions asked.

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The exercises here have been a lifeline for me since getting my yoga teacher certification almost ten years ago now. They’re simple but easy to forget.

Connect on Insight Timer“Space is the breath of art.” —Frank Lloyd Wright

Balance and Calm

When to practice? After reading political news or getting a rejection.

How to practice? Box breathing: Inhale, hold, exhale, and hold for a count of 4 seconds each. The second technique is humming bee breath: Inhale deeply and exhale with a steady humming sensation.

Breath And Emotion

When to practice? When you’re caught in thought loops and trying to sleep.

How to practice? Breathing is a direct line to your nervous system. The 4-7-8 Relaxation Breathing technique comprises inhaling through the nose for 4, holding for 7, and then exhaling through the mouth for 8.

Breath For Energy And Focus

When to practice: Your brain feels like it’s on a hamster wheel, or you need a creative boost and more focus.

How to practice: While faster breathing means more alertness, too much often means stress. This technique raises oxygenation and focus without overstressing the body by focusing on depth and rhythm. We'll do a few rounds of breathwork together, and I recommend practicing in the morning or when you need a little boost of energy.

The original course is on Insight Timer, where I often offer moving meditation and creative resilience classes live. If you find it helpful, please consider subscribing & I’ll know to post more.

xo Jen

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Heading home with new words and new resolve

Sunlight sparkles on the subtle ripples of the heavy green water. I stare at the flickers, quick-moving reflections. It’s still early. I walked a mile and a half before finding this bench in the shade, and the sun is steadily rising. I am promised a brutally hot walk back to my room.

My legs pulse. I reach for the small notebook and pen in my pocket.

After a slow and searching day upon arriving at this writing residency, I got my flow. My new project no longer feels like a mere abstraction. There is a purpose behind it, and every word feels like it’s getting me a little closer to clarity.

The story I am writing will be my first historical novel, which is based on a defiant and groundbreaking woman in the late 19th century. Her story aligns with the Gilded Age, but she was not from privilege or wealth.

Upon researching her and drafting a few scenes, I already see many familiar longings for freedom and autonomy. She expressed the right to love and choose beliefs when so many wanted to impose their own.

I sit at the pond now, writing this, and imagining this woman beside me. If she were here, glimpsing the realities of 2025—the disillusionment and denial of truths, the burying of true stories beneath the watered-down excess of AI, what would she say?

I plan to reexamine her story through a modern lens through a young protagonist who discovers her, and I will share more as I progress. In the meantime, she is reminding me of the value of human stories, and how they are often kept from us, in whole or part.

I imagine asking this woman how she broke impossible barriers and displayed resilience at a time when women had no rights and no autonomy. How did she do it when her beliefs were demonized and her calls for freedom were ignored and suppressed?

I am still getting to know her, but I can imagine what she’d say: “There was nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

That, my friends, is true today, too.

Inspired by one woman’s life and my time with her story alongside the burgeoning interpretation of what it must’ve been like to be her, I feel renewed resolve to write everything I can from a place of integrity and candor. No matter the cost.

More, I feel a release. I am sitting with this story for the pure joy of it, and I will finish and share it no matter what.

Maybe by the time I finish this manuscript, it will drown beneath the digital noise. Maybe I will, too, but so be it. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by being radically dedicated to what I love. I believe this to be true for all of us.

By the time you read this, I’ll probably be driving home, but I’m capturing the momentum I have at this pond. Because that’s the power of writing and story—the moments we capture, like tiny reflections dancing on water, that allow us to look back and remember what makes us who we are.

You might have noticed my blog name change. While the philosophy and meditations aren’t going anywhere, I process everything through writing, and I was recently inspired to start asking other amazing writers.Why do you write?

: “I write to resurrect the life of my late husband, and our lives and stories. AI can’t do that. AI cannot spark aliveness, or remember. Re-membering is re-embodying; it’s what Isis did for Osiris. She found all of his scattered pieces and bound them tightly together with pieces of cloth. I am remembering my husband on pieces of paper, bound tightly together.”

: “Writing helps untie the knots I have become.”

: “Having served as an editor on books written by authors deeply dedicated to serving humanity – most notably, the instructive books of my spiritual teachers – I’ve long felt that the energy, or heart-mind, the particular feeling of the author’s words, conveys a meaning that goes well beyond those words. It’s distinctly human, and seems to issue from the somatic vibrancy of the human writer. AI might be able to imitate an existing writer’s voice, or invent a voice by cobbling together a conglomeration of voices, but will never be able to embody its own words so as to convey the special quality of deeply felt language. I write poetry for that genre’s unique ability to transcend the rules and tools of language, to say something unsayable!”

: “Humans do language. That’s what makes us unique among animals. We write stories using language to make meaningful connections with each other and the world around us.. That’s the whole ballgame.”

: The human voice is rooted in life experiences, and through those experiences connections are made. Humans are meant to read human words, and we thrive on connecting through shared experiences. That is what AI will always lack—the depth of living. I’ve spent the past seven years as a wanderer of wild places and living against the grain. It’s from this lifestyle that my writing is grounded in reflections and stories gathered along the way. I hope to inspire a shift, in perspective and mindset, through my written words.

I’ll post more of these over the next few weeks.Monthly offering for subscribers: I’ll post a “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here on Friday w/o email. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet June 21 at 12 ET. Why do you write? Let me know. Additional Prompt: Write a present-tense essay about your current process. What are you feeling, noticing, and thinking about it? What is your oh-so-human purpose? Is it murky or clear? Do you feel urgency around your project, or is there a deep and knowing patience?

The magic of storytelling resides in the polarity, the precision and abstraction

"Every word is a citizen in this collective hope toward clarity and expansion. And like any civic project, every citizen matters. Every word counts." —Ocean Vuong

I grabbed this quote from an old interview. In it, Ocean also speaks about the necessity of writing something to become “bigger” than the limitations of the body.

He speaks about specificity with the same reverence that he speaks about the feeling of being part of something more abstract. Every word, every comma, he says, counts. Similarly, we must not forget the creative expansion possible when we offer this sort of precise attention.

To create means to exist in this polarity. We create our best work with a bit of surrender. Swoop in, and let our conscious attention pan out. Ask questions. Look back. Steady. Prepare. See the step. Explore the journey.

I’m contemplating this as I embark on a week of contemplation and writing.

I just arrived. Tired. I’m staying at a writer’s residency in rural Tennessee, a 7-hour drive from my house. Residencies offer the chronically overworked, like myself, a combination of silence and beauty that generally ignites something unexpected. This particular residency is where I wrote Chaos Magic and revised much of my forthcoming memoir.

In the past, whenever I have gone to any residency, it was with a clear purpose and project. (Usually, you need one of those to get in.) But at the time I’m writing this particular blog post, I just arrived after completing the project I thought I’d work on here.

So what is there to do upon arriving? I have no idea what I’m going to write.

I take a walk and listen. I land half a mile from the residency beneath a gray cloud that releases drops on my bare arms. It’s hot and the perfect amount of rain.

College Grove, Tennessee

Here in rural Tennessee, south-west of my home, the trees are a deeper green, and the sun seems lower in the sky. When I walk down gravel roads, my footfall is the loudest thing I hear. The few people I see generally wave and seem as much a part of nature as the grass or clouds. Blended.

Southern Magnolia

Late (for me) on night one, I sit. Wait. I feel myself at that familiar creative threshold, still thinking about polarities and how the greatest creative trick is to pay closer attention, and—at the same time—not try to impose or define. Years ago, this stage of writing on the blank page or embarking on something new was uncomfortable. But now, it feels like sacred ground.

I swoop in, ready.

I invite you to do this with me. See if you can tap the polarity. Find a simple object. Get close. Give it words or images. Time. And repeat, until you find expansion.

Inspiration from Joy Williams: “[The writer] writes to serve … something. Somethingness. The somethingness that is sheltered by the wings of nothingness—those exquisite, enveloping, protecting wings.

Let’s see what kind of magic we can create. (This is an early post for me, but I’ll report back next week. If you’d like to read more on residencies, go here. And paid subscribers, if you’d like to hear me ramble on happily about resilience, go here.)

from an Insight Timer Live on Creative Resilience

This was a live session in which we discussed how creativity lends itself to resilience. There are meditations and a lot of rambling, but my hope is it offers you some insight and a lot of inspiratio…

Read more

The before and after tells the story

For years, the scene I wanted to write wouldn’t come. The memory settled beneath my ribs and waited. The problem was one part inability and two parts fear. Whenever I started to write it, even for myself, I’d end up on safer ground.

The transformational times in our lives and thresholds we pass are the very reason stories exist and hold power. Meanwhile, we are often told that the tough stuff is too much. We have to fictionalize it or else it's therapy on the page, and we are navel-gazing and self-indulgent.

I agreed with this line of thinking for a long time. We might also believe, validly, that sharing certain aspects of our past as nonfiction will cement our identity to the scene itself. But it will only do so for those who are not our true audience.

Adobe Stock

I recently saw a post on another platform in which a writer friend of mine said that everything is fiction. I believe this in a meandering philosophical sense—we can never fully know the truth, let alone tell it—but I also believe something counter.

Creativity is always a reflection of a person’s lived reality, those memories we share and those we try to repress or deny.

Fiction, poetry and CNF are always autobiographical in the sense that they are funneled through a single perspective and refined with a single set of experiential tools. Even others’ stories, well-researched, are told through our lens. This is what makes the conversation interesting.

And for this same reason, genre aside, human creativity demands vulnerability because it exposes some aspect of us.

When I finally gave myself permission to allow the words to flow, I also found a new vista of the past, and a reminder of the magic I believed in when I was a small child. The change I saw inevitable in others, in nature, and myself. Magic, to me, lives in the cycles and movement of everything, the before and after. And I remembered it when I realized no one story is more or less valuable.

From a craft perspective, I also learned to approach things in a less linear fashion. And I also played with perspective.

“Chronology is entirely artificial and essentially determined by emotion.”

—W.G. Seabald

Memories that are inaccessible on the surface are still quite present in our lives. They can be tapped with our creative efforts. It’s not always easy and not always predictable when they’ll surface or when we’ll trust ourselves enough to let them surface.

I believe we have to write our way toward them.

The problem of repressed memories—beyond fallibility and emotional trickiness—is that they often materialize with force and present an unwanted, ill-timed obstacle course that pushes us to mental extremes. If explored, however, the memory may feed something unexpected and beautiful. A self acknowledgement.

In this way, perhaps it’s those who do not write about the tough stuff who are navel-gazing. We are releasing.

That said, it's not easy to share. When writing to tap memory or because a memory arises, it is necessary to slow down the process and truly approach it with tenderness and care.

I am not a patient person, but I did practice slowness with this work, its surprising nature; and I encourage you to do the same with topics you are avoiding in your work. To practice patience with one’s self soothes the creative mind and allows us to get to the space we need to be to go to the deeper places that only dedicated writers know.

The joyous memories warm us when we feel frozen by inaction and remind us how temporary and beautiful the movement of life is. The difficult ones test us and nudge us toward our deeper selves.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop

If memories are a struggle to capture, play with time. There’s always a sensation or minor detail to act as our portal into what wants to release. This is the ultimate foundational writing advice, but it’s also advice for living fully.

If the memories remain stubborn, walk the path again. Explore the same paragraph, the same textures and scents, and joys and pains. Write that paragraph over and over, until it becomes something more like a door that you can walk through and into the creative depths.

Or, do as I did, write about the before and after. A brief exercise is below. This has never failed me. Make it your own.

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Prompt:

Briefly describe a time when/place where you were transformed.

Describe what happened right before in one scene.

Describe what happened right after in one scene.

Return to the transformation.

The essay, which I finally wrote in ‘23, won the CutBank Montana Prize in CNF. It reappears in SFWP Quarterly. It’s a small glimpse of my forthcoming essay collection AT WORK (Cornerstone Press UWSP), which explores the many minimum wage jobs I worked, and a few that paid well at a high cost.

A YEAR OF LIFE

Arvitalya, UkraineYou’re taking a sip of coffee or tea. You’re driving. You’re laughing with friends and family. You’re alone. You’re in pain and awaiting reprieve. You’re well and unaware. You’re fighting for justice (again). You’re at peace. Wherever you are, whoever and whatever surrounds you, take a moment to imagine this breath, right now, is your last. It is not scary, it does not hurt. It simply is.

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When Death ComesText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedMary OliverWhen death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purseto buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox;when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.That last line again, Mary Oliver.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published"I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."

We made it the full year. If you’re stopping by this blog for the first time, you might want to start by clicking the 52 weeks link above.

If you’ve been with me, or you’re just experimental enough to fully commit, practice with me now. This will only take a moment.

Imagine this final inhale, and indulge the idea that you can look back on your life in its totality. This doesn’t take more than a moment.

Now, I invite you to write.

Final prompt: “When I look back …”

[Now, fill in as many lines as you can in one sitting, allowing whatever comes—be that concrete and sensory rich or delightfully vague but resonant; don’t try to make it poetic, just be honest. Guttural. True.]

When I look back …

I see humor, angst, joy and love.

I find the time I closed my eyes and went deep, the times I pushed ahead when I wanted to stay at home.

I revisit the connectivity and moments of solitude in equal measure and with understanding.

I tap into that lightness in my cheeks, however weighed down they may have been at times, and I remember those around me, those who lifted them.

I hear laughter and tears that are unmuffled and too close.

I can see the exact moment I lost my way, and the moment I realized that losing the way was the only way.

I feel the honesty of a confidence pose as I use my crooked pinky finger to hit the Enter button on a new paragraph.

I see the brilliance of the woods near my house and the slow gait of my dying dog and the aging of my own body.

I see the worry with an onslaught of news and the true loss of my uncle and the ever-new and never-new beginnings in the stories I’d never heard.

I see the falls that became crashes and awkward steps and remembrances that allowed me to dance.

I smell the dog food on my pup’s breath as she sneak-attacks me with a kiss.

I consider timelessness. I sit with what is timeless in me.

I feel the closeness of a hug, the gentleness of a head tilt, the kindness of a soft light in someone’s eyes that reminds me of so many lights, a single light.

I feel the giddiness of release, total release—the humor of the entirety of the thing—and I believe that to be possible.

I feel release.

I taste release.

I release.

I feel the fullness of a single breath, and I trust the release.

“Death is perfectly safe.”
― Stephen Levine, A Year to Live

I hope this thought experiment helped you to appreciate something new about your journey, and I hope you had even one moment of realization or shift of perspective that introduced you to something deeper in yourself.

You are invited to start this journey anew (which I will be doing in my private journals) by going straight to the prompts. I may compile them some day, but it’s also very possible they’ll simply remain here.

We had a year to live. Now, here we are in this moment.

And that’s all we have.

Though we are beyond death at this point, trust me, I will have a lot to say until I don’t. And whether you let me know it or not, your presence this year has been felt. I’ll still be here to explore creativity, philosophy, and leadership.

I invite you to share what you come up with below. I adore you, and I adore sharing this life with you.

—Jen

New friends, This is the end of our 52-week challenge. You can revisit it any time. Subscribers, Let’s debrief this exercise, or just connect to discuss all things writing, mindful living, and creative resilience. Join me Friday, May 23 at 9 a.m. PT / 12 p.m. ET; Saturday, June 21 at 9 a.m. PT /12 p.m. ET; or Friday, July 11 at 2 p.m. PT / 5 p.m. ET for a community Zoom get-together. I want to keep these circles relatively small, so sign up today. To RSVP, go here.

Boundless Creative Energy

In art the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can inspire. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

A sincere thanks and offering to those who support my work. Let me know what you create! We can discuss it here on the 23rd. xo Jen

On letting go of the things we carry, remembering we are not alone & week 51 of 52

“They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity.”
― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

Imagine looking through a glass kaleidoscope, up toward the light, and turning the lens for the first time. A play of color and ever-changing patterns takes over your visual field. Everything you see is in motion, dancing, then the wheel stops, and there remains a single image.

Storytelling, deep listening, and immersing ourselves in others’ stories can allow us to glimpse what humanity shares, a constant motion of growth and rebirth that means ever-changing perspective. But storytelling can also exist as a real part of the world that wants to sell us division and the myth that we are alone and in competition, that we are only this or only that.

We are always shifting and struggling, but this human condition is ours, not yours or mine. We are in this together. What this means, to me, is that we are never alone.

Meanwhile, a single topic can do a million things: declare and instruct, coerce and exploit, explore the same information according to different timelines, or form questions into narratives that offer an emotional tug. If all humans are driven to feel connected to something, especially when we think about life as ephemeral, this means we are vulnerable to story.

The stories that feed us take what we see and attempt to look beyond one view, to show a dance of light and color, if you will, and invite us to explore. They educate us by getting to one root form of the word, educere, which means to support the realization of potential. And this sort of education—one of helping others to come to their own potentials as part of the whole—to me, is the antidote to both a belief we cannot change and a desire to keep things the same.

Adobe stock

I am a strong advocate of being honest to a fault, and I believe this is how we find our potential.

I’ve known more than a few people in my life who are very good at changing the narratives in their minds to “see the bright side” or be polite. I’ve watched as they misremembered others’ ideas as their own or rationalized truly selfish behavior to preserve their ego and peace of mind. They mimic what they believe is popular or neutralize to earn the least resistance.

Some are so adept at capturing audiences with a well-packaged story that exploits common human desires, they can be mesmerizing, but their stories never last. No matter how hard they try to keep things static, light and perspective will inevitably move. True and lasting awe for our human condition comes from releasing attachments to our egoic urges and the stories that weigh us down or keep us static.

I think there are emotional and literal hoarders. Both are trying to cling to the things they associate with safety and life, and I’ve always thought of the accumulation as a way of trying to still time.

Döstädning, Swedish for “death cleaning,” is about clearing away more than what your yoga teacher tells you “no longer serves you,” it means getting practical and clearing what keeps you separate and afraid.

When we let go of what is keeping our view static, we can see the splendor of life in all its color. This is all another way to say that there is something medicinal about clearing out old, warped stories and items that limit us to a single view, even if they are sentimental, and being willing to look at them in a new way.

I was recently part of an Insight Timer call with fellow teacher Rebecca Jo-Rushdy, a certified KonMari® teacher. She shares techniques for decluttering space and sees transformations in the way people live as a result. On our call, she spoke of how new energy and perspective arrive when we clear our space because it clears space in our minds.

Similarly, thinking back on our own lives and the way we see the world, we might find that the stories we’ve told ourselves and others might be worth exploring through new angles and with new eyes. The trick is to go deeper and ask yourself what lives beneath what you’re telling yourself and others.

What we carry either serves us or keeps us stuck, so I invite you to ask yourself where to find more movement or light.

Remember the way a piece of glass can dance with a simple turn of light.

Make a list of material and non-material baggage you’re carrying—what stories, items, and limited patterns—and explore what it would take to let go.

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes." - Marcel Proust

Writing prompt: Write your obituary, a few paragraphs only, from the perspective of someone or something that loves you unconditionally.

New friends, This is part of our 52-week challenge. Subscribers, Let’s debrief this exercise, or just connect to discuss all things writing, mindful living, and creative resilience. Join me Friday, May 23 at 9 a.m. PT / 12 p.m. ET; Saturday, June 21 at 9 a.m. PT /12 p.m. ET; or Friday, July 11 at 2 p.m. PT / 5 p.m. ET for a community Zoom get-together. I want to keep these circles relatively small, so sign up today. To RSVP, go here.