Jen Knox's Blog, page 4

The day job narrative. What would your manuscript look like?

Photo by Mike Hindle

I’ve had a lot of jobs. From my first foray into the working world as a bagger at a grocery store to a short stint selling fine jewelry or bussing tables early mornings at a breakfast diner, the writer in me has always been collecting. I’ve worked at a large corporate firm and a small nonprofit. And all these decades later, I am a business owner, writer, and academic program manager.

As you can probably deduce, I am well beyond the 21+ category above. Part of this is because long before it was the only option, I was a gig worker. I often had 2 or 3 positions at once and participated in more orientations than I’d like to admit. Each was a study of self and the world.

I remember sitting in rooms participating in this phenomenon known as "orientation.” I love this word. The dictionary definition states that it is about determining the relative position of someone or something. At work, it’s about a person’s position within a system.

We orient to new environments, which is both exhilarating and anxiety-producing. And each time, at least for established industries—even the arts—a specific role seems attached to a desired persona.

If you’re in sales, you will almost always benefit from displaying charisma and enthusiasm. If you are an expert, you are expected to share a lot about a single topic and carry a certain weight to your words. If you are a teacher, you are tasked with knowledge sharing in a way that is equal parts nurturing and disciplinarian.

If you’re an artist or writer, you are often expected to cultivate a captivating persona to sell your work. Persona can stem from our identity as well as the identity we attach to the work we choose to share, but it’s often only a small window into the artist’s true self.

I grew up thinking adopting an artistic persona meant owning pet alligators or lobsters, having drinking problems, engaging in mysterious downward glances often, being surrounded by inpenetrable cliques, and wearing either the latest fashion labels or only thrift-bought clothing. Seeing as how I am a sweatpants and sneakers kind of person, this version of a persona felt like the opposite of authenticity.

Creating a persona for work, even artistic work, is often something that happens without us even realizing. It’s ego doing ego’s thing.

It’s survival, connectivity, and familiarity. And it often earns us a sense of belonging or safety in a space where we spend many of our most alert waking hours. But I believe it’s also necessary to keep a safe distance from that persona, so we can always have enough wiggle room to adjust and realign. Or reorient.

For most of my working life, finding identity in a day job was a losing game, and as much as I’d probably have enough pension to retire in ten years if I’d stayed at one place, I wouldn’t give up the wild experiences I’ve had.

I liked being an outsider at jobs I disliked because I never got too attached to the wrong situation, and it taught me more about myself and others than comfort ever could. I learned that belonging in a space that is not right will never feel rewarding, no matter how hard we try to make it work. So throughout my teens and twenties, even in my early thirties, I treated each role as a case study, and I’m glad I did. And now that I’m an artist, I’m satisfied to align my persona with whatever work is at hand.

Paths are made by walking. —Kafka

Subscribe now

Our ultimate career or vocation can be rewarding. The day jobs and gigs and projects we do to fulfill expectations or survive offer us something else: clear and poignant insight into what we don’t want, do want, never want, and why.

There is so much a lackluster job, in particular, can teach us that can’t be learned second-hand, through simulation or the classroom.

I’m thinking of putting together a class on how to write about day jobs before my book is released. I think it could apply to any genre, because I think there are a lot of interesting entry points for this material. It’s worth meditating about how, across experiences, our identity shifts, even if slightly, from role to role. The way people see us changes, and this can often change the way we see ourselves. When we realize this, however, we can see the ego for just what it is: an actor in need of a role.

Where have we been most aligned with our working persona? Where have we felt unable to abide? These questions get to our essence.

Writing prompt: What did the role, the way you dressed, the shift, the breaks, the expectations, and the lighting do to your sense of comfort or belonging, and how did your leader get it right or fail miserably?

This is a fun exercise, and one I’m finding adapts well to fiction. I hope you’ll try it. Disclaimer: It’s a lot easier to dissect roles and work that reside in your past.

If you’ve ever written about day jobs or plan to, tell me about it. If you’d like to read one of mine, go here.

Subscribers, Join me Friday, July 11 at 2 p.m. PT / 5 p.m. ET for this community Zoom get-together to practice Creative Resilience and discuss Letters to a Young Poet. To RSVP, go here.

: Because words are the original magic. They don’t need batteries, they don’t crash (unless hurled at a wall), and they’ve been debugging humanity for thousands of years.

: Because writing, when I get that perfect line, that perfect verse, is as close as I’ll ever get to touching another plane. Another existence. Something beyond me. And reading is the same way. We are human. Until we write.

Judi Sullivan (artist and healer): For me, it is to better express/ clarify/sometimes discover myself at a greater depth while also allowing the sharing of whatever comes through with others, if writing to loved ones or for a higher, more public purpose.

Why do you write ?

Quick plug: check out the most endearing video review from my talented narrator for Chaos Magic. She does not blow smoke, and I’m heartened. My collection of essays mentioned above, AT WORK, will be available in 2027.

Calm the mind and body

Meet yourself where you are with this three-part meditation designed to reduce stress by leveraging three of the most studied techniques: progressive relaxation, simple breathwork, and self-compassio…

Read more

Strengthening our creative constitution: write more words, create more space

The thing I love/hate about writing is that, as a general rule, it takes a lot of time to get your stride. There are exceptions, but writing savants are rare. There’s simply too much nuance to grasp quickly.

Finding your voice and delivering from that voice confidently and consistently takes time.

That doesn’t mean writing well isn’t possible with less experience. But when I think of writing that endures and cuts across the limitations of genre and time … writing that takes its time and reflects something vulnerable, it’s not about fancy words or technique. It’s about trusting voice, being concientious and true.

That said, if we want to be good—however we define that—we can fold time one way: by writing more words. By creating more space.

Just tap tap tap. Of course, in the typing it’s good if something comes along that is interesting to say, and such things don’t arrive every day. You’ve got to wait a couple of days sometimes... So, tap tap tap... —Charles Bukowski

When we get going, we know we’re doing the work.

I recently met with a scholar and new friend about an aspect of my historical novel and found out I had a few things wrong. It was a strange feeling, unraveling the mystery and also coming closer to the story. The trick now is figuring out which story to tell.

As I chip away at this draft of my novel, I know I am headed in the right direction, but I’m in no hurry. In fact, I am more inclined than ever to erase and redo, erase and redo. 30,000 words can be pared back to 19,000 words before I get to 24,000 words. It’s a slog, but it’s a delightful slog.

And, to be honest, it’s more rewarding than what I used to do (glimpse: write without a care, have a very shaky first draft, skim and edit lightly, think it’s genius because I can’t get distance from it, then send out into the world only to have it propelled back toward me with clarifying rejections).

Subscribe now

The solace I’d like to offer anyone reading this who is working on their own project with an occassional nagging critical voice: Let’s think of every word, every meditation, as a desposit into an account that is strengthening our creative constitution.

Even if we delete words, each one has taken us somewhere closer to where we are going.

For subscribers, this is going to be the theme of our writing session together on June 21st. We will play with words and experiment with a few timed prompts that will challenge our notion of what a writing session can look like. Hope to see you there.

Jen Faith: This is why I write, to look deeply into our human shadows in order to find the light and bring it to the surface; to find the in-between spaces where we humans rise above our collective suffering.

Jen McConnell Doron: What I don’t get about people using AI for creative writing is ”to make it easier” is that I don’t WANT it to be easier. Wrestling with words, coming up with new ways to express what can hardly be expressed, that’s what I love about writing even though it’s heartbreakingly difficult at times. Maybe AI can write a story but it can’t write MY stories.

Mark Burns: I write because I cannot sing.

Ryann Marie King: If someone uses real thoughts and words and expressions, I am celebrating them.

Why do you write ? Let me know.

Let’s all practice a little creative resilience. Please know that I appreciate your support.

Let's take a breath on the page

I’m a woman obsessed. To be immersed in a creative project is a beautiful thing. But sometimes we can forget to pause. This has been my life for a few weeks.

“When you are writing, you're conjuring. It's a ritual, and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you're inviting into the room.” —Tom Waits

When I reflect, I reailze this is a pattern. I did this when I wrote memoir, too. Creative immersion is not something that just shuts off, no matter all the tasks of life waiting for us. No matter the obligations to sustain our health and find strength to stand up for what we believe.

I’ve been feeling a lack of presence off the page. Sure, it could have something to do with the mass trauma being thrust on anyone with integrity (who doesn’t want to dissociate a little?), but it also has something to do with process. When I write, I freefall. I let go and just allow the story to come through. But reassociating with the world can be tough.

I asked a trusted coach and friend, and she suggested a ritual or routine to transition from art to life and back again. She told me I probably knew the exercise she was going to suggest since I used to teach yoga (see audio below), and I did. In fact, I had just recorded this for Insight Timer. Sometimes we offer what we need.

What she reminded me was that breath is the magic of transition.

And like any person obsessed, I had to ask … can also be true for the writing itself?

Is it possible to find our breath on the page?

Subscribe now

Breath = pause and attention. For me, especially when writing personal work, this meant approaching the material from a different angle. Some of the essays, for instance, couldn’t be written in first person, not at first, so I started with an imagined third or a distanced self looking at the self in the scene.

Some writing is delivered straight-up but requires many breaks. Many breaths.

Writing with distance and pause is how we find breath on the page. If the art takes us over, finding a way to take a step back, feel our lungs expand, and reexamine will allow reintegration.

Breath = space. The space that we create, in our minds or in our bodies, is power. Recognition of this space can be a gift to ourselves. It expands our ability to endure and practice creative resilience.

We take around 17,000 breaths each day, give or take. Our lungs are purging who-knows-what from our bodies. Meanwhile, taking a moment to recognize this brilliant mechanism that flourishes with the right amounts of air, food, hydration and heat is easy to forget. As stewards of story, we must give our work the same balance.

Besides, watching our breath for a time might just help us to better see what we are trying to say.

So my invitation to you is to take some time to remember the power of the pause, the exhale, and all that we take in. I hope you enjoy this breath practice (when you have a handy 7 minutes), and I hope it helps you to find pacing and presence as you create whatever it is you are called to create.

Interpretive prompt: Rush through something on purpose: a poem, an essay, a work of art. Then go back and expand any areas that invite a deep breath. A pause. A little white space. This might mean deleting words or creating literal space on the page or canvas. It might mean pulling out a single detail and giving it its own space.

Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet (soon!) June 21 at 12 ET .

: I feel like humanity has been waddling towards the precipice of losing itself. Getting caught up in its own inventions and losing its soul. It’s a cliche by this point, but it feels true that has we grow increasingly connected by technology, we disconnect more from the human experience.

I feel compelled to write. I have for as long as I can remember. Before it brought me anything, I had to put things down on paper. No matter how good or bad things got. Whether it was a diary entry, a bad poem, or telling a story.

It meant connection to me.

Connection to others, and connection to myself. I felt like I couldn’t understand anything in my heart or mind until I forced myself to try, at least try, to write it down.

Lisa Cortez Walden: I am not an amalgam of voices. My voice is singular, it is a part of a chorus—maybe. But singular still. I tell the stories that I think are necessary for humanity. AI is never necessary for humanity—it is literally the antithesis of it.

Other posts you might enjoy…Why do you write ?

Let's take a breath.

I’m a woman obsessed. To be immersed in a creative project is a beautiful thing. But sometimes we can forget to pause. This has been my life for a few weeks.

“When you are writing, you're conjuring. It's a ritual, and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you're inviting into the room.” —Tom Waits

When I reflect, I reailze this is a pattern. I did this when I wrote memoir, too. Creative immersion is not something that just shuts off, no matter all the tasks of life waiting for us. No matter the obligations to sustain our health and find strength to stand up for what we believe.

I’ve been feeling a lack of presence off the page. Sure, it could have something to do with the mass trauma being thrust on anyone with integrity (who doesn’t want to dissociate a little?), but it also has something to do with process. When I write, I freefall. I let go and just allow the story to come through. But reassociating with the world can be tough.

I asked a trusted coach and friend, and she suggested a ritual or routine to transition from art to life and back again. She told me I probably knew the exercise she was going to suggest since I used to teach yoga (see audio below), and I did. In fact, I had just recorded this for Insight Timer. Sometimes we offer what we need.

What she reminded me was that breath is the magic of transition.

And like any person obsessed, I had to ask … can also be true for the writing itself?

Is it possible to find our breath on the page?

Subscribe now

Breath = pause and attention. So, for me, especially when I was writing personal work, this meant approaching the material from a different angle. Some of the essays, for instance, couldn’t be written in first person, not at first, so I started with an imagined third or a distanced self looking at the self in the scene.

Some writing is delivered straight-up but requires many breaks. Many breaths.

Writing with distance and pause is how we find breath on the page. If the art takes us over, finding a way to take a step back, feel the lungs expand, and reexamine, will allow reintegration.

Breath = space. The space that we create, in our minds or in our bodies, is power. Recognition of this space can be a gift to ourselves. It expands our ability to endure and practice creative resilience.

We take around 17,000 breaths each day, give or take. Our lungs are purging who-knows-what from our bodies. Meanwhile, taking a moment to recognize this brilliant mechanism that flourishes with the right amounts of air, food, hydration and heat is easy to forget. As stewards of story, we must give our work the same balance.

Besides, watching our breath for a time might just help us to better see what we are trying to say.

So my invitation to you is to take some time to remember the power of the pause, the exhale, and all that we take in. I hope you enjoy this breath practice (when you have a handy 7 minutes), and I hope it helps you to find pacing and presence as you create whatever it is you are called to create.

Interpretive prompt: Rush through something on purpose: a poem, an essay, a work of art. Then go back and expand any areas that invite a deep breath. A pause. A little white space. This might mean deleting words or creating literal space on the page or canvas. It might mean pulling out a single detail and giving it its own space.

Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet (soon!) June 21 at 12 ET .

: I feel like humanity has been waddling towards the precipice of losing itself. Getting caught up in its own inventions and losing its soul. It’s a cliche by this point, but it feels true that has we grow increasingly connected by technology, we disconnect more from the human experience.

I feel compelled to write. I have for as long as I can remember. Before it brought me anything, I had to put things down on paper. No matter how good or bad things got. Whether it was a diary entry, a bad poem, or telling a story.

It meant connection to me.

Connection to others, and connection to myself. I felt like I couldn’t understand anything in my heart or mind until I forced myself to try, at least try, to write it down.

Lisa Cortez Walden: I am not an amalgam of voices. My voice is singular, it is a part of a chorus—maybe. But singular still. I tell the stories that I think are necessary for humanity. AI is never necessary for humanity—it is literally the antithesis of it.

Why do you write ? On flow

Finding the right conditions to grow: why creative work needs light, not permission

We need the right conditions to grow. If something is not working, perhaps it’s time to plant a seed elsewhere.

Every voice and every word we infuse with meaning is powerful. Each is helping us to grow, and, if we’re doing it right, each will help us to connect to others seeking to grow.

But can we be ambitious in the kindest sense of the word and still remain true to ourselves?

Maybe. And if so, I think this is how: We have to create what we feel called to create and share it with those who appreciate it. Then carry on doing so forever.

Trust the creative call no matter how unmarketable. Trust your voice. Take your time.

I personally find solace in reading the nuanced stories of artists, such as Olga de Amaral, whose work transcends but also took lifetime to be seen. A textile artist who received more recognition in her 90s than he she did at any other point in her life is a quintessential example of devotion. But also, she was simply a woman who didn’t stop and didn’t expect.

She just did what she loved.

Of course, we can also look at Kafka, who was never recognized during his lifetime the way he desired, but, nonetheless, he practiced with radical discipline because he did what he loved and loved what he did.

Think about all those who are underrecognized or recognized narrowly for appearance or relational connections during their lifetimes, those who were true change agents, ushering new perspectives into a world that so desperately needed them.

This doesn’t just happen in art, after all. In academia and corporations, this occurs often. Those in power surround themselves with “doers” and “creatives,” those who do the work anonymously under the name of the person with higher position or wider recognition.

“I wanted to be seen, but I didn't want to be watched.” —Ashley C Ford

After reading more deeply into histories of the mis- and underrecognized, I’ve been meditating more on why I want my own art to be seen and recognized, and who I want to share it with.

For many years (and even now, sometimes) I was embarrassed about asking for attribution or support, no matter how hard I worked.

But the truth is, in far too many cases, the messages that we feel are important are gifts, and to share the work is truly to share.

To wait for recognition or attribution is a waste of time. We can only control ourselves and who we share with.

To the extent that we position ourselves in the best possible places to feel comfortable enough to be and do what we want without fear or censorship, we are going to find resonance in our work.

We don’t want to be forgotten; we also don’t want to be misremembered. But others’ memories are, ultimately, out of our control. As a result of not wanting to be seen this way, we might also shy away from sharing candidly and sharing enough to find the people we need to find.

I am telling you and me both: Claim your words, and write the tough stuff; work your ass off, but don’t try to grow in unfavorable conditions.

No one notices what we do not claim. This is also a leadership lesson, and it’s one that has been tough for me. I didn’t want to be like those who overclaimed.

But there has to be more balance. More people deserve to shine, and I believe we are headed for a future in which more of us will: writers of all genders, identities, races, and ethnicities. I suppose this is a kind of burgeoning faith that seems counter to the trends of the world, but I believe that recognizing the value of each human voice is the rebellion we need.

What’s inside you ready to grow, and how can you find the right amount of light? Where are conditions most favorable?

“I write this not for a many, but for you; each of us is enough of an audience for each other.” —Epicurus

Let’s all contribute to a more brilliant tapestry of ideas than what has been distilled and packaged for us. Let’s trust the divine chaos of our nature and reach upward without needing permission.

Subscribe now

: There are the purely selfish parts. Writing is like a compulsion for those it calls. It is impossible to stop, in the best way. It is a drug of sorts. To capture the essence of something through careful language. The communal extension of that is finding the right language to express something universal that makes other people feel less alone. That is the big win.

: I think one of the things humans do when they make art is witness. It’s not ‘content’ or ‘entertainment’ (soley) but this deeper thing of witnessing — seeing the other and in do so expanding compassion. Another thing we do is reach beyond ourselves (which is is related to witnessing and attention). AI is constructing a story based on inputs in, outputs out — it doesn’t have the element of transcendence. This for me, keeps me persisting in crafting writing and life by hand, heart and human mind.

: Writing to me is like breathing: it is essential, at least for me. I don’t know why this is so except my mother was also a writer too, so perhaps it was ingrained early or simply is part of my DNA. A pleasant mystery.

: I’ve recently returned to writing after decades away, and the first thing I asked, perhaps a bit cheekily, was to AI itself: “If you can write everything, is there even a need for me to start again?” The answer it gave me was simple but powerful:

“I can write many things, but I can’t bring your emotions, your reflections, your lived experience.”

That was it. I had my answer. So here I am, writing again, and feeling more alive with each word. Thank you for this space and for asking the question. It matters.

Tracie Ball: I’ve been on a writing journey (travel memoire). The process of writing about my experiences has been deeply healing and nourishing for me.

Many times along the way people have shared their work with me… memoire and non-fiction assisted by AI and I can tell. It lacks the soul of experience. The language is flowery and superfluous.

I may not be writing the next best seller but I am authentic to my experience and embracing expression and that matters to me. Completing the writing has been rewarding because I put so much time and dedication into the pages. I wouldn’t know that satisfaction if it was written for me.

Why do you write ? Let me know. Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet June 21 at 12 ET.

Mindful Words, Empowered Leadership

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

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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

Give a gift subscription

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?