these things i know…

• i love

• i am loved

• we’re made no promises

• there is beauty in the ordinary

• we don’t search for awe, we open to it

• the moment is always now, except when its not

• the quest for a certainty in all things is suffering made real

• what you do with what happens matters more than what happens

• time moves faster with age, paying attention slows it down

• i will leave my body, so will all i love, and all i don’t

• pain will come, suffering is what we do with it

• truth has gravity, but only if you let it

• laughter with friends is a balm

• when in doubt, choose love

• don’t wait, please don’t

• this, too, shall pass

• life is a verb

• live it

• now

everything else, a mystery

with love, jf

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TL;DR: The year is new, you are not. No clean slates. That is a good thing, once you get why.

It’s that moment…again.

You stand at the threshold of a new year, holding a giant decaf almond-milk latte, feeling that delicious mix of nostalgia and possibility.

The cultural template begins.

New year, new you!

You open the brand-new planner, line up the pens, download the apps, and create our Spreadsheet of Perfection.

The goal?

To finally become a fundamentally different person almost overnight. A machine of perfect habits, flawless follow-through, and zero struggle. To inhabit a different life, a different psyche. A different support system and resource well.

It’s built upon what I call…

The Myth of the Clean Slate: the idea that to truly start fresh, you not only get to, but must leave behind, erase, outrun, or actively disown the person and the environment that’s brought you to this moment. The one who missed the workout, snapped at a loved one, was tempted by gluten or butter or God-forbid, something less than 72% dark chocolate.

On the surface, it’s emotionally seductive.

A single date becomes a permission slip to unburden years or decades of past behavior and identity. A chance to turn the page. Start fresh.

Absolution without examination. Who doesn’t want that?

Then, reality hits. On multiple fronts.

Wake-Up Call #1: Late January you shows back up.

When the only version of you who is allowed to exist is “New Me Who Never Messes Up,” the moment the imperfect, tired, very human, same old you shows back up on January 24th you, the entire project collapses.

You haven’t just failed on a new set of habits or goals, you’ve betrayed an identity. Abandoned the spreadsheet, and then, in a quiet, subtle way, abandoned your new I can do anything because it’s a new year self.

Which, I mean, duh. Of course you did. Because, it was never real.

New you was always just old you with past life blinders and rose-colored glasses.

Time to pile on. Instead of asking the more forgiving and human, “What can I learn from this?” you retreat to last year’s late-January question…again, “What’s wrong with me?”

Hello shame.

The Clean Slate Myth, and the New You Delusion keep you reliving the same shame spiral, year after year. Every time you repeat this cycle, you reinforce the false, limiting belief that you’re not good enough, and never will be.

Wake-Up Call #2: Your Failure is Your Greatest Resource.

When something doesn’t go the way you hoped, it’s common to turn an event into a verdict on your identity: I’m lazy. I’m weak. I’m hopeless.

What if we stopped viewing failure as a final grade and treated it like data?

Your “failures” are not evidence that you are fundamentally broken, they are incredibly useful, nuanced, and valuable feedback about your life.

They tell you:

• What drains you (that 5am workout time, even if aspirational).

• What you actually need (sleep more than a perfect 20-minute meditation, or boundaries more than being the “helpful one”).

• The why underneath your coping strategies (the scrolling was trying to turn down the volume on grief or stress or sadness).

The Clean Slate Myth says, “Burn this evidence.” But the evidence is exactly what you need to design a life that truly fits.

Wake-Up Call #3: Integration, Not Exile.

Imagine a room full of all your “yous,” and all the parts of all of those yous from year’s past. The hero, the procrastinator, the overeater, the conflict-avoider, the agitator, the couch-warmer, the people-pleaser, the champion, the artist, the commitment breaker, the rainmaker.

Who are you trying hardest not to make eye contact with?

When you try to throw those parts away or pretend you’ve left them behind, they don’t vanish. They just go underground, still shaping your choices. They drive the life bus from the basement.

The answer isn’t to deny them, futilely attempting to wipe clean a slate that will carry the marks of your very human, perpetually imperfect life until your last breath. The answer is, in fact, the exact opposite. It’s about examination and integration, not denial and exile.

If Clean Slates are a myth, now what?

What if, instead of trying to wipe the slate clean, you welcomed all parts, all past versions of yourself, all experiences, all decisions, all outcomes, good, bad, smart, dumb, benevolent, and malicious with an unconditional yes? Refusing to throw away any.

You can’t extinguish your past, you can only integrate it.

What if you turned toward the versions of you who coped, numbed, or avoided, and asked, “What were you trying to do for me?”

What if you acknowledged and invited them into this next season, albeit with shifted responsibilities.

That simple act, of turning toward, instead of away, is the foundation for everything that comes next. Understanding. Acceptance. Integration. And, then, finally, the freedom needed to evolve, to grow, to unfold.

It’s less about the illusion of a Clean Slate, more about the embrace of an Honest Slate.

We don’t build a good life on a foundation of self-denial, self-rejection, or annihilation. We build it with the full, messy, sometimes painful truth of who we’ve always been.

The past yous, the ones you admire and the ones you’d rather forget, are not the obstacle to your future. They’re not something to be erased as a precursor to stepping into a new season of life. They are your built-in library of wisdom.

Yes, this is a new year. But, you are not, in fact, a new you.

Never were, never will be.

If you don’t like or want that to be true, the work is not in trying to rewrite your past to something more palatable. It in accepting it as your truth, examining how it’s contributed to bringing you to this moment, then exploring how you want to carry all the parts forward in a way that is more supportive of the way you want to show up, and to the life you want to live.

As we close out the year behind us, and step into a new year, maybe it’s time to let loose the fantasy of the perfectly clean slate.

Take the real one instead. The one crowded with stories. Lined with ink. Smudged with tears and laughter.

That’s the slate that can actually carry you into a life that feels not only good, but true.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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If you’d love a much deeper dive into this topic, along with more specific strategies and prompts, check out my Myth of the Clean Slate episode on the Good Life Project podcast. Look for it wherever you get your podcasts, or listen and watch below:

Reimagine Midlife in Community | 2x20™ Retreat.

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Sound intriguing? Learn more here, then sign up to join us in April 2026.

We’re in a moment.

Not just high volatility, but high uncertainty, bundled with high stakes.

Hello, disruption.

When this happens, there are really only two options…

💡 Join Team Disruptor.

Simple truth: in times of profound shaking, there is no uncertainty without an equal and opposite amount of possibility. They’re two sides of the same coin. One cannot exist without the other.

If you’re not seeing the doors being opened, or creating them yourself, your job is to find or create them. To lead and leverage the transformation, rather than get pummeled by it. It’s about adopting what I cal the Possibility Mindset, and joining Team Disruptor. Kind of like the kid in The Sixth Sense, but instead of seeing dead people, you see possibility.

Or…

🫥 Default to Team Disrupted.

Strap on your fear blinders and ignore the doors being opened by the, admittedly, merciless shaking of ground beneath your feet. Don’t look for new possibilities.

Instead, defend what you’ve amassed. Status, market share, resources, relationships, indicia (albeit false and fleeting) of security. Allocate time, money and energy to holding onto what you’ve got. Try to ride out the change. This is about adopting the Protection Mindset. Aaaaaaand, joining Team Disrupted.

In moments where the disruption is short, limited in scope, and measurable, waiting it out with a Protection Mindset might be a viable option. Defensible, at least in certain rooms, for certain hot minutes.

You mind tells you it’s a lot less scary to sit tight than roam the uncertain night. And, because our brains are more strongly wired for loss aversion than gain acquisition, this is the approach most take.

We are weird, if not largely predictable beasties.

Still, it’s a temporary salve. Short-term avoidance that leads to eventual decline, followed by all the psychic detritus you’d been trying to avoid crashing down on you. Just at a later date.

You’re not opting out of the pain, just delaying it.

But, ummmmmm…what about Team Coast?

Can’t I just pay attention (meaning binge tiktok), and waffle in the middle zone between disruptor and disrupted? Learn a little. Dabble a little. Take meandering baby steps along a fairly narrow path that doesn’t stray too far from the mean? Knowing that, sure, I’ll miss out on new opportunities, but also get to steer clear of the big scaries?

Nope.

When uncertainty and stakes get high and stay high, with no end in sight, there is no middle. It evaporates.

I mean you can tell yourself there is, but what you’re really doing is inadvertently choosing Team Disrupted. You just won’t realize it for a while.

When the depth and duration of change is:

• Long

• Hard-to-measure, and

• Potentially paradigmatic (ie - the moment we’re all in now)…

Waiting it out is, in nearly every case, a fool’s errand.

The hide, hold, and pray option will inevitably drop you into the domain of the disrupted.

Then, the delirious.

Then, the dead (or, at least, dead in the water).

You cannot wait out or hide from something that collapses time and eviscerates the norm.

Eventually, it’ll be your demise.

This is as true for your career, your relationships, and your physical and mental health, as it is for your teams, your offerings, your creative output, brands, and business.

Joining Team Disruptor and cultivating The Possibility Mindset is ScaryAF.

You don’t know how it’s going to end.

You don’t know if or when or how the next wave of incredible ideas, innovations, connections, or insights will drop. Or, not.

You CAN’T know. I mean, that’s the actual point.

But, at least you’ll be in the game. Rather than running faster and faster with scissors that grow bigger, sharper, and more existential by the second Crazy Glued to your fingers. Hoping you don’t get lapped, while watching the shoe of false safety drops on your work, health, relationships, creativity and life.

Yes, we are in a moment.

The stakes are high.

The uncertainty unbearable.

The level, depth and duration of change largely unmeasurable.

Defense and denial feel safe. But, the only thing they’re keeping you safe from is feeling vulnerable in a world where exposure, hard as it may feel, is the gateway not just to survival, but to agency, autonomy, and growth. To not just getting dragged, kicking and screaming, into a future that’s no longer built for you, but rather playing a part in making it what you need it to be.

Question is...

Will you keep defending an already lost and unrecoverable yesterday, or step into the uncomfortable, yet profoundly opportune crashing wave of possibility?

Neither is easy, but at least the latter holds the potential to carry you into, or play a role in shaping, a future that’s not just friendly to you, but build by and for you.

Okay, that’s my take.

What’s yours? Share in the comments, if you’re inclined.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

Fun Stuff to Learn & Watch This Week.

• Good Life Project® Podcast - We’re doing a two-month Future of Medicine series, going deep with a leading experts, doctors, and scientists on cutting-edge diagnostics and treatments. I’m sitting down with people like the Chief Science Officer at legendary cancer research institution, Memorial Sloan Kettering.

  

  Topics include aging, cancer, heart health, regenerative health (stem cells, peptides, etc), AI-enabled medicine, metabolic health, med-tech, and more. I’ve been learning so much, my brain is exploding with the level of innovation that’s here now, and coming soon. New episodes air every Monday through the end of the year. Check them out here.

• TEDx Talk - Why Craft Matter Now More Than Ever - The video from my TEDx Talk aired just two weeks ago, and the reception has been incredible. Fancy-pants analytics tools tell me it’s a 55x outlier on the TEDx Talks Youtube channel, viewed more than 26,000 times already, it’s closing in on 100 thoughtful comments, and over 1,300 likes already.

  

  I’ve been wondering why. I think it’s because the big idea is landing for a lot of people. Especially now when so much creative juju is turning digital and AI.
  
  We don’t make things just to have them exist in the world, we make them because the process of creation changes us. When we offload the work of creation to AI, screens, and machines, we unwittingly rob ourselves of a part of the experience that makes us better people, and our lives better places to inhabit. The call to action, to come home to your hands. To make things you can touch and feel and share. Wrought from physical materials. Clay, dough, paint, pencil, fabric, dirt, whatever. Just go get dirty!
  
  If you haven’t watched it yet, check it out here. And, if it resonates, I’d be so grateful if you’d share it, like it, and leave a comment over on Youtube. It helps tell the mighty algorithm that this idea matters, and it should be shared with more people. And, that’s how we make a bigger difference in more people’s lives.

Thus the late-breaking, Friday afternoon dispatch…

When I was twelve, I cracked open a mysterious wooden briefcase that’d been passed on to me from a great grandfather I’d never known.

My “safe-cracking” tool of choice, a butter knife.

What I found inside would change my life.

Even to this day. It keeps reminding me who I am, and why I’m here.

Last month, I shared the whole story, and the profound truth it revealed to me for the first time ever on the TEDxBoulder stage.

I’ve spoken on stages of all sizes for years. To thousands of people.

But, this talk was so personal and important to me, I might’ve been a bit, how do I put this…terrified.

Worked insanely hard on it. And, actually practiced so much, I lost my voice for the two days before the talk. Literally did not know if it’d come back until the moment I took the stage, madly crunching numbing lozenges, before facing out to 1,000 people, saying a prayer, and letting it fly.

It was a bit croaky, but it was there. And, I neither threw up, nor pee’d myself (though it was touch-n-go on both for a moment).

Minutes ago, the video of that talk went live on the TEDx Talks Youtube channel!!!

At it’s heart, it’s about what we lose when we stop making things with our hands, and what we stand to reclaim when we take the experience back.

Here’s a link to the video.

It’s a quick 10-minutes. I hope it’ll stir something in you, maybe even start a conversation, and inspire you to rediscover a part of you that, for so many of us, has been dormant, stifled, for way too long.

Watch the talk now →

If it touches something in you, it’d mean the world to me if you would give it a thumbs up, maybe even comment over on Youtube, then even share it far and wide (or at least with a single person who needs the see it).

That’s how ideas worth sharing change lives at scale. Starting with yours.

Waiting, okay, a bit nervously, to hear what you think.

THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!!!!!

Big BIG love,

Jonathan

PS - And, of course, love to hear your thoughts in the comments back here, too. WOOOHOOOO!!!

All the cool kids are doing it.

Making the big “X things I know at [insert age]” lists.

Now, I’m not a cool kid. Never was. Never will be.

But I’m about to turn 60. And, I’ve had a lot of experiences in my life. Done a lot of things. Won big, crashed hard. Risked big, played it safe. Opened my heart, shackled it closed. And learned a thing or two along the way.

So, I thought it only fitting to share my list of…drum roll, please…60 things I’ve not only learned, but also become crystal clear about, on the level of being sure, in my 60 years on this here planet.

And, without further ado, here is my list of 60 things I don’t only know, but am absolutely sure about as I head into the ripe age of 60.

60 Things I Know For Sure at 60.

1. Ummmmmmmmm, thinking. Gimme a minute.

2. Love is everything, full stop.

3. See item #1

4. See item #2

5. See item #1

6. See item #2

7. See item #1

8. See item #2

9. See item #1

10. See item #2

11. See item #1

12. See item #2

13. See item #1

14. See item #2

15. See item #1

16. See item #2

17. See item #1

18. See item #2

19. See item #1

20. See item #2

21. See item #1

22. See item #2

23. See item #1

24. See item #2

25. See item #1

26. See item #2

27. See item #1

28. See item #2

29. See item #1

30. NYC bagels, also a thing.

31. See item #1

32. See item #2

33. See item #1

34. See item #2

35. See item #1

36. See item #2

37. See item #1

38. See item #2

39. See item #1

40. See item #2

41. See item #1

42. See item #2

43. See item #1

44. See item #2

45. See item #1

46. See item #2

47. See item #1

48. See item #2

49. See item #1

50. See item #2

51. See item #1

52. See item #2

53. See item #1

54. See item #2

55. See item #1

56. See item #2

57. See item #1

58. See item #2

59. See item #1

60. Chocolate, in any form, that too.

Huh.

Seems the older I get, the more sure I am that I’m completely unsure about almost everything. Especially the things I 100% knew at 30.

When it comes to certainty, there are no absolutes. Well, except for love, NYC bagels, and chocolate.

And, I’m okay with that.

Now, what would YOU add to the list of things you’re sure about at whatever you’re ripening age is (feel free to play in the comments).

With a whole lotta love & gratitude…and bagels (but only NYC) and chocolate,

Jonathan

Some dozen years ago, I had a conversation that would change my life.

An acquaintance had been a longtime friend of iconic artist, designer, maker, and teacher, Milton Glaser. You may not know his name, but you do know his work. They’d spent time in spiritual communities, in and out of ashrams over decades. She asked if I’d be interested in speaking with him.

I jumped at the chance. And, captured it on camera.

I’ve since hosted over 1,000 conversations on the Good Life Project podcast. Yet, this one landed more deeply, and has stayed with me in a way few others have.

In part, because of the depth of wisdom, and the integrity of the human. But, there was something else. It was a very rare instance where I left the conversation and thought to myself, “I’d have lived his life.” More accurately, “I wish I had lived his life.” And wondered, with whatever time I have left, how close might I get with mine?

Milton was 84 when we spoke. He died seven years later at the age of 91. On his birthday. Magical ‘til the end.

In the intervening years, much as I kept trying to find my way back to making and craft, I kept dropping the ball. I’d revisit the conversation, the insights, the vibe I so aspired to embody. Poke around the edges, but then back away. Over and over.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made things for decades.

Books, businesses, brands, experiences. But, Jonathan Fields, Maker of Things That Exist, Not in the Ether, But in the World? Not so much. Even though I’ve known, since I was a kid, breathing life into physical objects awakens my soul more than anything else. And, still, even then, it’d been a fitful reunion.

Then, a few years ago, I decided to begin centering the impulse in a more intentional way. In no small part, because of the experiments in making I was moved to start running as part of my 2x20™ adventure (exploring how to spend 2 years setting up your next season of life). But, also, because it was just time.

In short order, I’ll turn 60. For some reason, that number means something to me, in a way past “big” birthdays didn’t.

I cannot imagine spending this next season of work and life continuing to be pulled out into a sea of “oh, fine” by a gentle, yet persistent, decades long undertow of lament, born of a simple knowing. I’ve spent way too much of my time on the planet being less true to who I’ve know myself to have always been than I’m okay with. Time to come home.

I’ve had a maker-focused project bubbling in my head for nearly 5 years now. Even a name for it. That’s just how my brain works.

Over the last two years, it’s taken form in a much more granular way. Again, due to the action and awakening-centric structure I’ve held myself to in the pursuit of my own 2x20. It will, shortly, meet the world (watch this space).

In fact, just last Sunday, I presented a talk at TEDx Boulder that shared the big idea behind it, accompanied by a call to action to return to working with our hands.

More on that in an upcoming dispatch, along with the video when it airs.

Today, I want to leave you with the conversation I shared with Milton back in 2013. As they say, it’s an oldie, but a goodie. And timeless as ever.

You may want to watch with a pen and paper, or your notes app open. There is a torrent of wisdom that tumbles forth. To this day, every time I watch, I pick up on something new.

To help lead you into it, here’s a longish quote from early in the conversation…

“…after a while, you begin to realize how little you know about everything, and how vast the brain is, and how it encompasses everything you can imagine. But more than that, everything you can’t imagine. What is perhaps central to this is the impulse to make things, which seems to me to be a primary characteristic of human beings. The desire to make things, whatever they turn out to be.

And, then supplementary to that is the desire to create beauty, which is a different, yet analogous activity. The urge to make things is probably a survival device, the urge to create beauty is something else. But, only apparently something else. Because, as you know, there are no unrelated events in human experience.

So, beauty, or the creation of it, is a survival mechanism. There’s something about making things beautiful, and we sometimes call that art, that has something to do with creating a commonality between human beings so that they don’t kill each other. And whatever that impulse is, or wherever it comes from, it certainly is contained within every human being I’ve ever met.”

Enjoy!

I truly believes there’s magic not just listening to, but watching Milton. Still, if you prefer listening, here’s the audio-only version:

And, once you’ve watched or listened, do me a favor. Come back and share your thoughts, favorite insights, or quotes in the comments.

So curious how it lands in your head and heart.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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It’s 2010.

I get home from speaking and schmoozing my way through the massive SXSW event in Austin, Texas.

Load a bunch of photos onto my computer from my time on stage. Flip through them, with my wife by my side. She leans in, pointing at an image of me on stage, her finger hovering over my neck.

“Has your Adam’s apple always been that big?”

Weirdly, I have the same thought. It does look more bulge-like than I’d remembered. But, then, I’m not regularly tracking it, so who knows?

My regular is unavailable, so I set up an appointment with a doc I’ve never visited before.

They feel around. Raise an eyebrow.

“You’ve got what feels like some big nodules. I’m sure you’ve already googled this, we need to find out if they’re ‘hot or not.’”

Um, what? And, no, I hadn’t googled, because why would I?

Then I do. Well, damn (trust me, not the actual word I used).

Saying I might have thyroid cancer?

I don’t really know what any of this means, or where the thyroid even is.

Days later, I’m at the hospital getting ultrasound. The tech is moving the little goo-covered wandy thing around the base of my throat (sorry for the technical jargon). Like she’s hunting for something and not finding it. I hear a muted, yet decidedly exasperated exhale. “I’m not seeing anything,” she says. Which is weird, because normally they don’t tell you anything.

Actually, I respond, that’s not where my Adam’s apple is, which is where the doc was poking around, and designated as the area that seemed to have grown.

She raises an eyebrow. As if to silently transmit, “dude, doesn’t your doc know the diff between the two?” Apparently, I’d learn later, your thyroid is at the base of your throat, kinda nowhere near your Adam’s apple in gross anatomy terms.

She then slides the wand up, and gets a more confirming look on her face. Then, drops back into the more standard, poker-faced, “I’ll get these results over to your doctor.”

I leave.

Still freaking out. It takes a week and merciless calls to get a response from the doc who, it turns out, did not, in fact, know their Adam’s apple from their thyroid. At least, they didn’t at the time of my first visit.

It’s not your thyroid, they say. But you’ve got what appears to be a large mass wrapping around your mid-throat. Looks like a cyst and not a tumor, so I don’t think it’s anything to be alarmed about. But it probably still needs to come out.

Half relieved, half pissed off, I start looking for a surgeon.

I live in NYC at the time, so we’ve got the best of the best in nearly any specialty in the word. I find the surgeon in his seventies who specializes in this exact thing. Well, he actually specializes in complex neck surgeries, and removing stuff that shouldn’t be there. Been doing it for more than 40 years and is close to retiring by the time I land in his office.

He confirms, not cancer, but it’s gotta come out. His associate gives me the financial rundown. It’s a lotta money. I get a second, and maybe a third opinion, both of which come with way cheaper price-points.

Still, I go with Doctor Bougie. And pay more than twice what I’d have paid the others (yes, insurance helped, but these days, that’s not saying much).

Bada-bing, bada-boom, he does his thing, takes like 45-minutes, it goes great. I check out with a line of glue across my neck that’d slowly settle into yet another scar on a body that’s got a bunch more.

A few weeks later, I share an update with some friends, and of course, because they’re New Yorkers, my friends, and have no boundaries, they want to know what it cost. I tell them, and also tell them the competitors were way less.

“Dude,” they say, “it literally took the guy less than an hour. And, that’s what he made?”

I look them in their collective eyes and say, “I wasn’t paying for his time, I was paying not to go first.”

I was paying to be the 10,000th patient, so that he could do what he did as incredibly as he did it in less than an hour. I was paying for the 40 years of practice, so that he could open me up and remove something in a very delicate part of my body safely, meticulously, artfully in a matter of minutes.

And, then, this weird realization drops. Because I’m me, and my mind always makes strange connections to other parts of life.

Apologies, literally cannot turn it off.

By then, I’ve been consulting and doing client work for years.

Strategy, branding, marketing, positioning, and entrepreneurship. Charging, well, very good money. And, not infrequently, able to get to where we need to get fairly quickly. Like in minutes, or a few hours, rather than weeks or months. I am, what’s been called, lovingly blunt.

On occasion, when delivering an outcome with a whole lot of time left on the clock, then saying we’re done, someone might comment, “wow, nice hourly rate.” And, not in a complementary way.

I never quite knew how to respond. I’d talk about the value of the outcome or strategy or creative solution in the context of their business. Value-based pricing, they call it. Which was often a large multiple of what they’ve paid me.

Now, my experience in the operating theater has given me a new metaphor. Just like my grizzled surgeon, what they’re really paying for is the ability to not only not go first, but to be so far removed from those opening “experiments,” that by the time we dance, I’m capable of giving them what they need, with a high level of precision, and a high-likelihood of success in a fraction of the time.

That reframe has always stayed with me, both when I’m positioning the way I offer my own time, energy, mind-and-heart-share, or services, and evaluating those I’m considering working with.

And, this feels like a great place to end with a classic dentist joke (apologies, dentist friends, you know I love you).

A patient walks into a dentist’s office with two rotten teeth that need to come out. The dentist only has time for one, so they pull it.

Even with the numby stuff (again with the medical jargon), everything is so raw, the whole process hurts, and the sounds and smells, well, you know. Fifteen minutes later, the tooth is out. The dentist says, come back tomorrow for the other.

The patient head’s to the front desk to pay for the first tooth, with the dentist still by their side. Sees the bill.

WHAT?! Five-hundred dollars for fifteen-minute’s work?! That’s madness!

To which the dentist responds, “if you prefer, I can make the second one take twice the time.”

Just a little something to think about as you consider how to bring your own genius to the world.

Which now makes me curious, for those in our community who do offer some version of service-driven work, how does this all land with you?

Share your thoughts in the comments, and your approach to “languaging” your value, if you’re open to it.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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I’m 17.

Rolling up in a ‘71 Dodge Dart with 140,000 miles on it, a slant-6 engine that never quit, brakes that slow-rolled more than stopped, and a radio that cost more than the car (which isn’t saying much).

Depeche Mode, Billy Ocean, Flock of Seagulls, Miami Sound Machine, Stevie Wonder, and Duran Duran.

Oh, and hair. I. Had. Hair.

And great health. And strength. Muscles (that part might be made up). A tan (that part was true, but in hindsight, pretty dumb. Baby oil instead of SPF 1-million, really?!).

A sense of freedom, lightness, and possibility. Like life was good, an abundance of time and opportunity lay ahead.

Ahhhhh, nostalgia.

Google/Oxford calls it “a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past.”

Alternative take…

Nostalgia is less a longing for the past than it is a failure of the present, bundled with a side-order of selective memory, a dollop of gratitude deficit, and sense of diminished possibility and agency.

When I find myself slipping into nostalgia, there’s always a certain melancholy that arrives with it. Sadness. Low grade. But it’s there.

Why?

It reminds me not just of so many beautiful, joyful moments, but also of the march of time and the inevitable change life brings to my body, mind, heart, relationships, and life. It’s as much about loss as it is love.

Some within my control, some not.

Some desirable, some not.

Think about it…

We’d have no reason to be nostalgic if our present experience also gave us the feeling we associate with times left behind. Sure, we’d remember, maybe even revel, but the longing part, the underlying feeling of loss, just under the skin sadness, wouldn’t be there.

Does it have to be that way?

In a weird way, being nostalgic is a tell. And, an invitation.

It invites us to acknowledge not only the truth of change, but also the fuller scene that wraps the moment of nostalgia. To own the fact that, oftentimes, the bigger “old times” picture delivered equal helpings of confusion, frustration, futility, isolation, sadness, or just the head-spinning, yet completely natural delirium of being young. Suffering born of an adolescent lack of awareness of who you really were, how to find your people, or feel the way you wanted to.

In this way, nostalgia is less about a failure of the present, in contrast to the past, but rather, an ode to selective memory. Few of us would want to go back to our youth, if that journey also included not just the vignettes of celebratory experiences, but also the fuller sweep of those times.

On the whole, I had a pretty great childhood. Would I love to relive to some of those incredible moments, often doing highly-questionable things with boneheaded friends? Of course, yes. But, not at the cost of so much of the grace that now defines my life, and the lack of younger me confusion, isolation, and othering that wrapped around those early life moments.

Now, when I find myself dropping into a space of nostalgia and feel not just the revelry, but also the sadness bubble up, I remind myself to do four things:

1. Drink it in.

Revel in it. Let it flood the system in all the good ways. Those scenes and feelings, they matter. They’re a part of what made you YOU. Moments that stay with you that long, and occasionally beckon you back, remain in our memories for a reason.

Find the gift in them. And, at the same time, if a certain undertone of lack or loss accompanies them, that’s okay, too. Let it all come. Feel it all. But, before revelry becomes longing, take a few extra steps…

1. Broaden the scene.

Remember not just the nostalgic vignette, but also the fuller experience that defined that season of life.

That ‘71 Dodge Dart? Straight-up terrified me. The only way I could stop the car was to death grip the steering wheel, giving leverage to a double-footed stomp on the brakes, while trying to stop the car from veering off the road, because braking automatically turned the steering wheel right. My hair? I can’t believe I’m saying this, was such a thicket I dreamed of being older when it’d get thinner and more manageable (be careful what you wish for).

That sense of freedom, play, and confidence? All I could think about was how others perceived me. My freedom was always bound by their fictional, transferred perception of my worth. I was performing and projecting who I thought they’d accept, never quite fitting in, and feeling perpetually outside, always welcome, rarely sought.

My bent toward possibility? Okay, was real, and has never left me. But I now experience with a sense of earned confidence, rather than blind faith.

2. Find grace and gratitude in the present.

Look beyond whatever sense of loss this scene represents in my current incarnation. Acknowledge the reality of change. Of loss. And rediscover the good in the now.

Sure, my body can’t come close to doing what it could when I was 18. And, it experiences pain in a way that is very different, more persistent now. But, it can still celebrate life, hiking hours a week in the mountains with friends. And, more broadly, I’m ridiculously blessed in so many ways that either did not or could not exist when I was a kid.

I know myself in a way I never did then, and am clear on who I am, what matters, and what does not. I share myself with close friends and family and feel seen, safe, and held in a way I never did back then. I still have a sense of unbridled possibility, but now also carry both the scars and the deep knowing that I am capable of not just having, but unlocking potential, turning it into something real, sometimes failing, but coming back enough times to know I can.

Whatever flashes of glory seem to have been left in the rearview mirror of my youth, I have so much more to be grateful for now, even while I walk into a season that gently erodes some of the very things that defined me, that I celebrated as being the essence of me, as a kid.

3. Explore how to recreate the original scene’s feeling in your current reality.

Whatever the underlying feeling represented by the nostalgic scene, ask, “how can I recreate that feeling today, but differently?” How can I dissociate it with the circumstance, and reclaim the essence of it, a new and different version of freedom, connection, and possibility, now?

Yes, even if your life, relationships, body and mind and circumstances are profoundly different. I can’t drive around with my idiot friends at 2am in a 1960s Lincoln Continental with the windows open in the middle of winter, screaming “video killed the radio star” at the top of our lungs, with the radio blaring.

But I can invite a similarly offbeat gaggle of friends over to our place to cook them a soulful dinner, ply them with homemade sangria and tell stories and laugh into the early hours.

I can go walking in the woods with my kid, who holds my heart in a way those childhood friends could never touch.

I can sit on my porch, drinking in the morning sun with my wife, pinky in pinky, settling into a connection born of three-plus decades doing life together.

Sure, I’ve lost the ability to live in a certain way. The facts of my life have changed. But far more determinative of a life well-lived, are the feelings created by the facts. And we can recreate those in new and different ways that often accommodate our inability or unwillingness to “do it the way we used to be able to.”

This is the invitation side of nostalgia.

It begs us to examine how we might step back into a place of agency and action, joy and creation, peace and connection. Freedom, in whatever definition is relevant to the lives we’re now living.

Now, whenever I feel a sense of nostalgia, I wonder, what’s that telling me? 

What is the information subsumed by the feeling?

What is the truth beneath the recollection, the lack beneath the longing?

And how might this change the way I see, celebrate, re-examine, interact with my modern-day self and world differently?

How can I acknowledge the loss, but also love and savor what is good, and continue to act in a way that lets the arc of my life bend toward possibility, connection, and grace?

As always, just thinking out loud here.

What do YOU think?

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

JF

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Other fun stuff…

Good Life Project | listen & watch

We’ve had some great convos happening on the Good Life Project podcast over the last few weeks, including a deep dive on headaches and migraines (which, sadly, is a part of my story) and some cutting-edge treatments that are both here now and are coming soon. Also, loved the convo on internal family systems, which has become kind of like the cool kids approach to therapy these days. In no small part, because it’s incredibly effective for so many people. I wanted to better understand what it is, and how it works. This conversation did not disappoint!

Listen here now.

In case you didn’t know, we also air select episodes on Youtube. So if you’re interested in watching instead of listening, here’s the convo about headaches. I learned so much!

2x20™ Mini-Update.

I’m writing from the lobby of a hotel in Palm Springs, California, where the temperature peaked at 115-degrees today, and, at some point, my lips and eyes felt like they were melting off my face. We’re on an advance scouting and experience design adventure for our upcoming 2x20 Retreat in October. We spent some time visiting the venue. It’s this stunning, modern home where 20 midlife adventurers will gather for three-days of unfolding, awakening, and connecting (and yummy food and lots of laughs and stories).

We did a whole lot of “edible curation.” My wife, Stephanie, is an incredible experience designer, so attention to detail is everything, especially when it comes to food.

The October event is sold out, so no link or info pages. But if we do it again, I’ll let you know how to get on the early notice list, since spots seemed to go very quickly. Getting super excited for it. I’ll share a debrief, once I’m on the other side. Along with a near-final big update on the whole 2x20™ endeavor, reflections on coaching a small, wonderful cohort of midlife humans through their own 2x20 adventures, co-creating the 2x20 retreat with my wife, and a whole bunch of other awakenings.

Also, you may have noticed I’ve pulled back to writing here twice a month as we’ve headed into the dog days of summer, and generally, sharing longer-form. Yes, it’s August, and everything tends to slow down. But, no, that’s not why I’ve made this shift. In fact, for me, so much is speeding up.

The confluence of later-in-life adulting and a mad creative impulse have taken over. Plus, I’m increasingly in the “build” phase of my own 2x20, so there is a ton happening behind the scenes. This shift is more about running a micro-experiment, born of my own 2x20, on reallocating time and energy in a way that feels most aligned to both what I want to be doing now, and what I want to bring to life in the fall. Lots more on that in September/October.

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Final night in Tokyo.

Flying out in the morning.

Spent the better part of a month in Japan.

Hiking in stifling heat and humidity in the mountains around Nagano and the Kiso Valley. Handing off to the frenetic, electric spin of Tokyo, one of the biggest, fastest, most gloriously disorienting cities on Earth. Then, Hiroshima, Kyoto, Uji, Nara, and back to Tokyo.

Tonight is the last kiss. I’m sitting four rows from the stage in a tiny, yet iconic jazz club on the east side of Shinjuku, Pit Inn. Birthed in 1965, it quickly became the place for the greatest musicians, first in Japan, then the world, to play. word has it, in those early decades, the smoke was so thick you could barely make out the stage.

The fact Pit Inn and I were born a month apart in the same year is not lost on me. Sixty years. My God, what this place has seen. The people who’ve played here, been made here, and, in turn, made the place what it is. Careers, collaborations, milestones, and magic brought to life. Countless jams as players took the stage and became sonic supercolliders. Alchemists of sound, soul, time, and space. You can feel it all in the walls of a place like this.

Makes me wonder, what about my 60 years?

Who are the players who’ve wandered through the front and back door, the hallways and green rooms, the main stage, and sticky floors? And, what of my contribution? How often have I been the one working the door, then tuning out, running the joint, mopping the floors and cleaning the toilets, “holding space” as they say. When have I said yes to the invitation to take the stage? Or issued the very same invitation to myself. Alone, or in concert with co-creators of moments worth writing about. Worth living.

Tonight, it’s a small crowd, appropriate to size of the place, which is in the basement, dimly lit, maybe 30, 40 seats tops. There is no bad spot. Everyone is feet from the stage. The sound. The action. There is, of course, a killer sound system. But at this scale, it’s largely overkill.

On cue, the lights dim.

Again, I’m wondering, how often they dim on the stage of my own life? Whether the spots come back on? Who walks on stage when they do? With whom? And, why?

Yasumasa Kumagai meanders over to the piano, sporting a black t-shirt that says “Japanese can groove,” and a black backwards baseball cap with the words, “Jazzy Bear” emblazoned on the front in gold. Hiroshi Ikejiri steps to the bass, more considered, low-key, in a loose jacket. Shogo Hamada takes his seat before the drums, a wry smile and button down shirt. He looks like an accountant, but what he’s about to do to the drums will obliterate that vibe in seconds. Finally, quartet founder and leader, Atsushi Ikeda, takes the stage, alto sax in hand, observably older than the others, starts quietly snapping out a beat. Hamada picks it up, and we’re off.

Ikeda, as the story is told, inherited the “spirit of the band” formed by the late, great jazz pianist, Fumio Karashima, who lost his life to cancer in 2017. He sought to gather a new generation of younger musicians. To create something a bit more, well, punk. My words, not his. Safe argument, they’ve succeeded.

Tossing the baton from sax to keys to drums to bass and back, the vibe in the room builds. It’s electric. As often happens with great music that envelops you, I begin losing control over my body. I turn to see my wife’s face, sitting next to me, and our daughter’s to the left of her. Eyes closed, head bobbing to the beat. My foot is tapping, left hand playing air keys along with Yasumasa as he solos, despite the fact that I cannot, and have never, played piano. My head bobbles through all manner of swish and sway with a classic wannabe “real” musician’s stink-face continuously contorting from ear-to-ear.

And, before you reply, “pics or it never happened,” mercifully, photos and videos are not allowed in the club.

Halfway through the first set, I break out of the groove to take in the room.

That’s when it hits me…

Everyone else is. Just. Sitting. There.

Completely, utterly, still, Stone-faced.

Non-reactive.

Like they were listening to Ben Stein play the teacher in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, droning, “anyone, anyone?”

I’m nonplussed. Confused.

What in the actual “can’t you feel the beat” f*ck?

Sitting feet away, you can feel the literal pluck, boom, and pulse of the bass, the crash of symbols over the brush of the snare, and the push of the kick, the lush melancholy of felt bound hammers hitting tightly drawn piano strings, then ricocheting off the open top and into the crowd. And Ikeda’s alto sax cutting and dancing, teasing it’s way through all of it.

In what world does one living, breathing, sensing being just sit, motionless through something like this?

Again, my mind goes back to the smoky, basement club of my own life.

How often have I created the space to surrender to the vibe, losing time and finding life? How often have I allowed myself the freedom to be affected, moved, changed, by what’s unfolding in the room, knowing my own sublimation isn’t just paying homage, but helping to co-create that glorious state of collective effervescence? How often have I held back, out of a fabricated sense of self-consciousness and mandated propriety. Unwittingly annihilating the possibility of genuine elevation and connection.

Back to the show…

I realize, what I’m seeing is actually a reflection of a far more complex culture than I’d realized populates the shoots and alleys, the peaks and valleys of this stunning country. It’s a study in contradiction. And, why not? I mean, aren’t we all?

A population that lives each day flirting with the Rim of Fire, constantly under threat of volcanic eruption, earthquake, tsunami. Having endured what's arguably one of the most destructive and dehumanizing events in the history of modern war, the dropping of two nuclear bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And the stunning resilience that emerges out of a perpetual cycle of both human-made and natural devastation and rebuilding.

All mixed with thousands of years of dynastic power, a mashup of theologies, and governance that’s evolved into democracy while still embracing a certain reverence for a past that continues to center propriety and stasis over possibility, self-expression, creativity, and innovation. There’s an intentional indirectness in the name of nuance, politeness, and preserving the status quo. An artifice of peacefulness that keeps me wondering what’s underneath it all. Beneath the gloss of order and tranquility, is there a not so latent pain brewing? Growing?

Conversations with friends, locals, and ex-pat lifers speak to a slow-burn some might label suffering. Not all the time, and not for all. And there’s much to thankful for, including a social and medical safety net. But, the discontent is there for many, just under the surface. None more obvious than the vaunted salarymen who track into single employer careers from their late teens, then build lives of stifled desperation, drinking, and a level of overwork that’s led to the growing phenomenon of “karōshi” or death from overwork. And a younger generation that is actively bucking the norms, and rejecting generations of stifling, demanding more and different. The contrast is profound. And, in many ways, disruptive, disconcerting, and, depending who you ask, wildly disrespectful or incredibly exciting.

All unfolding in the larger context of a stunning lineage of visual art, theater, and literature, philosophical and contemplative traditions. Ancient temples co-mingle with townhomes and skyscrapers, rice fields and high-speed rail, the crush of over-tourism and rampant Western brand-loving consumerism the likes of which I’ve never before experienced.

A visit to the largest temples and attractions in Tokyo finds you shoulder to shoulder with throngs, thousands upon thousands of humans in search not of wisdom and understanding, not of the sacred, but rather the perfect selfie for Insta.

Meanwhile, minutes away, in a tiny building on a side street, a third generation shibori dye-master reveals the breathtaking, meticulous craft that takes teams of artisans two years to tie over 150,000 knots into silk, then hand dye utterly majestic kimonos tethering ancient custom to modern life and a deep appreciation for ritual and craft. Twenty minutes south of Kyoto, on a lesser-traveled street in Uji, a small retail shop finds five generations working side-by-side, grinding tea leaves into matcha, while an elder invites you in to sit and enjoy a bowl.

It’s all just insanely head spinning, Beautiful, madcap, elegant, cataclysmic, sacred, brutal.

Which brings us back to the stoicism at the club.

The utter non-response.

It begins to make sense.

Maybe, it’s not so much that my friends in the audience don’t yearn for and enjoy the very same vibration I’m experiencing. It’s that they’ve come to move through life within the context of a set of cultural norms that encourage them to experience and appreciate it very differently than me. To internalize, rather than physicalize, the experience.

Still, I wonder, if that is what’s going on, at what cost?

Music doesn’t take over your body because you will it to, it does so because it can’t not.

I cannot conceive of a non-manufactured response that keeps rigid and still the form and shape of my body, while the sea of cells that make up my essence are barraged with a vibratory soundscape that compels immersion, reaction, movement.

I’m not at the club simply to witness and appreciate mastery, I’m there to feel something. To let it move me. If I keep this from happening, not just when it comes to jazz, but to more or less everything, what is the cost of that? What does it take from an experience that is designed, at it’s heart, to awaken something in me that craves a life beyond containment?

Then again, maybe this is all just my bent, my map of what makes music, and life, worth experiencing. Maybe my arrogance is showing through. Maybe this is my lack of understanding. An ego-driven superimposition of my own cultural response to art, To music. To gathering in the name of welcoming something that holds the power to not only transform the moment, but also the beings within the moment.

Maybe there’s a certain sadness I’m assuming into existence when I see a group of humans who’ve said yes to an experience, then allowed it to be governed as much by what presents as repression as it does savoring and a more fully-embodied participation.

And, again, I’m back in the basement club of my own life.

Reflecting on how, even in a broader culture that creates space for, even celebrates personal expression, creativity, innovation, directness, boldness, revelatory joy and the ability to wear it all on your sleeve, Even then, I still stifle, remain smaller, more constrained than I know myself to be. I don’t allow myself take the stage. To surrender to the jazz of it all. Constraining myself, instead, to well worn grooves, proven notes, phrases and songs, and reliable, “safe” players and songbooks.

Even when enjoying the show from the audience, I wonder, how often do I afford myself the freedom to not just be affected, but to fully embody the transference. To let it show, to offer myself to the collective in a way that lets more of the real me out, and helps to co-create more magic. First, just for me. Then, maybe, over time, at scale. To a word that needs magic like never before.

Everything, I remember, is a mirror.

Maybe, just maybe, what I’m really reacting to as I glance around at the stone-faced audience in the basement of a small, hazy, basement oasis in a foreign land, embraced by sound and soul, is that same part of me that has taken up space, stone-faced, in the countless days, nights and opportunities to jam, to create transcendent moments, and offerings, to beckon, then welcome more jazz into the club of my own life.

Or, maybe I’m just woefully devoid of dark chocolate and fresh veggies.

Dunno. What’s your take?

And, as I shared in my last missive, I’m deeply aware of my own gaps in knowledge and experience when it comes to new and different places and cultures. Still very much a newbie, and a sponge. Always excited to learn from those further down the path, or with lived experience.

This is why we travel. Not just to see the sights, but to take in experience, culture, history, people, and conversation. To drink in the shared essence that binds us. To learn how to be more human along the way.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

JF

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Writing from a very hot Tokyo.

Thinking about heading out. Weather app says, “just, don’t.”

Ninety-five degrees, similar humidity.

Just came off a week walking part of the Nakasendo Trail with my daughter. It’s a former Edo period (1603-1868) path connecting Kyoto to Tokyo that winds through mountains and post towns in the Kiso Valley in Nagano Prefecture (part of which is known as Japan’s Alps). Often deep in ancient woods, meandering along dirt trails, rough stone paths, and the occasional short stint along highways and byways. Preserved, to this day, more of a pilgrimage route.

The full trail runs about 534 kilometers (332 miles), passing through 69 station towns. We dropped into to a handful of legs in the middle of the trail, traversing two mountain passes and feeling, at moments, like we we’d taken a step back in time. In this heat, we didn’t so much hike as we did walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Shvitzing mercilessly. Ambling from one massive, craggled Japanese horse chestnut tree to the next, rocks covered in moss lent a prehistoric feel to the journey as we found our way over the Torii Pass.

As we wound in and out of small towns, we stayed in ryokans or tiny residence homes along the way. Dropping into a completely different culture, learning to show up and relate on their terms was at once humbling, and yet joyful, and beautiful. Serenaded by one luminous homeowner over the most delicious hand-cooked, endless course dinner, conversing more by gesture than word. And, being told, in no uncertain terms, we’d need to join in the singing.

I loved the slower, simpler elegance that draped everyday life on the trail.

Which was, a week later, obliterated upon emerging into Shinjuku Station in Tokyo. I thought NYC’s Penn Station at rush hour was about the height of madness. In comparison to Shinjuku Station, at more or less any time of day, it’s near pastoral. The contrast is jarring, yet also just a bit intoxicating. Tokyo is, in a word, electric. Another word, mesmerizing. So much kinetic energy, splattering in all directions, all at once. A full calamity of old and new, co-existing in some weird harmony that’s hard to place, let alone describe.

Along the way, I kept finding myself bouncing between these notions of old and new, Eastern and Western. And, how they sometimes dance seamlessly, other times, clash fiercely.

The word, “ikigai” keeps sneaking into my head.

It’s a concept that’s woven through my exploration of work, life, meaning, and joy many times over the years. Supposedly traces back to the Heian period (794-1185 CE). My understanding is that it combines the word roots, "iki" and "gai." The former, often translated as “spirit” or “life,” but in a more nuanced way seems more about a certain joi de vivre, style, or aesthetic sensibility that embraces elegance, aliveness, vitality, and life.

“Gai,” from what I can gather, can shift meanings, depending on the kanji (written character) used to express it. In the context of the word ikigai, it’s more about worth or value, a sense of purpose.

Together, the word translates roughly to reason for being, tending toward a more integrated, grounded, and expansive take. It’s the thing(s), people, experiences or devotions that give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning. That provide a sense of purpose and meaning.

This can range from picking up a grandkid after school and taking care of them in the afternoons to making art to writing, to tending a garden, participating in a community activity, or simply being in a relationship that matters. Or, literally, millions of other things. Simple things, big things, soulful or monetary, private or public.

And, here’s where the concept goes off the rails.

When it meets the Western world.

We love taking ideas that are deeply rooted in the essence and often generations-old ideals and teachings of human flourishing, and turn them into “modern” and “useful” commercial strategies.

Yes, I’m as guilty as the next person.

There’s a meme that’s been floating around the interwebs for years. Often expressed as a Venn diagram. It depicts ikigai as the overlap between four circles:

• What you love to do

• What you’re good at

• What the world needs, and

• What you can get paid for

This not only feels reductionist, it seems just plain wrong.

Why do we do this?

Why is it only about things we love to do?

Plenty of people do things they don’t love, maybe even things that are brutally hard, but, that also provide an abiding sense of purpose, and meaning. Does every person love taking care of a another being who is sick or struggling? Often, no. It can be incredibly tough on both parties. Yet, it can also serve as a powerful source of meaning.

Why does everything have to become about what makes us money?

Isn’t it enough that it brings us, or maybe someone we love joy, or lets them breathe a little more easily, feel seen, safe, and held? Safe bet mom’s not in the parenting game for the salary. Can’t we just do it, because it’s a pathway to our own fuller expression?

Why does it have to include some external sense of validation or worth?

Can’t it also be about the simple, internal feeling, knowing who we are, how we’re showing up, what we’re expressing, the very fact of our existence endows us with value? With worth? Can’t an artist, who loses time painting, even just in the evenings and on weekends, feel that the very act of expression and the exploration of craft has value?

What must it only apply to things we’re innately gifted at, or have become highly-skilled at?

I’m pretty terrible at playing guitar, and yet when I get a chance to do it with friends, I feel a deep sense of connectedness, of being exactly where I need to be. Like this moment matters deeply. Why must we limit ourselves to manically exalting the pursuit of mastery over the simple pleasure of doing a thing for no other reason that the feeling it gives us, even when we’re absolute novices, and will likely never be anything but?

And, why must the whole damn world need it?

So, they’re saying that fostering an abandoned animal isn’t enough? You’ve got to build a global network of animal fosters for it to count? And be kick ass at it? And, get paid for it?

Seriously? I mean, SERIOUSLY?!

Is it a lovely thing when we find ourselves centering activities and relationships that check all four boxes from that Venn diagram? Sure. It’s fantastic. At various points in my life, I’ve been able to do just that. And call it my living.

But the simple act of coming home to a deeper sense of self, a truer knowing of who you are and what makes you come alive, then finding ways, channels, moments, paths to let that essence become an increasing part of your life…that’s also enough.

Your reason for being doesn’t HAVE to earn your living, or even a single dime for it to be valid. Nor must you be masterful at it. Or have millions of people line up to demand it of you, then heap praise upon you for it. Nor, by the way, need it be singular. You might have any number of things that bring your life meaning. That lead to a sense of purpose. Or mattering. They all count, even if you can’t point to a single, driving source of all things purpose.

Being here in Japan, especially walking, slowly, sweltering, noticing through ancient woods and tiny towns, seeing the care people give to even the smallest garden patches, plates of food, or interactions reminds me how simple it really is.

Spend as much time as you can lost in activities that fill you up, while surrounding yourself with people you cannot get enough of. Know the very fact of your birth has endowed you with value. With worth. Offer it, along with your heart, your essence, your humor, and wisdom, to others freely.

And leave the Venn diagram to someone else.

Curious, what’s your take?

Share your thoughts in the comments if you’re inclined.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

JF

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PS - You’ve may’ve noticed I missed last week’s dispatch. Sometimes, you’ve gotta just let yourself drop into where you are (and figure out which way is up, after traveling to the other side of the word, seeing your kid for the first time in months, and getting lost in the woods), and know those who care will still be there. Thanks for for being you. For being awesome! For coming along on this journey with me.

PPS - As always, I come to this topic limited by my own stunningly basic experience and knowledge of Japan, Eastern thought, culture, and language. If I’ve gotten anything wrong or you have insights that’d add context or nuance, I welcome learning and growing from your wisdom and experience.

There’s this phenomenon…

You ask someone a question.

They answer. Sharing a fun, interesting, cool experience or insight.

Your brain tingles, you’ve experienced that same thing. You want to chime in and offer your version of their experience.

It’s human nature. Shared experiences, especially ones that involve surprise and vulnerability, can deepen connection. We want others to feel seen, heard, and celebrated, and we also want the same. Mutual sharing around either collective or complementary experience gets us there.

You tell your story, I jump in right after to tell my version of a similar experience. We fall in friend love. #yay

Except, not so much.

This very impulse to deepen a connection by offering common experience can actually have the effect of pushing people away, if not done in a conscious, curious, and generous way. And we’ve got no idea this silent estrangement is happening, often, until it’s too late.

I’ve learned this the hard way, and been blessed to have many reps. Spent 13 years co-creating over 1,000 long-form conversations with incredible people, often high-profile strangers, during my tenure hosting the Good Life Project podcast. Many became fast confessors, conversational dance-partners, or lasting connections. In truth, I’m still very much learning, and find myself regularly violating my own guidelines on “how to do it right.”

Here’s how the impulse hurls us off the connection rails…

You share your story. I listen (ish). Check.

But, as soon as I realize I’ve got my take or version, the whole time, I’m starting to pay less attention. Not intentionally, but my noggin is going, “I can’t believe this, I’ve seen, heard, experienced, or felt that same thing! I can’t wait for you to stop talking, so I can tell you my story or insight, then we can revel together in both. Awesomesauce!”

The minute you’re done speaking, I jump in.

I think it’s a bonding moment. And, maybe, done right, it is.

But, equally, if not more often, there’s a shift in the conversational dynamic that transforms it from a bonding moment to feeling disconnected, at best, and diminished, at worst.

Here’s what the other person may be feeling…

“Wow, I just shared a super cool/fun/interesting story or idea. And, there’s actually so much more to tell. The details, the more nuanced story. How it affected me (which is what matters 10X more than the facts), the undertones, aftermath, how it changed me or my lens on the situation, person, or world.

Sure, it was fun sharing the basic situation, but it’d be so much richer and cooler, and deepen this moment and the connection with you, had I been given the chance to offer more of the context and impact. And, had you responded with something that let me know you appreciated me, that you loved how I shared it, and were curious enough about me and what happened that you actually wanted to know more. That you were paying attention not just to find a story to share that let you take the mic and center yourself in the conversation, but to let me feel that magical sense of being known.”

This unspoken dynamic is sometimes seeded with a certain amount of passive-aggression or malintent. You have a version of their story, insight or offering that you believe is even wilder, cooler, “better,” and you’re trying to take over the conversation, grab the mic, or one-up them. Even worse, it’s about putting them in their place. Or, if you’re feeling threatened, lower status, or insecure (translation, most of my 30s and 40s), it’s an attempt to level up your perceived worth in their eyes.

Happens all the time. Even if not a conscious thing.

But, more often, it’s about something else…

Social oblivion, meet neural impulse.

You mean no ill will. It’s just a human compulsion to reciprocate. Same way you smile at a stranger when they smile at you on the street. We’re just wired to this way. And, you’re oblivious to the potential harm you’re doing to the emotional connective tissue of the conversation. They might not even get why they’re feeling more pushed away than connected, until it becomes a pattern. The reps let them more easily see, and better understand what’s happening.

Confession…

I have done this to people.

Countless times.

Trying my best to stop.

In interviews and “on the record” conversations. But, even more in conversations in my personal life. I don’t generally over-talk, that’s a more overt sign of disrespect. Though, honestly, it’s taken more than that to break the habit. Interviewing so many people for so many years has largely trained me out of it, because I’ve learned how much harder it makes the editing process for my team.

But, I do still have a strong impulse to jump in with my version or take.

There is a better way…

Here’s a simple approach that’ll allow you to let your conversation partner feel utterly seen and celebrated, while giving you the chance to experience the same.

The Prompt, Ask, Ask, Ask, Share Approach.

The “strategy” is technically simple, yet psychologically hard. The hard part being regulating your immediate urge to take the mic and share your version.

Here’s how it works:

• Prompt: “Hey so what’s new with you/what’s going on/what happened with.…” You get the point. Often, you don’t even need this prompt, your conversation partner just starts into a story, insight, or share. The ball is now rolling.

  • Allow: Give them the space they need to say everything that comes to mind, nodding along, or reflecting back an element of what they shared to let them know you’re paying attention.

• Ask: Wow, so interesting/amazing/surprising, insightful, insane…TELL ME MORE!”

  • Allow: Give them the space they need to say everything that comes to mind, nodding along, or reflecting back an element of what they shared to let them know you’re paying attention.

• Ask: “Tell me more/and then what/what else?”

  • Allow: Give them the space they need to say everything that comes to mind, nodding along, or reflecting back an element of what they shared to let them know you’re paying attention.

• Ask: “And, how’d that make you feel/how’d that land with you/woah, what else?”

  • Allow: Give them the space they need to say everything that comes to mind, nodding along, or reflecting back an element of what they shared to let them know you’re paying attention.

The specific language isn’t the point. Change it to whatever is appropriate to the moment and conversation.

The bigger idea is this - ask at least three considered and relevant follow-up questions that tease out both the facts and feelings, and let them share more, BEFORE honoring your legit and potentially connective-tissue building impulse to share your side or version.

Now…

• Share - transition to your piece or take by saying something like, “you know, something really similar happened to me lately,” or “I had a similar insight or idea or realization.” Then, give them a chance to ask YOU about it, and share your relevant ideas or stories in a way that is complementary, not competitive.

At this point, they’ve felt so much more acknowledged, valued, seen, heard, embraced and respected. When you finally share your offering, the chance of them giving you the same grace goes up dramatically. And the likelihood of the conversation becoming a far richer, deepening experience is exponentially higher.

By the way, this also works incredibly well when you’re in a conversation where you and the person you’re speaking with see things differently. It creates the space, respect, and recognition that can transform a polarizing interaction into one where disagreement remains, but higher levels of understanding and dignity enter the conversation. And, in turn, the relationship.

That said…

This approach is not about handing them the mic, and letting them put you on blast for the whole conversation. If they say all they want to say, then either never give the mic back to you, or as soon as you share a bit, overtalk or take it back, that’ll get really old, really fast, too.

It’s about laying a foundation. Creating a conversational dynamic where each person has the chance to feel seen, heard, and elevated by the way the experience unfolds and, in turn, how they get to unfold and connect.

Give it a try.

Even with short, sweet, interactions like your favorite barista, or checkout person. Your bestie or partner, a new acquaintance, or work relationship.

Note what happens. Then, share in the comments so we can all learn from our shared experiences!

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

JF

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Check out the Good Life Project® Podcast Summer Series!!!

Launching Monday, July 14th (tomorrow), we’re running a special 4-part summer series on the podcast we’re calling The Inner Architect.

It’ll feature, well…me!

So, if you like these jams, you’ll love the deep dives coming your way on the podcast.

The series is about becoming the architect of your own life.

Every Monday, for the next month, I’ll share a deep-dive solo exploration, packed with insights, strategies, science, and practical take-aways to act on.

Topics:

• ▶️ Mid-Year Reset: Taking Stock, Realigning, and Reclaiming Your Year

• ▶️ The Future Self Project: Envisioning Your Next Chapter

• ▶️ Foundation & Flow: Designing Your Days (and habits) for Peak Living

• ▶️ The Agility Architect: How to Handle Whatever Happens

Be sure to follow, wherever you get your podcasts, so you don’t miss an episode!

Here’s a link to major platforms to make it easier.

Success Version 1 | Compounding Money.

Popular lore says you go to school, graduate at 22, then spend the next 25-30 years with your head down, working your ass off. You’re young, you’ve got lots of time, energy, and little to lose.

Long hours, big risks, make big bucks. Then, squirrel away as much as you can. Save and invest. It’s about banking and growing cash and cachet, during the years your mind and body have the gas in the tank to support the all-in build early, then kick back approach.

By the time you’re in your 50s, the fruits of your labor, in the form of status and money, will have compounded so much you’ll finally be able to breathe. To have real, lasting choices for the rest of your life. To provide for your family.

This is the lure. And, for a relatively small coterie of humans, it works. But, more often, people start down this road, but experience a very different end to their stories.

Two ways this approach can go sideways…

1 | It’s often based on the wisdom of the few who survive it.

What this approach doesn’t account for is the fact that most people who follow this path don’t actually end up with a life-changing stack of money in the bank. They accumulate responsibility and ratchet up their cost structure to match their earnings. Sure, they bank some of it, but generally don’t put nearly as much of it away or invest it as you’d expect. Or, as they’re “supposed to.”

They sacrifice so much of the day-to-day joys of being present in their lives, and the lives of those they love for so long, but they don’t end up with the security they hoped for and expected. So, once they land in their 50s, they find they need to keep working as hard as they ever did. And continue to live a life that is far more removed from their partners, kids, friends, activities they love, health, than they wished for. Or, thought they’d have earned by then.

The only thing they’ve actually compounded is stress and complexity, worsening health, deepening loneliness, and the depth and quality of the relationships they have with the very people they say they did it all for. And meant it.

2 | Delusional Cost Assessment

We are so good at seeing what we want to see, and ignoring what we’d rather not own.

Lets say you follow this approach and do, in fact, knock it out of the part. You make a lot, save and invest early and often, and do incredibly well with compounding interest and capital gains, leading to financial wealth. By the time you’re in your 50s, you are financially free.

Yes, this is pretty damn awesome. Not gonna lie.

Doesn’t mean you stop working, but you no longer have to. You now have a level of choice, optionality, that simply didn’t exist before. Amazing. Not taking anything away from it. It’s what we all want.

Question is, at what cost. Sometimes, and these are the much rarer examples, financial bounty is built on the back of an equally fierce commitment to family, friends, love, mental and physical health. They grow together, lock-step. it can happen, but the more common story is radically different.

When you’re that all-in on the money and status side of things early on, there is still a very real risk that the toll it takes is not just that you never hit your money nut. But, also that when you arrive at the level of glorious abundance you’ve given your life to, you have no one left to share it with that you genuinely care about. Or, that genuinely cares about you. And you’re mental and physical health are holding on by a thread. Yet, you tell yourself the story that, still, those things are either repairable, or replaceable.

And, maybe, in fact, they are. But, what if they’re not…

There is a huge element of survivor bias in the whole concept. The few who say yes to this approach and do end up knocking wealth, access, status and opportunity out of the park AND somehow stay deeply connected and well along the way profess this approach to the moon. Because it’s worked so well for them. They survived, so, as a general principle this whole approach must have universal legs.

I’m not saying heads-down, work like crazy, bank your Benjamins and watch them compound cannot work. For some, it can. And, it does. I’m just saying, get really clear on the soft costs, which are often the very things that make life worth living. Ask what’d happen if you still worked hard, saved and invested, benefitted from that compound interest, but also did it in a way that created more space for presence and life along the way. Even if that meant you’d hit your number a decade or two late. It’s about making a conscious choice, and understanding what’s truly at risk.

Success Version 2 | Compounding Presence.

What if instead of focusing on working insanely hard, amassing as much money as possible as quickly as you can, saving and investing and rocking that compound interest on money, you focused more on the compound interest that comes from being fiercely there in the lives of those you care most about. And, at a time they care most about you being there?

I’m not saying to abandon hard work, saving, investing and growing. But, what if you reoriented it to a level that let you be present and engaged in your non-work life along the way?

What is the compound interest on you being emotionally present and deeply engaged during the early years of a relationship with a partner?

What is the compounded effect of being there in those early years when, should you choose to bring kids into the world, they need you most? When everything is spinny and, even if they push you away, they want to know you’re there for them?

What is the compound interest on being involved, saying I love you, then showing you mean it, making them feel safe, seen, and accepted? Showing up when life gets hard? Being there for the celebrations and the sacrifices? For the painful moments, stumbles, fumbles, losses, debacles, redemptions, recoveries, and triumphs? Being the embodiment of ever present love and trust and acceptance and guidance when they need it most?

Before they head into the world. And the very practical window to forge this depth of connection begins to close.

What is the compound interest on having such a close bond with those you love - friends, family, chosen family, and community - that they trust you, share with you, invite you in? A sounding board when asked, and a safe place to land when needed?

What is the compound interest on being there early and often, even if it means leaving money on the table, and having to make some of that up down the road?

What is the exponential impact on your life, on their lives, and everyone you all interact with? Not just in the moment. But, for the rest of your and their days?

No one talks about this.

No one offers this contrast to the classic narrative that says put your head down, surrender your life to work for the first two to three decades, compound your wealth, then circle back and assume your life will be there for you, your relationships will survive, your kids will know, love and trust you, and you them.

And, I don’t know why.

Again, I’m not saying don’t work hard, make money, save, invest, and benefit from the early compounding effect over time. Nor am I proclaiming that I’ve done this right in my own life. At times, I’ve been all over the place and, in hindsight, might’ve made different calls.

I’m simply saying, own the truth of the money centric paradigm, and the potential costs. And, also acknowledge there’s something other than money that can both compound, or be destroyed, over time.

Presence, trust, and love.

When you focus solely on the money side, you often unwittingly gut the relational side. Which, according to a metric tonne of research, is singularly determinative of a life worth living. And once you’ve lost or broken those bonds, it’s a far harder thing to fix, or live with, than it is to find ways to put more money in the bank.

Is there really any greater wealth in life than knowing there are people who see you, know you, love you, and have genuinely got you, and you’ve got them?

Curious, what’s your take…

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Fun stuff & Happenings.

• Cool new book alert - My dear friend, has a powerful new book out this week, Proof of Life! I remember way back, before the book even existed, she showed me the proposal she was about to send to her publisher. I was blown away. And, that was just reading a sample chapter. The whole book is pretty friggin’ awesome, wildly honest, and deeply inspiring. Check it out.

• Laptop backpack I’m loving - I’ve needed a new pack for my trusty macbook that I could also use for shorter, weekend-ish trips, and that also looked professional for meetings. I landed on the BANGE Laptop backpack. It’s fantastic, has incredible features and so many well thought out compartments. When I first saw it, I figured a pack of that quality would be $100-$200, but it was only about $65. One of the best purchases I’ve made in year. Check it out here.

• Come on retreat with me for 3-days | Palm Spring in October!

  

  Spend 3 days going deep into crafting your next season of work and life with me, in person, in Palm Springs. It’s all happening in October at my 2x20 Retreat. And, we’ve only got a few spots left. Learn more, and secure your spot here now, before it’s gone.

Ever read a book and thought…

Interesting idea, but that could’ve been an op-ed. Or a feature in the Atlantic. Or, kept to the 12 minutes that seemed to do it justice on the TED stage.

Or, wondered why 95% of all advice books, regardless of the topic, are 240 pages, plus or minus 20?

Is it just a cold, hard truth that every idea worth sharing takes exactly that many pages to do it justice?

Seems suspect.

What’s really going on here?

I’ve written six books. Four were a blend of big idea/advice books, published by big NYC houses. Different topics, different publishers And, yet, to the one, each contract required me to deliver a 60,000 word manuscript, which translates to, you guessed it, 240 book pages.

Question is, why?

Why is nearly every advice book just about the same length? And, why do they have to be that long?

Turns out, it has little to do with how long it takes to share an idea in a compelling way. It’s about the business of publishing, excluding indie and hybrid, which are blowing up this paradigm.

Let’s break it down.

When you deduct printing costs, distribution discounts (booksellers often pay publishers less than half retail), returns, salaries, rent, office overhead, marketing, and publicity spends (ahahahahahaaa, that was funny), and, of course, author advances and royalties, publishers need to have enough left over to make the whole endeavor worthwhile.

Fair enough. Everyone deserves their piece of the pie.

For this model to work, they’ve got to be able to price a book at a level that not only covers these costs, but also makes a profit. In truth, they actually lose money on most books, break even on a handful, make nice money on a couple, then make mega bank on a precious few. It’s the venture capital model, let loose on words. In order to make it work, they need to be able to price the typical hardcover at $25 to $35, and paperback at $15 to $18.

Which begs the question…

How do you get someone to pay that much for a book?

If we approached this rationally, that price would be a no brainer. A bargain, even. I’ve read single sentences that changed the trajectory of my business, relationships, health, creative journey, and life. Simple phrases that, put into action, were worth a thousand times the price of the book.

When we buy a big idea/advice book, we’re not paying for words, we’re paying for wisdom. We’re paying for the discovery of an idea or moment of awakening that holds the power to transform, not the fact that it takes eight hours to learn it. The faster we can discover and apply it, the better.

But, when it comes to buying books, we cannot divine a it’s worth, we cannot know if those breakout ideas and words exist until we’ve read it. Or, until other people we trust tell us it’s worth it. We look at recommendations, blurbs, etc. But, still, we tend to need more convincing to make the actual purchase.

So, our brains look for more obvious tells of value. One of those, irrational as it is, is heft. We believe heft translates to value. Or, maybe more importantly, a lack of heft signifies a lack of value.

How do we measure heft in the domain of books? You guessed it, size. Word and page count. It needs to be long enough to telegraph there’s a ton to be learned. It’s gotta make you believe there’s real value in it. When it comes to what we’re willing to pay for advice-centric books, size matters.

The logic goes, if a book was 80 pages, but cost $28, you’d be all “seriously? You’re charging that much money for a glorified pamphlet? How could something so short be worth that much?” At least, that’s been the conventional thinking. But as you’ll learn in a moment, that may an outmoded assumption.

Still, it’s what mainstream publishers work with. And they’ve come to believe that somewhere around 60,000 words, give or take 10,000 (that’s 240 pages, plus or minus 20), is the heft-induced, wallet-opening breakpoint. It’s where brute size elevates perceived value to a level that motivates enough people to pay the price needed to sell books at a price that keeps the traditional industry humming.

It’s why most advice book contracts require advice authors to deliver 60,000-80,000 words, not whatever it takes to do the idea justice. If you underdeliver, you’re very likely going to be asked to write more. And, in a fascinating twist, if you overdeliver, you’re also very likely going to be asked to edit it down to that 60-80k word count.

People run to value, but run from overwhelm.

Remember, too, I’m not talking about other genres. Fiction, textbooks, technical books, historical deep-dives, romance, memoirs, gift, arthouse, and collectible books, are entirely different beasties. If I’m reading a great novel or memoir, or dropping into a gorgeous book of photo essays, I want it to last forever. Because the act of reading it is the very thing I’m seeking to experience, not the impact of the insights applied after the fact.

Back to our original prompt.

If you’ve been that person reading a 240ish page book, wondering why it wasn’t a magazine feature (or it was, and didn’t need further exposition), or why it wasn’t half the length, you’re not bonkers. Many times, it could’ve been. The industry just believes it needs to be longer for them to survive. And, we all do want them to.

Enter, reality…

If this assumption was ever really true, is it still now?

With people desperately trying to claw back moments lost to pace, pressure, politics, hyper-connectivity, apps, uncertainty, anxiety, burnout, overwhelm, and media, we’re realizing how precious and fleeting time truly is.

Distillation, curation, synthesis, brevity, and concision are riding the value tide higher and higher.

People want to be in the know. They want to be exposed to ideas and stories that will help them live, work, play, and relate better. But, what they want even more, is their lives back.

I’d pay more for four hours of time back with people I cannot get enough of than I’d ever pay for additional words on the page of an idea-driven book that could’ve made it’s point in half the words, and time.

I’m not alone.

There’s a short-form indie/hybrid publishing storm a brewin’ that’s quietly shattering the assumptions and changing the paradigm!

A friend who had a very successful first book with a traditional publisher couldn’t sell their second book. Why? Said friend wanted it to be capped at about 20,000 words. They knew that’s all they needed to say everything that needed to be said. Publishers all said no. They loved the concept, but it had to be longer. My friend walked away, and published it themselves.

Because they were not constrained by industry-scale overhead, nor the revenue cap imposed by the traditional publishing’s royalties, they could make it a shorter read, charge a lower, yet still a reasonable price, and make it work. To date, they’re closing in on two million copies sold. At a much lower unit cost, and much higher author net. And the brevity has returned something on the order of 10-million hours back to readers’ lives to spend living what they learned, rather than learning how to live.

Examples like this reveal a fascinating opportunity. It’s not that people don’t want, or are unwilling to pay enough to support shorter books. They do, and are. Nor is it that authors can’t convey their ideas, insights and stories in a much more succinct way. Most can (even if it’s hard, speaking to myself here, oy!).

The problem is that tight, punchy, two-hour advice reads rarely ever see the light of day. Because, with few exceptions, the traditional entities in the middle, thick with complexity and overhead, can’t make it work.

Which is why, as I explore dropping into my next book length projects, I’m revisiting what a book needs to be. And whether the choices I’m making about the fundamental structure, format, design, and publication are in service of the broader industry, the ultimate consumer, or both.

I’m not arguing for the end of traditional publishing.

Nor am I saying there’s no place for them, or for longer books. I think there is a very real and important place for both. I’m probably one of the rare beings who the industry has been good to in many ways. And, I’m not saying I’m leaving that world behind.

For certain ideas, at certain moments, and with the right intention and craft, there is a reason to bring longer reads to life. These would include topics and ideas where the complexity requires nuanced and deep unpacking, along with many well chosen, beautifully told stories, case studies. At times, a fuller exposition is justified.

But, most times? Still not sold on that.

It’s about getting clear on who and what a book is for. It’s about how to best plant the seeds of an idea that hold the capacity to change lives, without the process of learning gobbling up more of those lives than necessary.

Why on earth am I writing this, here and now? On this Awake at the Wheel newsletter? Where it’s supposed to be all about ideas that help you feel more alive and less alone? Well, because, as I shared in my last post, it’s been on my mind. And, it’s time I started sharing more of what’s spinning in my head, beyond the narrow scope of personal growth.

But, also, this touches, in a very direct way, on how we learn and live and spend our times, days, and lives.

I’m guessing I’m not the only one who has wondered why certain books weren’t articles, or short-form books, including some of those written by…me! #GAH

Also, because nearly everyone I know wants to write a book. So they can wake up their lives, feel more fully expressed, share their unique lens, taste, and narrative, and hopefully help others feel more alive along the way. And nearly everyone I know reads or listens to books, at least in part, to learn new things that’ll help them live better lives (yes, still. Go figure).

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for us readers and writers, and also our friendly, forward-thinking publishers, to test old assumptions and do some reimagining. Maybe it’s time to re-examine the what and why and form and shape of the book or books we feel so strongly compelled to bring into existence, support, and consume. And, along the way, maybe it’s time to free ourselves from the trappings of a convention that may no longer be serving us any of us on the level it could be.

What if we, as writers and publishers, spent less time saying what we needed to say, and more time giving those we seek to serve a fuller Slurpy cup of their lives back to actually do the work, feel the change, and come more fully alive?

And, yes, I’m painfully aware of how damn long I just took to share this diatribe. And, how every traditionally published book I’ve written to date was 60,000 words, give or take 10,000. But, I’m also aware of the fact that the single most important book I’ve written, and may ever write, took four years to craft 18,908 words, was published by me, and has a single copy in print. That’s all it took to say what I needed to say.

So, as I look forward to my next season of book writing, I’m owning my own need to focus the spotlight on how I show up as a writer and author as well. Still very much a work in progress.

Readers, writers, publishers, chime in. What’s your take?

Do tell…

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When I launched Awake at the Wheel, I was looking for a place to share something closer to the real me.

Lost track of that pretty fast.

It was supposed to be a space unhindered by past constraints and “brand alignment.” A conduit for closer to the bone expression, with a freer reign on the spectrum of topics I might explore.

But, I quickly fell into an old, safe voice, covering tried-and-true topics. What’s come out is not fake. It’s real and, I hope, valuable and valued. And, I enjoy doing it.

It’s just more constrained and contained than I wanted it to be.

Why? Fear.

It’s safer that way.

I know the creative box that’s allowed me to make my bones as a writer and creator for nearly two decades. It’s comfortable. It’s about becoming a designated expert, purveyor of opinions that hopefully rise to the level of wisdom, or curator of experts in a well-defined area, so people know everything they get will be largely “on topic.”

It’s how you build a following, then a living. The more linear, proven path. One I’ve walked for many years. It’s served me well, and cultivated a lot of goodness.

Problem is…

It’s increasingly misaligned with the kind of writer or maker I’ve yearned to be. If I’m honest, from the very beginning.

What I truly want, and have always wanted, but been afraid to inhabit is this…

The freedom to go beyond being be just a domain expert in a demand-rich niche to being someone you turn to for a different kind of experience. One where you’re more drawn to the slightly off kilter way I see people, problems, slices of life, and the world more broadly. To the sensibility and unique lens I bring to anything that pulls my attention. To the way I string together words and sounds and images, with one eyebrow raised, tongue often squarely planted in cheek.

If I’m being honest, what I, and probably every person I’ve ever known who identifies as a maker, artist, or provocateur of taste, really want is for the special flavor of weird that caused me pain as a kid to be seen and celebrated as an adult. And, to make you think and feel. To wake up to what’s real. Regardless of the focus or topic.

What I want is to earn your trust, so that whatever I decide to write about, or produce or make, even if it’s something you never thought you’d care about, by the end, you will. And, you do. And, it’ll be worth the ride.

What I want is to spend less time conveying information, and more time evoking emotion, seeding insight, and provoking possibility.

I’ve always known that’s how I want to show up as a writer. And, a Maker. It’s more the Gladwell model. Less about the topic, more about the take.

Every once in a very long while, I hit that mark. It feels amazing. Then, I retreat. Hiding behind the safety of the known and the narrow. Niching down. Toning it down. It’s safer, more certain. It’s not wrong. But, it’s also not nearly as in service of my soul as I’m craving my primary devotions to be these days.

If you’ve hung out with me for anything more than a hot minute, you know there’s a lot more edge and humor to the way I take in, and process the bizarre universe we’re attempting to inhabit, nay control. F-bombs fly like commas. Social commentary leans toward sarcasm. Hot takes can get pretty pointed. Still with the same sense of grounded kindness I try to bring to all I do. It’s always in the name of inviting, not othering. Lifting up, not holding down. Lightening up, even when heaviness abounds. But, my public writing and recording voice don’t often go there.

Similar deal with the broad stroke of topics upon which I tend to focus. Human flourishing has been the domain I’ve deepened into for more than 30 years. It’s a big umbrella, with intention. I try to approach it in a grounded way, with a different take. Use the spotlight I’ve been blessed to amass to share other voices. I enjoy this. But even that has begun feeling increasingly limiting. There’s so much more, so many other directions, concepts, happenings, and wildly unrelated nooks and crannies that whisper to me.

So, yes, I can and have and will continue to write, produce, talk and create around the domain of flourishing and human potential. But, my particular infinite-layer soul cake contains multitudes that also tug me toward business, entrepreneurship, innovation, creativity, craft, making, art, writing, publishing, production, the future of work, media, AI, and beyond. Stuff that doesn’t fall easily into the basket of any one realm, regardless of how broadly it’s drawn. Yet all fall into the ever-expanding gaggle of curiosities that I’ve thought deeply about, have a take on, and a way of expressing, that I think is, maybe, unique and valuable enough to share.

Give you an example…

Earlier this week, a side-eyed take on publishing channeled out of me and into an essay. It’s something that’s been simmering for quite a while as I explore starting into my next book. Having been traditionally published for more than 15 years by the bigs, I’ve been questioning what the format of a book “needs” to be these days. Wondering how traditional publishing’s lock on the definition feels a bit misaligned not just with how I’m thinking about books, but also what people want and need in an era of micronized attention and super-sized pain.

A gentle commentary on the state of the industry, couched as a riff on why books are the length they are, poured out of me. I believe it’d be interesting to anyone who writes. To anyone who has a book in them, yearning to get out. To anyone already deep into the industry or path. And, it would explain a big, nagging question to readers about why every advice book is a particular number of pages, when half the time you’re thinking, “this really could’ve been an article.”

As soon as I was done with the draft, I was like, that felt good, but I have nowhere to put it. It doesn’t fit into the current Awake at the Wheel vibe. Then I thought, maybe it’s time to change the vibe, rather than continue to hide.

So, that’s the plan…

Broaden out the field of coverage. Expand the vibe. Both here, and maybe by contributing to other publications.

But, as the line goes, no plan survives the first punch. Hoping you’ll stay with me as I experiment in closing the gap between perpetually yawning curiosity and authentic expression.

First up, coming next week, is that essay on the bizarre reason advice books are all the way they are. And, why, as writers and readers, we might want to do some reimagining.

Thanks for continuing to be a part of this Long Strange Trip meets Magical Mystery Tour. Love you humans!

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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I was an artist and a maker as a kid.

I’d paint often, covering canvases and rendering album covers on jean jackets. Recreating Frank Frazetta’s iconic Flirting With Disaster album for the band, Molly Hatchet was my crowning glory. Along with a whole bunch of Dead, Boston’s legendary upside-down guitar spaceship, and U2’s photorealistic young boy’s face in black-and-white on the cover of War.

Sketches, doodles were a constant companion. My fingers were always working something into something. I’d make Franken-bikes out of spare parts from the junk yard, then construct ramps to launch them off of. Pretty much anything I could imagine, I’d try to make it. Even painted and renovated houses through my college summers.

The process of creation takes me somewhere. Always has. It opens a door to something simultaneously internal and primal, yet also expansive and universal.

Then something happened. I grew up.

And I’m not alone. Unless we’re intentional about it, it seems the older we get, the more we leave the physical act of making behind. We trade it for “knowledge-work.” Which has its own value. I found a grown-up, “status friendly” outlet in making books, brands, digital products and courses, media, content (oh how I hate that word), companies, events, and experiences.

But it’s different. Not the same as the physical act of making a physical thing. One that exists materially in the world. Born of  body, sweat, love, hands, raw materials you can touch and feel. There’s a transmission that runs from your hands to your heart, and, not infrequently, brings tears along the way.

There’s something about the smell of fresh-cut wood, WD-40™, and danger that makes my heart sing.

Back in my NYC days, I realized I’d been missing being in physical maker mode. So I took a move to a new apartment as an opportunity to re-meet my maker-side. We gave away pretty much all of our furniture, so we needed a bunch of new tables. I decided to make them. Little did I know that table one, which would come to be known as the concrete behemoth, would end up six feet long and tip the scales at 150 pounds.

We started the hunt for parts online. My wife, Stephanie, found these amazing hand-crafted, powder-coated steel legs. We bought a pair of vibrant purple ones from an Artist, if I remember correctly, in Turkey. They arrived at our doorstep four days later. Amazing.

Now, what to do about the top? Stephanie and I talked about different ideas. Lacquer, oil, wax, paint, but we wanted to do something unique. What about concrete? Wouldn’t it be cool to give the top an artisanal troweled concrete feel? I’ve never worked with concrete before, but hey, how hard could it be?

Famous last words.

I went online and searched “how to make a concrete table top.” This led me, of course, to Youtube. There, I found a great DIY tutorial on making concrete counter tops and tables. Still this was pretty much all out winging it. 

One of the best parts of making something from nothing, especially when you have no idea what you’re doing, is surrendering to where the thing is calling you to go.

That’s much more fun than just following a set of rules where you’re fairly certain of the outcome, but you also end up learning less and diminishing the possibility of genuine awe (read “catastrophe”) and surprise at the end of the process when you step back and say to yourself, “holy shit, it worked! I DID that!”

It’s a bit like creating your own recipes. You make awful, barely-edible concoctions and then something clicks, you get the mixture right and angels sing. The very fact you got so much wrong along the way is what makes the angel’s song so transcendent.

I think that’s why makers never stop experimenting. It’s the process, as much as what the process yields, that drops us into the playful pulse of the Universe where everything is simultaneously as it should be, while also rendering you into a joyful calamity of mayhem.

For me, tinkering is like a beeline to Source and Surrender.

Back to the concrete behemoth. What to do?

Much as I don’t like using the stuff, I had to revert to particle board. It’s heavy as hell and some particle boards can “off-gas” volatile compounds that aren’t all that healthy for you. In fairness to particle board, some people can do the same! I also knew the top would be sealed with 1/2 inch of concrete and I’d just have to seal the bottom with something else.

I ended up finding a 1 3/4 inch thick industrial particle board slab designed for warehouse packing tables. Three days and 125 pounds later, I swapped the new top on. With the steel legs, this thing now weighed in at around 140 pounds. And that’s before I poured and troweled three layers of concrete.

For the most part, I was enjoying working with my hands again, problem-solving and seeing something physical starting to emerge. Something I’d use every day. Something my family and friends would gather around for years to come. Something I could step back and think, “I made that.”

Why just “for the most part?”

Because the act of physical making isn’t my one thing these days. I was building in the middle of the total madness of a move and the larger gorgeous, yet complex mosaic of being a dad, husband and more than full-time entrepreneur, executive producer, product designer, educator, and writer. My mind doesn’t just drop into that special place where the world falls away and it’s just me and my craft. It takes time.

When physical making is your one thing, your profession or at least something you do in a substantial way every day, you build the space into your life that allows you to drop into the process in a different, immersive way that fugues time. When you’re making in the margins, though, you don’t. You can’t. You’re not there long enough, and your cognitive and emotional bandwidth is also somewhat, if not entirely, fragmented.

So your inability to fully honor the “ramping time” and preparatory rituals, coupled with the likelihood that you’ll get pulled out of the process prematurely can be stunningly frustrating. Once you’re ready to go, you just want to go. And stay there for a while. You want to get lost in the process. 

Once you say yes to the experience of physical making, you want to be there long enough to find God in the grain.

It’s harder to get to this place once you’re a bit further into life and you’ve made the call to make on the side of the side of the side. Which, inevitably becomes not at all.

You can fight it. And I have. But reality always wins.

Truth is, for the right season, and the right reasons, that’s okay. A better approach is to own your choice and all that comes with it. Including the gift of having people around you who want so much for you to be a part of their experience that they keep asking for your presence. And you, theirs. 

So you do the dance, knowing that on some random days you can drop deep into the maker zone, others you’ll stay surface-level and still others, you’ll bounce back and forth. If there’s a way, bring the people you love into the process.

Then, there is, of course, the nuclear maker-option. The one that finds you so called by your inner-maker that you decide to make making your life. You turn it into your one-thing. Or, at least your central thing, while demoting or delegating your former main thing to supporting cast level pursuits.

There’s actually a fantastic book about this called Shop Class as Soulcraft, about a rising star in knowledge-work finding salvation as a vintage motorcycle mechanic. I’ve been tempted in this direction more than once. And, truth is, my own 2x20 experiments are leading me powerfully back to this place. And, to sharing the experiences and processes along the way. I’m staying curious and following the call, we’ll see where it leads…though, in truth, I kind of already know. And longform Diary of a Maker entries like may well be a part of where it’s all leading. Along with my own rededication to the physical maker’s journey. More on that soon.

In any event, that’s why I used the qualifier “for the most part.” But there was also something else. I wanted to do right by my materials and those who’d enjoy what they turned into. You probably get that last part, but what about my materials? Why would I want to do right by my wood and concrete and water? Because there’s something inside of me that says, on some level, every resource is worthy of respect. Even inanimate tubs of concrete. Sounds weird, I know, but that’s just how I’m drawn.

This notion came roaring back to me in a conversation I had years later on the Good Life Project podcast with this stunning artist named Mike Han. He described his process of honoring and giving thanks for every element, every bit of raw material, he worked with, and the sacrifice that went into creating them.

Back to the table…again.

It’s make or break time. My concrete mentor, a/k/a the interwebs, tells me my ability to trowel the concrete in just the right way will make or break the whole project. I learn that the material will only be workable for about 20-minutes, so I have to move quickly. Did I mention I’m doing all of this in a relatively small NYC apartment? Doormen looked at me receiving supplies like I was nuts.

I mix up the first batch. It’s like a thick gray mud. I pour a long, oozing swath down the middle of the table begin to work it out toward the side. At a certain point, I get frustrated with the trowel so I reach down and use my fingers to spread the stuff around. I don’t realize my paw-marks will be so apparent—you can see them in the picture below—until the first layer dries and I see how much every movement shows.

At first, I think it looks like a big, fat mess. It looks terrible. But I know it’s just the first coat. And, more important, I also feel like a part of me, my imprint, is being layered into the table with every stroke, streak and roll.

Twenty-found hours later, I layer on the second coat. And that’s when the magic begins to happen. It starts to look like concrete. For the first time I start thinking I can pull it off. Create something that people can gather around. And make my people proud.

Still I notice my trowel work continues to leave all sorts of lines and patterns that will remain in the table.

I wonder how much I should leave in and how much I should sand out. Then I think more about what I like about things that are hand-made. And it’s not that they look store-bought.

I love it when you can see and feel the mark of the maker in the thing being made.

So, on the third and final coat, I try to make the marks more evenly spread and multi-faceted, more visually interesting, rather than just a series of long streaks and lines. But I also decide to keep them all visible and tactile, rather than sanding them out. You can run your hand over it and feel the areas of effort and ease.

I sand a bit, then let it all cure for another 72 hours. Then, armed with a thin, 6-inch roller, I layer on three coats of a special food-safe concrete sealer, then seal the bottom of the slab as well.

I’m a bit bummed once the sealer goes on, because I love the lighter color and grainy feel of the unsealed concrete and the sealer darkens and smooths the top. But, in the end, it still looked cool and, if I hadn’t sealed it, the porous nature of the concrete would have left it marked and stained within days.

Here’s the finished table…

Over the next few weeks, I find myself working with my wife and daughter to craft and resin-coat a kitchen table. And, over time, more tables have met some blend of their creation and/or demise, sometimes both at once, at my hands.

In case you hadn’t guessed, this isn’t really about building tables.

It’s about reconnecting to Self and Source through the physical process of making. 

When we honor the primal desire to turn raw materials into something beautiful. When we strive not for perfection, but connection. Engagement. Absorption. Elevation. Creation. That deeply experiential and irreverent full-mind-body-massage that comes from breathing and thinking and sweating and toiling and working something into existence. Not just with your mind, but with your hands. It. Is. Magic.

I need more of that. And, if you’ve read this far, it’s a pretty safe bet, so do you.

Which is why I’m at a moment of reclamation. Bringing craftsmanship, creation, making, with raw materials, hands and tools, back into my days. And life.

And as I deepen into this journey, my plan is to offer more of these Diary of Maker™ entries as a regular part of the line-up here. To share the process, the dreams, the fumbles and stumbles, the evolution of ideas, skills and vision, the experience of losing yourself in the process of full-body, full-contact creation. To bring you into the irreplaceable sense of immersion, sometimes ecstasy this level of devotion brings. It’s all about returning to who I’ve always known myself to be, sharing the experience, and hopefully, inviting you in, and inspiring you to do the same.

If you’ve enjoyed this, let me know in the comments. And, be sure to subscribe today, so you don’t miss the next juicy, and much more current, Diary of a Maker installment, which also happens to be the subject of one of my recent 2x20 experiments.

More journey, images and even video to come.

With a whole lotta love and gratitude,

Jonathan

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Wake-Up Call #61 | The Call to Make

What do you do that makes you lose time in the best of ways?

How does it make you feel? Does working with physical materials give you a different feeling than creating in the digital or written word space?

What was the last project or experience that brought you to this place?

And, how to can you more of this, even just a few minutes a day?

Think on it, feel into it, walk with it. And, if you’re inclined, share in the comments.

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Been beating myself up just a tad lately.

Which is unusual for me.

I’m preternaturally optimistic. Not in a delusional way. But in a grounded “looking honestly at what’s going on, I believe it’s possible” way.

There’s a ton of shifting happening under my feet. Some due to circumstance (like all of us). But, much of my own creation.

I’m clear on who I am. On what matters to me. On what I do and don’t want in, and for, my life.

And, yet. And, yet.

I’ve been struggling to center the elements I know in my bones are both the most joyful and nourishing, and also what I’m beginning to sense are going to grow into the more significant points of focus for Future JF. Mostly on a professional level.

Yes, I’m running more very cool experiments, like my recent decision to take on 2x20 coaching clients and run a retreat in October. But, there’s a big element of physical making I keep trying to step back into. To center. And my current ventures are so perpetually hungry for my attention that they keep pulling me back into the slipstream (on days, more like a firehose) of tasks and processes needed to keep them humming, while I figure out what my next season looks like, then go deeper into building it.

It’s such an interesting dance between the pull to create something new that could and would take all of your time and energy, and the very practical need to support and nurture what you already have. At some point, something’s gotta give. It’s a very natural thing. And, I’m at that point now.

So, it’s decision time. I’ve navigated these transitions so many times in my life.

Yes, calls need to be made. Things need to happen. Effort needs to be given. Resources need to be allocated. Ideas need to become reality. But the way that all unfolds, the timing, stakes, stress and pressure are more a matter of style and choice than I sometimes like to admit.

What I need to keep coming back to is the idea of grace, especially self grace. Getting okay with not just making it all happen, but keeping the experience of it human along the way.

I keep asking…

What would tenderness do?

If I treated myself with the same grace, space, and tenderness that I offered to a beloved, or a friend in a similar moment, what would that look like?

And, how might I extend the same to myself?

To be tender with myself. To not push quite so hard. And, to let savoring, room to breathe, and kindness play a bigger role in the unfolding of an evolution I cannot wait to arrive.

And, I wish the same for you.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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Wake-Up Call #60 | What would tenderness say to you, now?

Ask yourself these same questions.

We’re all going through moments, pretty much all the time. Especially now.

Look at the places where you have agency to not only make decisions, take actions, and move things forward, but also to give yourself grace, and celebrate the fact that you’re here, and you have within you the capacity to not only find joy along the way, but to change the way to bring more peace and ease into the pursuit of possibility.

As always, walk with it, think on it, feel into it. And, if you’re inclined, share your thoughts in the comments.

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I’m having lunch with a friend.

Fellow Gen-Xer, talking about where we are in life.

I’ve spent most of my adult years in NYC and now, for the last five, in Boulder, CO. In both places, there is a stunning amount of ambition, accomplishment, and wealth.

Yes, even here in the “chill, dude” mountains. It’s a wildly-driven hub for tech, innovation, startups, and Dear God no one just exercises, they just straight-up crush the hills.

Some days, my mantra is, “seriously?!”

With rare exception, it’s impossible to look around, at any age, and not see others who’ve, at least by external measures, done better than you. That’s never really bothered me. Okay, who’m I kidding, it bothered the crap out of me for years. But, as I head toward a big birthday, and find myself in a much more reflective season, I’m finally able to let a lot of that go. And savor and celebrate, rather than compare and commiserate.

Back to the convo with my friend…

We get onto the topic of age, life, and work. He asks about retirement. “I turn 60 later this year,” I share, “I’ve done okay in life, I’m grateful for what I have, but I do still have to work.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how my choice of language seeds false lament, with a side-dish of victimhood. And, then, because I want the revelation, and the course correction to be immediate and out loud, I add, “wait a minute. I don’t HAVE to do anything.”

I’m choosing to live in a way that would benefit from me continuing to work. A way that affords certain niceties. But, truth is, if I wanted to scale back, to live more modestly, or move somewhere with a more human cost of living and work less or just straight-up stop working in a few years, that option is available. I have a lot of agency in this decision. It’s a blessing, and a privilege. Especially, given the rapidly changing nature of the job-scape.

But, there’s something else. A much bigger driver for me.

I don’t have any genuine interest in retiring. Maybe ever.

Yes, I love many of the non-work parts of my life.

And, still…

I love work.

I want to work.

I’m excited to work.

I get great meaning, purpose, and joy from my work.

It’s not that I have to keep working, it’s that I get to keep working.

A big part of this is that I don’t view work as a burden that I’ll some day earn my way out of. Yes, I work hard, often long hours. Occasionally, I even work smart (ish). Sure, some tasks, some days, some people and conversations I could do without. But, on the whole, I truly do enjoy so much of what I do.

I’m fortunate to still be here, when friends and colleagues are not. My mind is sound enough, and my body is well enough to support my ability to pour myself into exciting new endeavors, projects, and pursuits. And, I’ve been intentional about continuing to evolve and share my interests, drive, taste, insight, and skill in novel ways that, to my great fortune, continue to be valued.

Why would I want to stop doing something that feels, in no small part, like a gift?

This is a big part of the reason I launched my own 2x20 project when I turned 58.

I’m not counting the days until I retire. I’m visioning to stay inspired.

Running new experiments, asking new questions, learning new skills, devouring new bodies-of-knowledge, discovering new talents. Yes, at 58, then 59, and soon to be 60. All with the belief that, if I bundle the experiences of my first 60 years with the insights unlocked during my 2 year season of intentional experimentation and growth, I can make the next 20 and beyond amazing.

Not because I finally get to stop working, and enjoy life. But because I’ve done the work, explored and listened, and been given the gift of having more time to keep working in ways that fill me up, while surrounding myself with people I cannot get enough of.

Whatever is given to me, and I take nothing for granted, I want to live it all fully. That means continuing to invest myself in things I care about, until I no longer can.

And I wish the same for you.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

PS - If you are approaching “retirement age,” whatever that even means any more, and are excited to stop working, zero judgment. None. For many, the thought of kicking back, traveling or settling into a season of well-earned full-time leisure is what brings you joy. Have at it. Be true to you.

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Wake-Up Call #59 | When it comes to work, change “have” to “get.”

What would it feel like to experience work in a way that was so immersive, joyful, and meaningful that you never wanted to stop? Or, have it inspire you to continue, but in a way that served the season of life you’re stepping into?

Maybe not for money. Maybe just as a central devotion. Maybe just for the feeling it gives you, or the difference it makes.

If you’re curious about this, what is one simple step you might take today to bring more of your essential self to the way you spend your days? What experiment can you run? Because, as the great Annie Dillard reminds us, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” Those days, weeks and months go faster and faster with time.

And, if you’re already doing work that makes you come alive, are you seeing and savoring the gift of it, even when it’s hard (spoiler: there will always be hard parts. Don’t wait to savor and celebrate ‘til they’re gone).

As always, think on it. Walk with it. Feel into it. And, if you’re inclined, share what’s going through your heart and mind in the comments.

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2x20™ Palm Springs Retreat | Almost Sold Out

If you’ve been following along, I’ve been spending the last 2 years exploring what I can learn, do, or build over a 2 year window to make my next 20 amazing? I call it my 2x20™. Every time I’ve shared updates on the approach and experiments I’ve been running, the response has been overwhelming.

So, a few weeks ago, I decided to open up a handful of 2x20 coaching spots, and, along with my team, invite 20ish amazing humans to a 3-day 2x20 Retreat in Palm Springs in October.

It’s all about helping you get your own, incredible 2x20 adventure launched. And, it’s also a part of the experiments I’m running for my own 2x20.

The coaching spots filled in minutes. We added a few more and, again, they were taken in minutes.

The retreat is now 85% full, there are only 3 spots left.

Safe bet they’ll be gone soon. So, if you’d love to join me and a likeminded group of people, sharing in a similar season of life, and building our 2x20 adventures together, check it out.

And if it feels right, grab one of the final spots while they last.

Here's More Info & a Registration Link!

We all go through hard times.

Moments or even seasons that make it difficult to breathe. Experiences that wreck us. Though we often don’t share the level of inner carnage with those around us, ‘til we’re through them.

Many times, the slide into the abyss is incited by some external circumstance. Things happening to us. And, no, not like the self-help trope says, “for us.” Sorry, sometimes hard things are just, well, hard.

But, here’s where it gets weird and, potentially, interesting…

No matter the outer happening that brought us to our knees, the weighted emo vest that grinds us deeper into the dirt is often what tends to happen on the inside.

The understandable and common fear that the situation, and the feeling will never end. The anxiety about what the future might, or will never again hold. The paralysis that accompanies the flattening. The cynicism, and loss of hope. The compounding effect that keeps you from doing pretty much anything to move from being leveled to being able to breathe, and, eventually, being okay.

But, maybe, most insipid is the way we delude ourselves into thinking that, in the process of being steamrolled, our worth, any value we might have to offer, to ourselves or others, has been squeegeed out of us.

In those darkest of moments, our brains say, “you can’t even figure out how to take care of yourself, you’re worthless. How on Earth do you think you could have anything to offer anyone else? And, why would someone trust or want what you have to offer, given your current demise?”

To be clear, this isn’t about saying you “have” to serve others when you’re struggling to find a way through your own morass. It’s more about the trick your brain plays, telling you that, “sure, three weeks ago, you had stunning worth, value to many, but now, nope, not so much, it’s all gone. Might never come back.” That is the paralytic pile-on I’m talking about.

And, it’s an outright lie.

One that often stop us from doing one of the very things that are most likely to bring us back to life. One that keeps us from acknowledging the fundamental value of our existence. Of our humanity. Of our history. Of our heart and mind.

Yes, you may be riding the wheel well seat on the big yellow struggle bus, but your skill, your experience, your lens, your taste, your insight, your essence have not left you. They may have been pushed to back into the cobwebs of your psyche, but they’re still there, just waiting for you to bring them back online. Or, at a minimum, to remember they’re still there.

Sometimes, even in the gentlest, tiniest, most protected of ways, reclaiming and centering this buried knowing is the thing that brings us back from the brink. Often, the act of turning it even a tiny bit loose, on ourselves or others, even when we doubt we really can and when we’re just trying to make it through the day, reminds us, oh right, that thing that makes me most me, and that I and other humans love and value? Still there.

Also, side benefit, the moment we turn our energy toward others, we begin to pry loose neuroses’ death grip. We give ourselves a moment, maybe even a few minutes or hours, where we’re not spinning in the ever-deepening sludge of our own demise. Replaced by showing up in a way that forces us out of our heads, and into the world. Where the light of gratitude finds it’s way through the cracks in the door of defeat and reminds us, “yep, goodness, value, worth, humanity…intact.”

Here’s what’s real for me…

On those occasions where I find myself in a hard place, the fact that I’m struggling doesn’t negate the the truth of my worth, even if, for the moment, I choose not to turn it loose in service of others.

Sure, it may make sense to pull back from being outflow oriented, from being so forward facing or service focused, largely as a way to preserve your sanity. As a form of self-care. But that’s different from believing the merciless inner-lie that says you no longer have anything real to offer, and maybe never will.

You haven’t lost your mojo, you’ve simply given it a new, short-term job. To help you find a way back into the light. To help you breathe. To help you heal.

So, if you’re going through it right now. And, there’s some inner voice that’s saying, “who are you to help others, to consult, coach, create, write, lead, advise, serve, or solve when you can’t even [insert personal challenge]?” Or, if that voice is coming from others?

Please know, you may feel wrecked in some domain of your current experience, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your worth, your value, your skill or ability. It’s there, always was, always will be, if and when you’re ready to bring it back online. First, in service of you, then, maybe, when right, for others.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

PS - When I write pieces like this, folks sometimes and ask if I’m okay. I am. While it’s not everyone’s style, I tend to write from the scar, not the wound. So, if it’s here, safe bet, I’m largely on the other side. Sometimes, by a matter of years. Or, my thoughts might be more a reflection of what someone close to me is going through, along with my counsel to them (sage or silly, who knows). Either way, yes, like you, I experience the full sweep of life, all the emotions, struggle, and hopefully growth it brings. Which is why, when I say “with a whole lotta love & gratitude,” I mean it. We’re in this dance together.

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Wake-Up Call #58 | Surface your worth.

Maybe you’re cruising right now. Maybe you’re going through it.

If, for any reason, you’re in a moment where you’re doubting your worth, your ability to offer value, especially value you used to lead with, but now struggle to center, please know that’s okay.

You’re human. It’s still in there. Always will be. Sometimes we just need to focus our energy inward on understanding and healing, and there’s no bandwidth available for outflow. You do you.

And, if and when you feel ready, maybe explore sharing who you are, what you see, feel and know, in an easy, forgiving, low-stakes way. To remind yourself, it’s still in there, and it’s okay to let it out in gentle, ease-filled ways, where judgment is off the table. As a reminder of who you are, and the capacity to make a difference that remains inside you. Even if that difference is to a flower in a garden, a stranger at a diner, or the kind person delivering your dinner.

As always, think on it, feel into it, walk with it, and if you’re inclined, share what’s going through your mind the comments. What’s been your experience with this? How might you begin to surface your value again, in the even the most low-key ways? What am I missing? Add to the convo. And check in to read what others are sharing Let’s learn and grow together.

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2002. Mexican riviera.

I’m sweating, almost violently…

Barefoot in the middle of a tiled, thatched-roof palapa feet from the rolling surf. I’m there with a yoga wunderkind, an equally-acclaimed kirtan singer, and 100 sweaty humans training to become yoga teachers.

We practice. We teach. We move. We twist. We grind. We stretch. We shake. Until we can no longer move.

My head is pounding. Fruit is abundant. But all I want is caffeine. And a fan.

On the last day, something’s different.

Our leader begins to call postures. Minutes in, his number two takes over the call. Updog. Down dog. Fingers wide. Palms kiss the mat. He tags number three, who takes us through the next Sun Salutation.

I see the pattern and know what’s coming. Three others on his team take the teaching baton as we flow, a hundred sweaty bodies, pose-by-pose through the soupy morning air.

Nearly two hours remain. Who will lead next?

I stand in Namaskar. Mountain Pose, erect at the mat’s edge.

Hands in prayer. Waiting and breathing.

My eyes find our teacher’s.

I surprise myself.

I want to go first.

In part, because I’m shaking and want to get it over with.

But, also, because, I think I’m better than I am.

He smiles. Nods.

I step off my mat and begin to stalk the room.

Inhale, I bellow, as my inner introvert goes full carny.

The next few minutes are surreal. A blur of breath and flow.

I’ve never led a group this size through anything quite like this.

It’s showtime. I’m overwhelmed. But, surprisingly at peace. Ish.

I own my own studio back home. Damned if I’m not already good. 

Better than most. Or so I’ve deluded myself into believing.

I finish the sequence with attitude, and step back to my mat.

The teacher is waiting. He sees through me.

Leaning in to save my ego, he whispers.

“Less show, more soul.”

Then calls the next sacrifice.

I’m pissed. They were moving, grooving, laughing.

Who in the yoga demi-god fuck does he think he is?

It would take years to understand what happened. 

To learn that, at least for me, in that moment.

Show had become soul’s shield.

So much bravado, posturing.

All to distract from the simple fact.

I had no idea who I was. Or what I was doing. And the last thing I wanted was for others to know. To see me in the full catastrophe of my profound imperfection.

So, I stepped into a persona. Put on a show. At least if they didn’t like it, it would’ve been the character I was playing they rejected, not me.

There’s a place for that, of course. It’s fine if you want to hide behind a character. Or invite people into a fantasy. If they know what you’re delivering, and what they’re responding to isn’t you. It’s a role you’re playing. It’s the bargain you’ve all agreed to. Hollywood is built upon this social contract.

But, often, that’s not the case. It wasn’t for me.

The character they thought was me was really just an arm’s length placeholder. A living, breathing shield keeping their open hearts from my armored soul. It’s not that it was fake, but rather filtered. Okay, so maybe part of it was fake.

I repeated this pattern so many times, over so many years, it became my default. Hiding in plain view became a way of being.

Depending on the circumstance, still is.

Eventually, all that hiding, living behind a shield, takes it’s toll.

You find yourself surrounded not by friends, lovers, and community, but by an audience. And, you learn, with sobering repetition…

An audience stays as long as you perform. A friend or love stays as long as you unfold. And a community stays as long as you serve.

I’m still working on unwinding this. Likely will be for years.

Always asking, when I find myself guarded, hiding, or showing up in some veiled way, to what end? Trying to distinguish between healthy, necessary boundaries, and fear of being seen…and outed, or rejected.

Sometimes I’m good with the answer. Other times, not. But at least I’ve gotten more into the habit of asking the question.

What need is the show serving?

What work, if any, is it keeping me from?

Who or what am I trying to protect myself from?

And, what if I let more of myself be seen?

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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Wake-Up Call #57

What about you?

Do you sometimes find yourself defaulting to show as a way to protect your soul, your essential self, from being seen and, potentially, judged? Is it the about wise boundaries, or fear of being seen?

What’s your “go to” way to hide in public view?

For me, it’s often putting on a facade or defaulting to sarcasm or humor. Which is not always a bad thing, it’s all about the intent behind it.

What if, in the right room, with the right people, in the right moment, you risked being you?

Think on it. Feel into it. Walk with it. And, if you’re inclined, share your thoughts and experiences, and read others’ in the comments now.

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Did not see this coming.

Years back, I’m in Oakland, California with my family. Visiting an old friend.

Late in the afternoon, we wander over to a local outdoor craft market by the water.

Stall by stall, we work our way through. More accurately, I sit on a bench in the shade, shvitzing and complaining, while my wife and daughter explore.

Twenty minutes in, I get a text.

“Come now, we’ve found a really cool one.”

I navigate my way around to find them in the middle of a stall alive with high-contrast photo montages. The photographer, Steve, spends his time moseying around San Francisco, and pretty much anywhere else. Taking pictures of graffiti and old signs. He then isolates the letters, and prints them out large-format on photo-paper to form words and phrases, made up of a patchwork of letters.

If it sounds a little ransom-y, it is, but it works. Just super cool. And playful.

We get to chatting, and he tells us how he’s always had a love of photography. This is his passion, though he’s fairly new at “going pro.” We talk about our shared interest in street art, photography, and graffiti. Just a lovely conversation, and human. He even brings his kids into it. A number of the pieces on display are done by them.

We’re captivated by his story, the creativity of his work, and the joy radiating from him. So, we commission him to make a number of pieces with different phrases to send to people we love.

A few months go by, the pieces arrive to us, and get shipped to various people, all landing with gratitude and awe.

End of story.

Except it’s not…

A few days later, an email arrives addressed to Stephanie and me.

Turns out, he had recently left a long, successful career as a senior tech executive. The last company he worked for got acquired. He stayed on for another year, but it wasn’t feeling right, so he decided to leave.

He vowed not to go back into the industry. But, months in, without direction, he was spinning a bit, with no sense or momentum toward what was next. He wanted to do something that honored his passion, creativity, and desire to spend more time with friends and family. So, he bought a bunch of business books. Read two, then stopped when he got to the third, and just started taking action. That book was Career Renegade, which I wrote, then published with Crown/PRH in 2009.

As he shared in his email, “When I initially read this book it was as if the author was speaking directly to me. There were so many parallels in the authors life and the stories of others in the book.” Career Renegade (which is now wildly dated) was largely about finding unconventional paths to mission-driven entrepreneurship.

Through our months of conversation, he’d never made the connection. Until then. Navigating some challenges, he grabbed lunch with a mentor, and shared his situation. The guy pulled out Career Renegade, slid it across the table and told him to read it. He tells him he already has.

Then, it clicks. Looking at the cover, he saw my name, and realized, for the first time, the person he’d been speaking with, and making art for, is the same one who wrote the book that helped inspire him to start that very endeavor.

He wrapped, sharing how, in his words, “there was a reason that out of all the business books I bought over the years, which could fill a library, that very few have touched me personally as Jonathan’s book…. I am thankful for your support and orders of signs for fiends and family. However most of all I am thankful for Jonathan’s words as they have inspired me to reinvest my energy and time in the things I have passion about, most importantly me and my family and my path in life.”

I was shook, in the best of ways.

As a maker, a writer, an artist, an author, you never know how the work you create will land when you’re in the thick of creation.

You try to write, sculpt, paint, or make what is real for you. You share ideas, stories, insights, images, feeling, light, resources. And hope they’ll land with others.

But you never really know.

You keep doing it largely because it’s the thing you can’t not do.

Makers gotta make.

Constantly resisting the temptation to tap and mic and ask, “this thing on?”

Then, every once in a while, if you’re lucky, and you stay in it long enough, the Universe gives you a sign. The dent you dream of your work making boomerangs back to you.

Letting you know…

Keep going. This matters. You matter.

And, so you do.

With a whole lotta love & gratitude,

Jonathan

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Wake-Up Call #56 | Do the thing.

When you’re deep in creation mode, there’s a certain amount of faith that guides you.

Trust in your vision. Trust in your skills. Trust in your taste. And, trust that, if your creative output needs to, in some way, contribute to your living, people will be moved by it, value it, and support it.

But, when you’re in the process of making it, you just don’t know. And, some say, you shouldn’t. It’s a nice delusion. Unless you have a trust fund, stupid money in the bank, or are willing to live hand-to-mouth, some level of concern about the commercial and impact potential of the work is always there.

Still, you can never know until you know.

Even those who profess to know rarely ever do. I was listening to this fabulous interview of the 500-million book selling author, Dean Koonz, on the podcast. Dean described writing a book he loved, but his publisher, someone with stunning success, insight, and taste, hated it, and didn’t want to publish. In the end, Dean negotiated it’s release. The book was a huge seller.

The only true arbiter, in the end, is how it lands with the people you most want to move.

Ask yourself…

Is there something inside me now that feels like it needs to get out, but I’m being told it’s not a worthy project or pursuit? Even if the voice telling you is the one in your head?

What if you did the thing? Or, even ran a small experiment to begin gathering feedback, data, intel capable of replacing criticism with possibility.

The more you put your heart, mind, and voice into the world, even in the face of doubt, the greater the change to touch even a single person in a way neither of you saw coming. And, when that happens, and, in the random magical moments when it boomerangs back to you in the form of impact and gratitude, life becomes richer.

Bring the project to mind. Ask, what is the first step I can take toward it.

Then…gulp…take it.

As always, just thinking and writing out loud here. Have you ever experienced anything like the story I shared above? Has the impact of your work boomeranged back to you, in even the smallest, unexpected way? Is there a project you’ve been waiting for permission to start?

Think on it. Walk with it. Feel into it. And, if you’re inclined, share your thoughts in the comments.

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Quick 2x20 Update…

As I shared last week, based on the stunning response to my 2x20 project, I decided to open up a handful of coaching spots and host a 3-day 2x20 retreat in Palm Spring, CA in October.

Within minutes, the coaching spots were taken.

And, there are now only 5 spots left for the October retreat.

If you’re genuinely interested, please don’t wait to claim your place in the retreat before it’s gone.

Here’s more info, with a link to sign up.