Dear… is a collection of notes or letters written, received, and held—some sent, some unanswered, some never meant to be delivered. This page gathers words shaped by love, grief, conflict, longing, and repair, honoring letter-writing as a way of telling the truth, reaching across silence, and making sense of what couldn’t be said in real time. These letters are not performances or conclusions, but records of being human in relationship.

Dear Mr., 

Today, as I sat in on your English class, I began reading a chapter from Creative Writing: Four Genres in Brief—Chapter 2: Writing Short-Short Story. Early on, a line stumped me, and I shared it with you:

“A definition isn’t worth much if it is all-inclusive.”

You, of course, read the surrounding text—before and after—and seemed just as puzzled by it as I was. You mentioned that sometimes authors believe they’re saying something monumental, but the weight doesn’t quite land. At least, that’s how I understood you. Through discussion, we tried to make sense of what the author meant. You said your mind went to resorts—“an all-inclusive weekend.” I shared that mine went to learning: ensuring all learners have full access to what’s being taught. In the end, we couldn’t really pin it down. But it low-key bothered me for the rest of the day.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about meaning.

I’ve come to believe that many things mean more than we allow for—or even realize—and that everything has meaning, even when we don’t understand it in real time. Often, especially then. Just a few days ago—on February 6—I wrote to someone:

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about meaning—about how everything, including all we do and say, has meaning, even when we don’t fully understand it, even when we misinterpret, dismiss, or deny it. But I’ve also learned that meaning only holds when the people involved are willing to recognize it together, in alignment. When meaning doesn’t align—when one person keeps denying, minimizing, or misunderstanding it—the relationship can’t be lasting. At some point, it stops being about intention—or lack thereof—and becomes about outcomes and impact: the reality.

I mention all of this because after school today, as I chose to spend time alone—"bored" (haha)—in solitude, I found myself wondering: What really matters to me in life? Is that always changing? And how do I accept that? Does everything truly mean something different to every individual? And if so, why the fuck does it matter?

That’s when it clicked.

That’s why that sentence bothered me earlier!

Because if what I read, if what I shared earlier in the day with you is true, then when a definition—meaning, and therefore the thing itself—is all-inclusive, it isn’t worth much at all. As the students would say, "that's diabolical Ms." (lol).

I think life is hard to accept for this very reason: everything means something different to every single person. And yet, simultaneously, it is a rare and special—exclusive—occurrence when someone else’s meaning aligns with our own. When we feel truly seen, heard, understood.

I’m realizing how often we take those moments for granted. How sacred they actually are.

Yes, there is value in disagreement. And yes, there is danger in agreement—especially when what’s being agreed upon is rooted in the bullshit life hands us rather than in truth. But that’s a different can of worms for another day.

For now, I just want to name this: alignment is rare. Meaning shared is precious. And definitions that include everything, somehow, end up meaning nothing at all.

—Ms. Rodriguez, M.Ed.

On Zen, by Yvonne Rodriguez, M.Ed.:

Zen is the disciplined refusal to live unconsciously. It is awareness sharper than ego, presence slower than impulse, and commitment to truth stronger than attachment to comfort. It is not an aesthetic of calmness or softness, but a practice of meeting reality directly—without distortion, avoidance, or performance.

Zen is disciplined awareness of life as it is. It is direct experience over belief, coherence over appearance, clarity over illusion. It is observing the mind without being ruled by it. It is reflecting before reacting. It is examining attachment rather than denying it. It is sitting with discomfort instead of escaping it.

Zen does not require low intensity, a soft voice, emotional flatness, or conflict avoidance. It does not mean being passive, agreeable, or endlessly soothing. It is not spiritual branding, personality minimalism, or the suppression of strong emotion. It is not detachment from life; it is intimacy with it. It is not the absence of intensity—it is the presence of awareness within intensity.

Zen is not about appearing peaceful.
It is not about avoiding tension.
It is not about winning approval through smoothness.
It is not about never challenging anything.

It is about seeing clearly.
It is about responding consciously.
It is about letting go of illusion—including the illusion of oneself.

In daily life, Zen looks ordinary. It looks like noticing your reaction before expressing it. Questioning your own assumptions. Letting discomfort exist without rushing to control it. Choosing coherence over approval. Being willing to appear sharp if it means remaining authentic.

Zen is not about appearing peaceful.
It is about being awake.

Dear Friend,

A few weeks ago, someone I had just met told me I sounded like a Buddhist monk. I didn’t interpret it as a costume or stereotype—I understood it as a comment on how I think, how I process, how I speak, how I move about the world. Then today, when you referred to someone we both know as “zen,” I asked, “And I’m not?” You hesitated but then admitted: no.

That moment stayed with me. Not because I need recognition or labeling, but because of what that word implies. When we looked up definitions of Zen together—including descriptions of it as awakening, as direct experience of reality, as disciplined practice—I felt aligned with what we were reading.

What We Actually Read

What we found described Zen as both something we are—our true nature expressing itself moment by moment—and something we practice—a disciplined way of realizing the joy of being. It emphasized that Zen is not dogma or conversion. It is direct experience of reality, not separate from ordinary life. It traced back to Siddhartha Gautama, whose title “Buddha” simply means “awakened one.” The central teaching was that awakening is available to all of us—that fundamentally, we are capable of awareness and realization.

That definition is not about tone. It is not about personality style. It is not about being quiet or soothing. It is about consciousness. It is about direct experience of reality without distortion.

That is the part that resonated with me that you didn’t quite seem to understand or agree with.

The Cultural Misconception

Culturally, Zen has been reduced to an aesthetic: calm voice, gentle demeanor, non-confrontational presence, emotional smoothness. It has become shorthand for “easy” or “peaceful.”

However, scholars of Buddhist philosophy and psychology consistently emphasize that awakening is not emotional suppression. Research in contemplative science—including work on mindfulness and non-dual awareness—shows that awareness involves observing thoughts and emotions clearly, not eliminating intensity (Dahl, Lutz, & Davidson, 2015). Zen practice, particularly zazen meditation, is described as direct engagement with experience, not escape from it.

When society equates Zen with softness alone, it confuses presentation with practice.

The stereotype is calm.

The core is awareness.

Why I Challenged

When you hesitated and said no, I immediately challenged that. Not to argue. Not to win. But because definitions matter. They are human-made constructs. They shift, flatten, and get culturally diluted. If we are going to call something Zen, I want to know what we actually mean by it.

I admit that I challenge many things—including definitions—because I care about authenticity. My questioning is not combativeness. It is integrity. It is my way of ensuring that what we are naming reflects reality rather than aesthetic preference.

If Zen is about direct experience of reality, then questioning surface interpretations is consistent with its spirit.

The Way I Live

When I examine how I move through the world, I see alignment with the deeper meaning of Zen.

I reflect before reacting.
I interrogate my attachments rather than pretending they don’t exist.
I sit with suffering instead of suppressing, numbing, distracting, or avoiding.
I question my ego and motivations.
I prioritize coherence between words and actions.
I care about truth over comfort.

These are not superficial traits. They are disciplined practices.

Even philosophical traditions outside Buddhism—such as Stoicism articulated by Marcus Aurelius—emphasize clarity, alignment, and living in accordance with reality rather than illusion. Awareness and discipline can feel sharp. They do not always appear gentle.

Rough Edges and Real Intent

I know I can be rough around the edges—as I acknowledged with you. I know I challenge—including things we’re not supposed to challenge such as definitions. But my intention is not to dominate or destabilize. It is to ensure that what we are engaging with is real.

Awareness does not always look soft. Directness does not negate awakening. Intensity does not cancel consciousness.

If Zen is disciplined awareness of reality, then living intentionally, questioning illusion, and seeking coherence is a form of that practice—even if it does not match society’s softened stereotype.

The Core Concept

This was never about claiming a label. It was about recognizing that the way I live—reflective, intentional, unwilling to move unconsciously—aligns with the core concept of Zen as awakening.

Zen is not a vibe.
It is not a personality aesthetic.
It is disciplined awareness of reality as it is.

And that is what I strive to practice.

Your Friend,

Yvonne Rodriguez, M.Ed.