Poem: A Dress for Emily Dickinson

A Dress for Emily Dickinson

Sometimes even Emily
must have wanted fewer words
Less iambic pentameter–
a little more free verse–
something to unlock the invisible doors
keeping her in the house, sewing together verses she didn’t put in letters

I’d happily sacrifice a verse or two
for the promise of a trip to Manhattan —
what it would have shown through her eyes
Perhaps she would not have been nobody
Perhaps she would have bought fine paper
Perhaps Emily would have bought a new dress.

If You Choose to Believe in Hell, Don’t Force the Lies on the Rest of Us

On the day before Passover, and as the Easter weekend begins, as almost literally, “all hell is breaking loose” about the literate Pope’s statement concerning hell (that destabilizes all the hegemonic B.S. about hell that has tormented souls for almost 2000 years), here’s an interesting article that was published in 2011 in the Catholic Reporter: https://www.ncronline.org/…/eco-catholic/debunking-myth-hell , that can put out those fires of dismay being set everywhere. This is not news–it’s a repeatedly denied reality, with institutions, cultures, and individuals preferring to believe in the contrived myths.

Holding on to something like this, especially when the record has always held the facts of this highly political religious creation, is insane. We are at a moment in history when people are being made to choose between what is clearly fiction and lies, and the complicated uncomfortable ambiguities of what is truth. We have ,at least for this technologically supported moment, the capacity to investigate and study, to read, and discover things we otherwise would have to spend even years to find. In many ways. The reasons we hold on to dangerous fictions that hurt others are never good.

Live with hell if you wish, but don’t invite the rest of us to join you.

Leaving the narrow spaces.

A Statement of Resolve at Year’s End

And from the 17 syllables of haiku I have spent the last month writing each day as a practice to heighten my connection to what I wish to express, to a lengthy contemplation on the idea of resolve.

Rather than make “resolutions,” I ask myself, “At this point in my life, where is my resolve? What strengthens my resolve? To what am I resolute?


The climate in today’s world confronts me with the presence of anger all around and within me. So I’ll start there.

What makes me feel anger? I am a very happy person, feel full of blessings even in the midst of the carnage and vitriol. today. I still feel anger, but it no longer feels virtuous as it did when I was raised and educated and employed in climates where fighting and arguments were the nature of the game. I easily walk away from settings where fomenting a dynamic rooted in anger and desire to control other people is at work. I have absolutely no desire to “win.” And with that, I feel I have learned to celebrate the good every single day…even when awful things are happening. I don’t celebrate defeat but will work with all my spirit and soul and body and mind to bring into being just and fair, ethical and true practices that work to prevent and eliminate cruelty and suffering in this world. That to me is sound living–not a game to “win.”

I have no desire to hate you, or fight you, and I take no pleasure at your misfortune. But do not mistake my mindful awareness of these things with my willingness to let injustice reign. I have learned I do not need to raise my voice, and only say difficult things, or repeat them, to be accused of yelling and fighting. We are a bizarre society that claims to hate fighting but champions it. I speak when I have something to say, and I will say what I have to say, not what has been put in my mouth or culture or gender or profession or training, to say. If I want to be scripted, I perform or act or play; I write and engage in banter for insight–but I won’t script what I really have to say…and find it much more enjoyable. It might make my creative projects much more tedious and eternal, waiting for the words to fit the inspiration, but if it’s my expression, I’ve learned I can’t feign, I can’t pretend, I can’t perform rage or anger that is habitual or rote or a caricature of who I might be thought to be.

My emotions are no more virtuous or pure than anyone else’s. I feel disgust and repulsion and impulses from hell on a regular basis in today’s environment. I am learning that these emotions are not me, but signs of how I have been raised and socialized. I can choose to let them be my master and to govern my speech and actions, or I can use them as “data,” or evidence of what I am facing both inside and outside my “self.” Similarly, others’ emotions are not my master, either, unless I allow them to be. I can choose to whom I will respond, and what will move me to act and sacrifice my time, effort, and resources.

These are my reflections as I spend this beautiful chilly evening considering how emotions are like little psychological strings that have been tied by experience and culture, to pull me this way or that, responding habitually, and using the affective nature of emotion to convince me that somehow I am compelled to respond in certain ways. My emotions and affect are not my master. I repeat this because for many years they have been. And in particular, I allowed the emotional responses of others to greatly determine my choices, sacrificing many options without even realizing I was doing it–that’s how well socialized I was.

What is it that I have held sacred? What have I claimed is most important to me? What answers have I given to these questions without even thinking of what it is to be sacred, or how I would know if it were important to me? Do I have the strength to withstand the emotional responses that changing my answers to those questions will cause? Can I be the master of my emotions, fully feeling them, but not bowing to them as evidence of some truth unless I can calmly articulate it with no sense of silencing my spirit?

As this year ends, I release the relationships, roles, and traditions of behavior that have ruled me since my childhood. This is many years coming, not sudden. But it is time. And I am ever so grateful for my practice, my prayer, my dearest friends and loved ones, whose steady presence in my life will be my steady flame on which to focus my gaze as all hell breaks loose as it might well–as it so often does, when one dares to cut those strings. You see, they were tied to something, and often, it’s not just about us. May I have the wisdom and compassion to mind my words and actions, aware of this fact.

Blessings, everyone. Be of good heart, and may your resolve be clear and life-giving as we end this year.


Phoenix, AZ, December 24, 2017

Mindful Heresy is My Spiritual Path.

Rumi-QuoteThose who have known me since high school  in the 1970s will know that pursuing the spiritual is not something I chose later in life or as a turn after a crisis. Even as a child in the mid-1960s, my favorite season of the year was Lent, because it was structured by prayers and spiritual practice. When I was interviewed at ASU in 1991 and was asked by then university president, Lattie Coor, what motivated me to do my work (if indeed it was true that the tenure & promotion system did NOT), my answer to him was that it was my spiritual life that motivated me. I have always appreciated how he was able to hear and accept that response.
     When disappointed or hurt by friends or family members, abused physically or psychologically by men who claimed to want to be my spouse, or accused of absurdities by angry students or colleagues, it has always been my spiritual life that has “worked.” Not dreams, promises, or any particular lifestyle or relationship.
     After my traumatic brain injury in 1987, and throughout my years of struggle with a damaged capacity for sequential memory, as well as my ongoing challenges with PTSD from the horrors and pains of repeated encounters from childhood through adulthood with men with “power” who would wield that power, its coercion and rages to get what they wanted or wage hostile revenge when they didn’t… through all that, the silent, still refuge of spirituality remained steady and constant, “a very present help in trouble.”
     My spiritual practice and spirituality is without narration, although my spiritual life can be shared in story. It is the place “out there” of which Coleman Barks translated Rumi as saying, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”
     My spirituality isn’t an army or the following of a guru, theologian, ethnic path, historical tradition, or doctrine. It is more powerful than religion, and that which enables me to appreciate all faiths in their capacity to stir the spiritual. It is also the most powerful force IN my, and perhaps THE force that IS, LIFE.
     I did not choose to “be” or “become” a mindful heretic. I found the label, like a stone I pick up on a path to remind me of the experience.  Like nature, the spiritual cannot be forced to be other than it is.  And if in mindfulness I am held steady by the spiritual reality always present within and around me, no orthodoxy can ever offer me more. In the stillness of the reality of what is, nothing is more powerful, and it will always be heretical to be more powerful than socially constructed illusions, even the “good” ones

The Right to Look at the Water–or, When Protest is Not Hate, but A Stand for Justice & Dignity

In 1947, it was considered illegal to simply stand near the local springs in my home town and look at the water if one was of “Latin American descent.” It was also illegal to swim in it, or drink water from the springs.


Fortunately, my grandfather, M.R. González, Sr., knew the value of protest and went and stood atop an elevated piece of land nearby with my then pregnant grandmother, Carmelita, until they were forced to leave by a local “non-Latin” (read: non-Mexican) citizen of the town who, as my grandfather told me in the last conversation I had with him before he died in 1985, said to him, “Now, M.R., you know you shouldn’t be standing here…” That was before he grabbed my grandmother by the arm to force her to move, and invoking in my grandfather the ire and conviction that was his trademark, and responsible for his lifelong commitment to justice, political action, and protest.

The protest was not just about the prejudicial discriminatory law about the water at Comanche Springs; it was about the fact that at the time, in addition to being forbidden to swim, drink, or ostensibly even *look* at the water, if a “Mexican” wanted to get an accredited high school diploma and go to college, s/he needed to be allowed to go to the then whites-only Fort Stockton High School (whites then were simply referred to as Anglo–in Texas, the labels then had to do with the language that was spoken, providing insight into the history that led to these circumstances).

This protest was joined and collaboratively led by many of our town’s most courageous and virtuous Mexican-American elders who have all since passed on. My grandfather was the target of three different attempts to murder him, the final time an apparent plan to lynch/execute him, had he not been in hiding when they came for him at his home, with burlap sack and rifles ready for him. You see, protest makes those who are benefitting from unjust laws and ‘the way we do things around here’ very uncomfortable.

To have the right to go to school, to be educated, to look at the water that nourished your ancestors, to live on whatever side of town you wanted to…these were what was equated with living in the U.S.A., and my grandfather and those like him, protested for those rights. From where I’m standing, to be protesting against the flag right now is not so much an act of hate, as an act of grief and desperation–to be held in the sort of turmoil that leads one to say that this flag has been sullied, and we are not supposed to hang and honor a dirtied flag.

What Would Herod Do?

Nothing like a little religious certainty to make them throw out the golden rule. And I’m sure many members of the American Congress believe that God helped them write that bill to get rid of health care for the poorest and most ill, the aged and frail…just like God wanted the inquisition, hunting down midwives as witches, torturing of indigenous peoples, slaughtering of infidels, hoarding of treasures of the victims of genocide… ever think perhaps there’s something flawed to the model of faith that causes one to violate every ethic of decency in which they “believe?” Tribalism is just too strong an impulse. That, greed, and a historically recurring sadistic sense of superiority, an equal opportunity human inclination.

Then again, maybe they thought the protagonist was Herod.18301445_10212942491659099_2627345320884539795_n

The Blessed Heresy of Admitting it is Our Students (Not ‘Us’) Who Know Best How We Can Teach Them.

Today I realized how different it is to be exhausted from doing the work I’m meant to do and being exhausted from work I’m told, or have been led to believe, is important. The latter fatigue is dangerous to my health, to my well-being, to my sanity. The former is paradoxically life-affirming and healing.

I am so grateful for the wonder of students who find inspiration in learning activities so much that they dedicated their Friday nights for five weeks, countless hours at home and on weekends, and their creative energies to make the role-playing game, “DiGlossia,” for our intercultural communication classes.

And in class today, as we began the two-day playing of the game, I watched these silent Gen-Z students active, engaged, interacting, and having an incredibly good time as they realized they were role-playing scenes right out of the things we’ve covered in class. And the students who had opted “out” of role-playing…? Well, I realized that to be a more realistic game that involved the idea of immigrants and refugees, that the island and its multiple regions where they were traveling towards their dream city needed to have a host population of allies. Every one of them wound up actively engaged, watching the experiences of the others until they could determine the best moments at which to give of their resources to help them make progress on their journeys. Still others, whose characters had been privileged prior to emigrating, found themselves frustrated that many of their skills and powers no longer served them when what they needed most was food, transportation, or a place to sleep.

They will continue the game on Thursday, and two honors students will be working with me to document the process, in a paper they will co-author with me. Another student has asked to be my apprentice in the fall to continue working on the project.

Meanwhile, two students have been hired by the university to work on social media updating of campus life because of their involvement in the Humans of ASU project we completed this semester (and will continue in the fall).

Yet another student from prior semesters in my Intersections of Race and Culture class, will be working with us to create a documentary podcast.

I LOVE MY STUDENTS, and I LOVE MY WORK, and I AM SO HUMBLED by the power of letting the students show me how to teach them.

On My Experience with PTSD: I Dare to Challenge Those Who Think I’m Angry When I’m Not…Really.

When traumatic experience results in a recurrent unconscious creation of a defensive response, it may feel like we are only partially present in our everyday experience. The cognitive aspect of our mind, the part that can make sense reasonably and logically of what is happening in our lives can feel separate from the part of us that actually responds. The words we say may be what we wish to say, while the affect is hooked beyond our control to that part of our psyche that is hell-bent on protecting us. That’s what I live with, what I’ve lived with most of my life, and which became intensified with each added trauma of my adult life.
     I was sexually victimized as a child by strangers, and by things I witnessed. When as an adult I found myself in situations that mimicked the contextual aspects of my childhood traumas, I would either become withdrawn and dissociative, or the tone of my voice would take over as a sort of policing of my boundaries. As I was re-traumatized in abusive relationships, recurring and bizarre physical accidents, and the coercive double-binds of micro-aggression in the academic workplace, it has taken great effort to be present with my colleagues without that vocal tone–one that is NOT present in settings that for whatever reason do not mimic the danger and incomprehensibility of the experiences which my mind could not, and has not, integrate(d) as sensible.
      A trauma, I have come to recognize, is that which occurs and requires a form of sense-making that is outside of our capacity to provide it. It’s too grotesque, or too violent, too betraying, too logically incoherent and imposed through coercion, power, or social force. The mind, like a computer that keeps trying to follow a root command which is at odds with the code that is provided, finds a loop, an “if-then” clause to keep trying. And in my case, it’s “If X…then disappear,” where “disappear” can be a full-blown dissociative fugue, a partial amnesia, or an inability to be affectively present and integrated during my interaction.
     It is one thing to understand how these things occur and operate, and it has taken decades of therapy and work to become increasingly aware of the subtleties. It is quite another thing to keep working within settings where certain routines and patterns can and do trigger the responses, with individuals who may articulate supportiveness in theory, but who are little motivated or connected enough to be aware of the truth in the fact that my tone is not “my” response, but the prevention of MY response. Very few people care enough–and I truly mean CARE enough–to learn to know me, and choose rather to identify me with those interactions, where my tone speaks more loudly than my words, and nothing I can say is more powerful than the certainty with which their perceptions of my tone resist forgiveness, understanding, or listening to my words. I know this, and I’ve come to accept that it is easier to lose friends than my sanity trying to be heard while my vocal tone continues to set me up.
      My PTSD is so outwardly minor compared to that of others whose triggers bring on physically violent outbursts or flashbacks. But it’s very parallel in process. This is not a contest. In the struggle that it takes to stay present with a commitment to my wellness, to contributing to society in a positive way, and to keep working in the presence of social dynamics that can re-traumatize, I have no interest in “winning.”  My efforts are focused on attempting to maintain enough mindful clarity and spiritual presence and connection, to move on, rather than be drawn into the loops of iterative sense-making efforts and the internal agony of non-sense.
     Yoga, prayer, breath work, journaling, time in nature and with good friends, and meditation–these all help me to stay present.  In my work, authentic presence & engagement in work that does not call for pretension, denying of the truth, or expect support of leadership that is duplicitous…these are the things that are healthy and healing. And if you know someone with PTSD, remember to consider that your perception may not be complete. See if you can care enough to ask, to listen, and to believe rather than test or doubt; these things can be very helpful. I find it is far too much effort to lie to anyone, on top of my experience of PTSD. Why add even more complicated layers of non-reality to an experience that is already complicated enough?
     Oh, and I’m not sad or angry. Really. REALLY. 

“Sí se Puede” is Our Challenge–Live it.


“If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him…The people who give you their food give you their heart.”
—Cesar Chavez

¡Feliz cumpleaños, César Chávez! Our greatest power is in our connection to the heart, to the earth, and to the humility in our ways of living. César Chávez was born over 20 years after my grandfather, but my Papa M.R. was cut from the same cloth. As Latin@s, we must honor our leaders and not hold back from acknowledging that our strength has never been measured by how much we conform to the dominant ways of living in a materialistic, individualistic, competitive, and harshly discriminating society. The socially coercive power of these values and practices is evident in the number of our community who learn either to fear speaking out, or to emulate the people and the ways of those who value our tequila and tourism value, and our hard labor, but who all but erase us from the discourse on diversity in this country, choosing to rely on stubborn stereotypes of our roles and personalities. It is people like César Chávez who did not just create a cliché phrase with “Si se puede,” but who MEANT it, and never swayed from insisting on that truth. César Chávez taught me that sacrifice for our people is no sacrifice. Forgetting our people is a far greater loss. I would rather lose all “honor” than silence the truth that our people largely live in situations of struggle and cultural conflict which must be addressed as our numbers continue to grow and our lovely cultural ways offer promise to be more widespread and common if we can remember the dignity that is our legacy in our personal resilience and persistence. SI SE PUEDE. Para siempre.

Feliz dia, Don César.

On the Impulse to “Do Something to It/Them”


This morning as I walked, I saw a truck with a Trump sticker on it. I’ve seen it several times when I walk the dogs. And each time, I noticed the impulse that rose within me to “do something to it.” I then noticed the little “proper” voice within me begin to pump me up with pseudo-virtue regarding the decision not to. Eventually, if I pay attention enough, I also heard the internal response that acknowledged a slight fear that I would be caught and that someone with a Trump sticker might be moved to “do something” to ME.

This morning, this is when I realized that the reaction to “do something” to eliminate or change the nature of what makes me uncomfortable is in these types of situations rooted in the very same intolerant seeds that have flourished in others. We are all related–the actions of others, virtuous or evil, speak to my own potential. I remembered the words of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., about the violent nature of the existence of “hatred in one’s heart.” I considered how Gandhi’s early history of racist bigotry might have informed his eventual awareness of how violence begins internally, often in the guise of the absence of outright aggressive violence.

The impulse to eliminate, convert, insult, belittle, joke, or otherwise “do something” to that which makes me uncomfortable or frightens me; which challenges the boundaries for what I’ve learned or decided is sacred, holy, or right; or which triggers me in areas where I’ve been traumatized and moves me to hyper-vigilant defensiveness—these are seeds which can be nurtured to become violent, judgmental, intolerant…or can be repotted in a soil that nurtures my own capacity for understanding and compassion.

Out of that “repotting,” dialogue and mindful expression of my own experience and critically-rooted reflection can inform my speech and actions so that my responses are not disempowered or made bland, but are no longer distorted by a veiled desire to “do something to it.”

Colonialism in the Americas and religious “holy” imperialism in Europe and elsewhere has given us a legacy that can feed these seeds with the impulse to convert and perceive the world with an inquisitional zeal and desire to forcefully or manipulatively, mold others into shapes and scripts that match ours. Agreement feels good, and we’ve learned that power is the ability to influence.

But today I am mindful of how easily I could flip or switch, and how the seeds for violence are the same as those for mindful, compassionate, inquisitive, and engaged discourse/conversation.

I have been a religious education teacher, a youth minister, retreat coordinator, professor of spirituality and Dean of a graduate program in spirituality headed by a prominent theologian.i am a yogini, with 38 years of practice and moderate experience teaching. I have been repeatedly drawn to a life of spiritual practice and yearn, often, for life in a religious or spiritual community. But I have never been able to find comfort within the often passively harsh control that is disguised as holy or driven by a religious mandate. What I have learned is how the sword of kindness and religion can often be a sword of intolerance, an attempt to silence or stop the expression of views or positions that make one uncomfortable. It’s passive aggression, micro-aggression, and hard to address because it is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

As a teacher and, a woman committed to justice and human rights, I cannot remain silent, nor distort through critique if I wish to address imbalance both outside of and within me. I must strive to be vigilant about what I’m actually trying to accomplish when I speak or act. And if there’s even a tad of a desire to feed my fear or seeds of righteous intolerance and vengeance or hate…I must recognize that these are seeds of violence. And I aim to prevent myself from acting or speaking, while correcting the way I’m addressing or feeding the seeds within me.

I must be transparent and not strategic. And willing to “take back” my words, to apologize. I must be, not “do.”

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