Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. It doesn’t have the manic consumerist feel of Christmas. I like the meal-sharing, rather than gift-sharing aspect. Also, since I’m a pretty terrible cook and my good friends know that, on Thanksgiving I get to bring simple things like cheese and roast garlic and eat lots of tasty home-made food that is way beyond my limited culinary skill set.
Yet, even with all of that, my favorite thing about Thanksgiving, is actually giving thanks. During this holiday I go into a reflective mood, thinking about all the things I have reason to be grateful for. I credit my mom for instilling this attitude of gratitude.
This year I am most grateful just to be feeling grateful. Last year, embattled and under attack, being thankful was a discipline, something I had to work at. Now, four full seasons later, though still dealing with some of the attacks, I am genuinely, deeply grateful. In recent weeks I have even begun to have flashes of gratitude for the attacks and challenges themselves and the growth they have opened up in my life.
I am grateful for my beloveds and true friends. I am amazed and thankful for the healing that is happening in my biological family. I SEE all of you now with much greater depth and appreciation.
I am grateful for the insights into myself -- the good, the bad, the ugly. I know myself much better than I did a year ago and I like myself more. I am very thankful for this growth.
I am thankful that I have now shifted from being consumed and overwhelmed by the pain of loss and grief to being excited about what is happening and is about to happen in my life.
As I write, I am in my snug little home with a warm fire in the woodstove accompanied by glowing candles here and there. The big dog and small cats are sprawled out, soaking in the deep, radiant warmth. Outside the first snowfall of the season keeps dumping, blanketing everything in ever-deeper white. It is magnificent.
I am grateful for the warmth and the peace and the hushed quiet that the covering of snow brings to my neighborhood. I am grateful for the luxury of cats and dogs as spoiled friends rather than pests or food and candles as décor rather than my only means of light.
I am grateful that I have a home, a hometown that I love, a home country. I am so grateful on this day that I am not a refugee risking my life, fearing for my child as I flee from unimaginable horror and danger into unknown lands and an unknowable future.
I am thankful for all the blessings in my life, deeply grateful to have so much to be grateful for. I am appreciative of the turning of the seasons and for this amazing journey that is the human experience of life.
My hope is that all who read this also have much to be deeply grateful for. My prayer is that those facing severe challenges just now will find comfort, safety and gentler times.
By Cylvia Hayes
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Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Just Say No and Thanks
For the most part, I like the Holidays. I like the shift in seasons and the focus on gathering with friends and family. I like some of the campy movies, especially the old Burl Ives Claymation cartoons. I even like giving, and certainly receiving, meaningful gifts!
For me, things slow down a bit during the holidays. Business and busyness slows down and I make more time for friends and family. I think this is because I don't much partake in the intense consumerism. I definitely do not participate in "Black Friday." I truly detest what that day represents and what it brings out in us.
The term "Black Friday" has come to mean the day that retail stores have enough sales to put them "in the black", alluding to the practice of recording losses in red and profits in black. I see a different meaning in the term. I see it as a dark shadow on what could be a season of rest, reflection and connection with the things that really matter to us.
"Black Friday" exemplifies the fundamental flaws in our current, consumption-crazed, economic model. For people, it creates stress and debt. So many of us spend our most precious non-renewable resource - our time - ravenously pushing through crowds, impatiently standing in lines, trying to ignore buyers' remorse, buying stuff for people to fill a void we can't quite name.
Others of us have to work these jobs, spending long hours away from family and friends to keep the stores open and stocked. My heart goes out to those who have to depend on "shoppers" to make ends meet. Most of these retail jobs don't pay much and the workers sacrifice a lot just trying to feed their families during this time that's supposed to be about feasting and resting together. Many years ago, I worked as a checker at a major department store during the holiday season. It was not a joyous experience.
For our planet, it creates waste, pollution and further degradation of our environment. In the US, between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, household waste increases by more than 25 percent. Additional food waste, shopping bags, packaging and wrapping papers, ribbons and bows add up to an additional one million tons per week of crap going into our landfills.
For our health, our planet and our wellbeing it is time to just say no to the God of Consumerism and reclaim the deeper meaning of our holiday season. One way to take a stand is to participate in Buy Nothing Day, which has been building momentum since the early 1990s and now has actions in 60 countries.
Another important step is, as much as possible, for the shopping you do decide to do, keep it local. Products made locally usually require far, far less fossil fuel to reach store shelves, which means they produce far less pollution. This is especially true of locally produced food. In addition to being gentler on the Earth, buying local creates jobs for people right in our communities and provides opportunities to build community as we get to personally know the farmers growing our food, the sewers making our clothes and the brewers crafting our beer.
Finally, no matter where you decide to shop, be kind and patient, especially with the workers in the stores. They aren't machines or a means to an end. They're people, trying to feed their families and pay their bills.
I'll close with a revised rendering of a well-known Christmas carol:
To the tune of GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN
Slow down ye frantic shoppers for there's something we must say
If you would spare a moment all the stores would go away
Big business has been telling us what Christmas means today.
Now it's time we decided for ourselves, for ourselves
Yes it's time we decided for ourselves.
To some folks Christmas means a time for gathering with friends
And enemies might take it as a time to make amends
But TV says it's time for pricey gifts and selfish ends.
Now it's time we decided for ourselves, for ourselves
Yes it's time we decided for ourselves.
Some people feel that Christmas is when Jesus makes a call
For others it's a time to stress good will and peace to all
But advertisers tell us it means Santa's at the mall.
Now it's time we decided for ourselves, for ourselves
Yes it's time we decided for ourselves.
For other anti-consumerist holiday songs click here.
For me, things slow down a bit during the holidays. Business and busyness slows down and I make more time for friends and family. I think this is because I don't much partake in the intense consumerism. I definitely do not participate in "Black Friday." I truly detest what that day represents and what it brings out in us.
The term "Black Friday" has come to mean the day that retail stores have enough sales to put them "in the black", alluding to the practice of recording losses in red and profits in black. I see a different meaning in the term. I see it as a dark shadow on what could be a season of rest, reflection and connection with the things that really matter to us.
"Black Friday" exemplifies the fundamental flaws in our current, consumption-crazed, economic model. For people, it creates stress and debt. So many of us spend our most precious non-renewable resource - our time - ravenously pushing through crowds, impatiently standing in lines, trying to ignore buyers' remorse, buying stuff for people to fill a void we can't quite name.
Others of us have to work these jobs, spending long hours away from family and friends to keep the stores open and stocked. My heart goes out to those who have to depend on "shoppers" to make ends meet. Most of these retail jobs don't pay much and the workers sacrifice a lot just trying to feed their families during this time that's supposed to be about feasting and resting together. Many years ago, I worked as a checker at a major department store during the holiday season. It was not a joyous experience.
For our planet, it creates waste, pollution and further degradation of our environment. In the US, between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, household waste increases by more than 25 percent. Additional food waste, shopping bags, packaging and wrapping papers, ribbons and bows add up to an additional one million tons per week of crap going into our landfills.
For our health, our planet and our wellbeing it is time to just say no to the God of Consumerism and reclaim the deeper meaning of our holiday season. One way to take a stand is to participate in Buy Nothing Day, which has been building momentum since the early 1990s and now has actions in 60 countries.
Another important step is, as much as possible, for the shopping you do decide to do, keep it local. Products made locally usually require far, far less fossil fuel to reach store shelves, which means they produce far less pollution. This is especially true of locally produced food. In addition to being gentler on the Earth, buying local creates jobs for people right in our communities and provides opportunities to build community as we get to personally know the farmers growing our food, the sewers making our clothes and the brewers crafting our beer.
Finally, no matter where you decide to shop, be kind and patient, especially with the workers in the stores. They aren't machines or a means to an end. They're people, trying to feed their families and pay their bills.
I'll close with a revised rendering of a well-known Christmas carol:
To the tune of GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN
Slow down ye frantic shoppers for there's something we must say
If you would spare a moment all the stores would go away
Big business has been telling us what Christmas means today.
Now it's time we decided for ourselves, for ourselves
Yes it's time we decided for ourselves.
To some folks Christmas means a time for gathering with friends
And enemies might take it as a time to make amends
But TV says it's time for pricey gifts and selfish ends.
Now it's time we decided for ourselves, for ourselves
Yes it's time we decided for ourselves.
Some people feel that Christmas is when Jesus makes a call
For others it's a time to stress good will and peace to all
But advertisers tell us it means Santa's at the mall.
Now it's time we decided for ourselves, for ourselves
Yes it's time we decided for ourselves.
For other anti-consumerist holiday songs click here.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
The Jesus Thing by Cylvia Hayes
My spiritual journey has
been anything but linear. I was raised
with a heavy-handed approach to Christianity that was judgmental, blatantly
patriarchal and frankly a bit terrifying.
Out of well-intentioned
concern for our immortal souls my mother would cart my little brother and me to
the tiny country church near our home in the forested foothills of Washington
State. Entering the little white church,
we walked between two rows of wooden, red-velvet covered pews – about ten on
each side. At the front of the church on
the wall just behind the pulpit was a many times larger-than-life painting of
Jesus Christ nailed to the cross with a crown of thorns pressed into his
bloodied head. It seemed to me an odd
backdrop while singing upbeat tunes like, “This little light of mine” and “This
is the day that the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad …”, etc.
The preacher did his
preaching from a podium on the left side of the red-carpeted stage just beneath
the bloodied Christ. He was an aging
thin, slightly stooped white man. Long,
sparse ribbons of gray hair hung from his mostly bald, pink and brown mottled head. When he really got going with one of his
hell-fire sermons spit would fly from his mouth and his large Adam’s apple
would leap up and down. Suffice it to
say, I did not find him to be a comforting childhood figure.
Once, when I was perhaps 8
or 9, he was giving some talk about the end of times. In something of a rapturous state he looked
out at us in his small flock and declared the glories of heaven to come. He said that, “One of the rewards for us ‘chosen
ones’ was to be able to watch the ‘unsaved’ gnash their teeth in hell for
eternity.” Even better, once in heaven,
every time God came by we would all fall down on our faces on streets of gold
and praise him. Seated on the red velvet
pew, I looked up at my Mom beside me and whispered, “Mom! Mom, if that’s heaven I don’t want to
go.” Her head whipped around, her eyes bored
into me and the color drained from her face.
Poor Mama.
A few years after this
things turned very, very dark in my family.
Addiction, abuse and mental illness seized our lives. Damaged and devastated I became very angry,
especially at God, and did my best to shut the Spirit door. But the quiet knocking never really
stopped.
In my early twenties I
allowed my heart to open again to the longing to connect with source, with the
creator. I did not walk the Christian
path. I studied Native American
philosophies, goddess mythologies, and Buddhist practices. All of this felt right and good and aligned
with the powerful love of Nature I’d had since my earliest memories. However, some in my family accused me of
being satanic, and in fact, I was at times terrified that this was all just the
Devil trying to lead me into damnation.
However, the pull of genuine
spirituality was stronger than the fear of hell and I continued to study and
reflect and find my own, more authentic relationship with God, whatever he or
she may be.
Through all of this, across
the span of nearly thirty years now, I have lived with a sense of uneasiness
about the whole Jesus thing and about the bible. I long ago reached the point where I believe
all the spiritual faiths and philosophies are pathways toward the same
fundamental truth that we are spiritual beings in a physical embodiment and
that the chief purpose of this life is finding, exploring and developing our
spiritual selves. However, I was just
too put off by the fundamentalism and judgmentalism of the Christian religion
to sit with its teachings.
I am only very recently beginning
to be able to reintegrate this powerful body of learning and insight into my
own spiritual path. Nearly a year ago,
when my life as I knew it blew up a very kind someone gave me a little
devotional book called, “Jesus Calling.” It was a pretty little brown leather-bound
thing but the title made me uncomfortable.
Nonetheless, I was at a very low and hurt place and I was grateful for
any kindness. I opened the little book
to that day’s reading and it seemed tailor-made for me right at that
moment. The message was not about
judgment or sin; it was about the sheer peace of being intensely present and
sensing the I Am, that deep part of
ourselves that feels the connection to Spirit.
Over this past year, like
many of us when we’re facing extreme challenges, I have been much more immersed
in and committed to my spiritual practice.
I have met and counseled with many preachers and teachers of various
faiths, including Christians, who, while promoting the teachings of Jesus, were
far from judgmental or fear-mongering. I
rejoined my old Unity Community, which often uses examples from the bible in
the original Aramaic language; offering me new ways of looking at biblical
passages and stories.
This past year has also been
a time of deep reflection, looking within myself and trying to make sense of
why things went so wildly off the course I had planned. Much of it was well beyond my control, but I
have tried to be very honest with myself about the pieces I was responsible
for. The most glaring and somewhat
humiliating realization was how ego-activated I had been. If I had been just concerned with doing good
work and less concerned about being credited for that work I would have given
the attackers less ammunition with which to build their allegations. Over these many months, I have thought a lot
about, read a lot about and reflected a lot on ego. I have realized that when I am acting from a
place of ego, I am usually trying to mask an insecurity, am separating myself
and trying to feel superior. When ego is
running my show I am not coming from a place of love or awareness of
Spirit.
Just a few weeks ago I
attended a well-known, mostly African American Christian center in Portland because
I have a special friendship with the pastor and his wife. Although I was still a bit uncomfortable with
the deeply Christian message and symbolism, my heart was open to the underlying
power. The congregation was colorful not
only in their skin tones but also through their voices in song and enthusiastic
shouts of “Amen!” and “Come on!”
Although the little white church of my childhood did not have the
incredible musicians and tremendous, soulful rhythm of these worshippers, it
had taught me many of the old gospel songs and I had a great time, once again,
singing those old tunes.
The sermon was well-delivered,
lively and funny. Its main message was
the question, “What does Jesus mean to you?”
I was somewhat stunned to realize I had an answer, something of a reconciliation
no less. Right now, at this place in my
development, Jesus to me represents the example of a human being living purely
from the I Am rather than from ego, living
empowered, despite human frailties, guided by Spirit. As an example of how to be attacked without
being hardened, of how to come from a place of faith and love to rise up again,
there really is something to this Jesus-thing.
For the time being that’s my
answer. What about you? What does Jesus mean to you?
(P.S. I love you Mama! You walk your talk with your spirituality
more genuinely than anyone I know.)
By Cylvia Hayes
Friday, November 13, 2015
Measuring What Matters by Cylvia Hayes
Here's my article published today as part of New Economy Week.
http://neweconomyweek.org/blog/measuring-what-matters-beyond-gdp-towards-genuine-progress?can_id=1188d3c0f76158612b8b6cc21264f759&source=email-enough-to-go-aroundand-then-some&email_referrer=enough-to-go-aroundand-then-some&email_subject=enough-to-go-aroundand-then-some
http://neweconomyweek.org/blog/measuring-what-matters-beyond-gdp-towards-genuine-progress?can_id=1188d3c0f76158612b8b6cc21264f759&source=email-enough-to-go-aroundand-then-some&email_referrer=enough-to-go-aroundand-then-some&email_subject=enough-to-go-aroundand-then-some
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Shedding by Cylvia Hayes
We’ve all heard some variation of the saying, “you don’t know how much something means to you until it’s gone,” but recently I’ve experienced the polar opposite -- I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted to be rid of some things until they were taken away.
When, just over a year ago, my life took a sudden unexpected, unasked for and unwanted turn I grieved for what I was losing. I ached over the abrupt loss of the important--feeling work I’d been engaged in. I was deeply hurt by the disappearance of so many people I had thought of as friends. I mourned the shattering of exciting plans and dreams. My ego cringed and snapped at its lost identity and sense of strength.
For months I resisted my changed life, and anger, resentment and grief bubbled, roiled and seethed through me.
All of this began in autumn, the time of falling leaves. I would watch the colorful cascade from a place of deep pain, seeing no beauty, only death and loss, seeing myself in the stripped barrenness of the wind-battered branches.
This past year has been sad, intense, quiet, reflective. Gradually, over time and to my surprise, I now see that much of what I grieved over I don’t even really want. I don’t want the rapid pace and enormous busyness that had become my norm. I want more stillness, more deep reflection and creativity. I don’t want to be surrounded by shallow, self-important people. I want genuine interactions and relationships. Just as old skin cells fall off to make room for new and healthy, I have shed disingenuous flakes for new skin and new friends. I have learned you cannot lose a true one and I now know who and how valuable you are. And, perhaps most importantly I am letting go of old beliefs and ways of thinking that limit the fullness of what life can be.
It is now autumn again and leaves are falling. This time though, I’m seeing the beauty. I am celebrating the shedding of old appendages and appearances. I have dropped dead weight. Like flashy, but no longer vital leaves dropping from trees, my old pieces are falling into the soil of my life, enriching it for what is next.
Sometimes leaves fall to the ground. Sometimes life seems to fall apart – but, perhaps, it is actually falling into place. The mighty winds that rip leaves from branches also, over time, strengthen the trunks of the trees they buffet.
Four seasons have passed and a new one is on the horizon. I can feel it in the air. I can feel it in my spirit.
Just like our beautiful planet each one of us cycles through season upon season. Our past losses fertilize the soil of our souls prepping the grounds for rich, vital new sprouts.
By Cylvia Hayes
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Thursday, November 5, 2015
Sacred Spirals by Cylvia Hayes
I saw a crow trying to eat a snail. It pecked and poked the glossy spiral shell, tossing it this way and that.
The snail stayed tucked up tight.
The crow gave up and took flight.
After several moments of still, the brave snail tentatively unfurled its delicate antennae and long, soft body and slid forward on its journey.
It was a significant decision. The snail could stay curled up inside its armor and be safe from attack. However, in order to move forward, find sustenance, and perhaps a mate, it had to extend its soft, vulnerable parts.
Each of us, on our spiraling human journeys, face that same choice over and over again. Do we play it safe, keep our shields up, protected from potential pain or attack? Or, do we stretch out our soft inner selves, slowly slide forward, expose our delicate antennae to love, and really LIVE?
Do you choose to survive or thrive?
By Cylvia Hayes
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Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Simple Human Kindness but Cylvia Hayes
Sometimes it is the absence of a thing that reveals its true value. Until recently I had not adequately appreciated simple human kindness.
In the aftermath of my life taking a drastic, unexpected and very public turn, I was embarrassed and nervous about how people would react to me.
My first trip back to the gym I was uneasy. I was acutely aware of the eyes on me. In the weight room one man, whose name I didn’t know but had seen many times – a gym ‘regular” – put down the barbell he was hefting and approached. I steeled myself. He said, “I just want you to know I think you’re a good person and I’m sorry for all the crap that’s going on.” I let out my breath and blinked away tears. Thank you.
I was nervous entering my favorite coffee shop that I hadn’t visited for months. As usual it was busy. When the tall, blond woman who had worked there as long as I could remember saw me she set aside her work and asked with genuine concern how I was faring. In the mist of all the bustle and the demands of her job she listened deeply, fully present. She did so every time I stopped by for several months. Thank you.
Feeling the need for spiritual community, shyly, I returned after many years like a prodigal daughter to the little Unity church. Many people were startled to see me. I was somewhat startled to be there. They were all unfailingly kind and welcoming. Their warmth and fellowship melted over me like a soothing balm bringing comfort to a wound. Thank you!
Standing in the pharmacy aisle in Safeway looking for migraine medicine I was holding the back of my head muttering subconsciously, “ouchie ouchie ouchie ouchie ouchie.” I must have been louder than I realized because a man stopped and asked if I was OK. I said yeah and explained that I was just having a migraine for the first time in years. He asked if I felt like I was going to pass out. I didn’t. We went our separate ways but several times I noticed him nearby. We “wound up” in the same check out line. He helped me unload my groceries into my car and took the basket back for me. Thank you.
I had so many of these warm moments with strangers and they stirred something in me. It took several months to realize that what I was responding to was simple, spontaneous human kindness. Not just the kindness one expects from true friends and loved ones, but unexpected, unforeseen kindnesses.
One day I stopped by the coffee shop again. The same lovely woman smiled warmly and asked how I was doing. I gave her an update and she listened. As she handed me my egg and veggie sandwich and cup of coffee I said, “You know one thing I’ve learned is that until very recently I had under-valued simple human kindness. I really appreciate you and your kindness.” Tears welled up in her warm, blue eyes and she said, “Thank you for that.”
As I have grown to appreciate kindness more I’ve also seen how, in the past, with all my busyness and sense of importance, always on a deadline or on the move, I often unnecessarily withheld kindness from others. I wasn’t intentionally mean or anything, just often pretty self-absorbed. But now that I have personally experienced the comfort and healing that simple kindness brings to a wounded person I will offer it more freely myself.
Cylvia Hayes
In the aftermath of my life taking a drastic, unexpected and very public turn, I was embarrassed and nervous about how people would react to me.
My first trip back to the gym I was uneasy. I was acutely aware of the eyes on me. In the weight room one man, whose name I didn’t know but had seen many times – a gym ‘regular” – put down the barbell he was hefting and approached. I steeled myself. He said, “I just want you to know I think you’re a good person and I’m sorry for all the crap that’s going on.” I let out my breath and blinked away tears. Thank you.
I was nervous entering my favorite coffee shop that I hadn’t visited for months. As usual it was busy. When the tall, blond woman who had worked there as long as I could remember saw me she set aside her work and asked with genuine concern how I was faring. In the mist of all the bustle and the demands of her job she listened deeply, fully present. She did so every time I stopped by for several months. Thank you.
Feeling the need for spiritual community, shyly, I returned after many years like a prodigal daughter to the little Unity church. Many people were startled to see me. I was somewhat startled to be there. They were all unfailingly kind and welcoming. Their warmth and fellowship melted over me like a soothing balm bringing comfort to a wound. Thank you!
Standing in the pharmacy aisle in Safeway looking for migraine medicine I was holding the back of my head muttering subconsciously, “ouchie ouchie ouchie ouchie ouchie.” I must have been louder than I realized because a man stopped and asked if I was OK. I said yeah and explained that I was just having a migraine for the first time in years. He asked if I felt like I was going to pass out. I didn’t. We went our separate ways but several times I noticed him nearby. We “wound up” in the same check out line. He helped me unload my groceries into my car and took the basket back for me. Thank you.
I had so many of these warm moments with strangers and they stirred something in me. It took several months to realize that what I was responding to was simple, spontaneous human kindness. Not just the kindness one expects from true friends and loved ones, but unexpected, unforeseen kindnesses.
One day I stopped by the coffee shop again. The same lovely woman smiled warmly and asked how I was doing. I gave her an update and she listened. As she handed me my egg and veggie sandwich and cup of coffee I said, “You know one thing I’ve learned is that until very recently I had under-valued simple human kindness. I really appreciate you and your kindness.” Tears welled up in her warm, blue eyes and she said, “Thank you for that.”
As I have grown to appreciate kindness more I’ve also seen how, in the past, with all my busyness and sense of importance, always on a deadline or on the move, I often unnecessarily withheld kindness from others. I wasn’t intentionally mean or anything, just often pretty self-absorbed. But now that I have personally experienced the comfort and healing that simple kindness brings to a wounded person I will offer it more freely myself.
Cylvia Hayes
People that Stick by Cylvia Hayes
When the first few people said, “Well, you’re going to find out who your friends are,” I didn’t really pay it much mind.
That changed over the next many months.
Going through a prolonged, intense, public ordeal would prove to be like running a marathon. Some people showed up for me at the starting line. A few would join for stretches in the middle. Very, very few would run the whole course by my side.
I was deeply wounded by the disappearance of many people I had thought to be true friends. I have been deeply touched by the people I hadn’t known much at all who stepped forward with love, kindness and support. But the ones who changed my life were those that are running the whole course with me. These are the friends, family and colleagues who didn’t shy away from the starting gun, were gently there to pick me up when I stumbled and fell midway through and who will be there at the finish, whatever and whenever that might be. They are precious and priceless.
I did not realize how much I needed people that stick until faced with a situation in which so many people fled from me. I didn’t realize how much I needed people period. I like more alone time than anybody I know so I was very surprised how much it hurt to be isolated from former friends and colleagues. I wondered if the fickleness was just human nature or, was it because I hadn’t done enough to build friendships, always making that a far lower priority than my work.
My sticky people loved me through some of the hardest experiences of my life. They were a refuge. They fed my body, carrying homemade meals to my front door without saying a word because they knew I was grieving and wanted to be alone. They fed my spirit, listening to me, gently counseling me, affirming my value in moments when I questioned whether I had any. They will probably never fully understand how much their unflagging support meant/ means to me.
I will never take these beautiful relationships for granted again. I vow to be a better friend and to offer to my true friends what they have given me:
To my sticky people, thank you. I hope you know how much I appreciate you.
Cylvia Hayes
That changed over the next many months.
Going through a prolonged, intense, public ordeal would prove to be like running a marathon. Some people showed up for me at the starting line. A few would join for stretches in the middle. Very, very few would run the whole course by my side.
I was deeply wounded by the disappearance of many people I had thought to be true friends. I have been deeply touched by the people I hadn’t known much at all who stepped forward with love, kindness and support. But the ones who changed my life were those that are running the whole course with me. These are the friends, family and colleagues who didn’t shy away from the starting gun, were gently there to pick me up when I stumbled and fell midway through and who will be there at the finish, whatever and whenever that might be. They are precious and priceless.
I did not realize how much I needed people that stick until faced with a situation in which so many people fled from me. I didn’t realize how much I needed people period. I like more alone time than anybody I know so I was very surprised how much it hurt to be isolated from former friends and colleagues. I wondered if the fickleness was just human nature or, was it because I hadn’t done enough to build friendships, always making that a far lower priority than my work.
My sticky people loved me through some of the hardest experiences of my life. They were a refuge. They fed my body, carrying homemade meals to my front door without saying a word because they knew I was grieving and wanted to be alone. They fed my spirit, listening to me, gently counseling me, affirming my value in moments when I questioned whether I had any. They will probably never fully understand how much their unflagging support meant/ means to me.
I will never take these beautiful relationships for granted again. I vow to be a better friend and to offer to my true friends what they have given me:
To my sticky people, thank you. I hope you know how much I appreciate you.
Cylvia Hayes
Control and Surrender by Cylvia Hayes
Feeling out of control of events that are affecting me has always been very, very difficult for me. This was instilled early on when my family fell apart and my parents lost control of themselves. I worked hard, young, to control some of this, protect myself, my little brother, my animals from the storm that raged through our lives. And I have worked hard ever since to control my life, my circumstances, my surroundings.
But this past year, broken, on my knees, I surrendered. My life as I knew it was shattering and I, and a handful of others, were scrambling, trying to gain control, to manage the situation. None of it was working.
One very cold morning, I slunk down into my little hot tub on the deck in my small and lovely backyard. I was so shell-shocked and exhausted from stress and fear and hurt that I felt as if I were on some sort of drug.
Hundreds of times before I had been in that tub on cold mornings when the steam was rolling thick off the hot water but I had never seen the steam and light before that day. As the sunlight filtered through distant branches and onto my face I observed the snow and ice covered needles and leaves. Then I noticed beams of light appear right before my eyes. When the steam blew away they vanished then reappeared as the steam rolled back in.
I realized these gorgeous, vibrant beams of light were touching us everyday; we just didn’t see them. Accompanying the light were rich layers of sound and the silence behind each. The sheer beauty of it moved me to tears. I was deeply, intensely present. My mind was not racing forward, thinking, worrying, and it was not rummaging backwards, remembering, analyzing. It was just right there deeply open to the moment as light danced off icy crystalline branches, hot velvety water and my tired face.
In that instant I realized there was so much more to life than I could ever understand, let alone control. And much of it was so much more beautiful than I had seen before. I felt deeply peaceful.
That experience changed me, cracked something open. I realized there was very little I could control about the external events ripping into my life. I couldn’t control what it would do to my career, my reputation, my relationships. I couldn’t openly defend myself against the ugliness being poured forth.
All I could really control was how I handled myself each day, each hour, each moment. My work, goals and outer journey had been put on pause against my will. I could either remain angry and bitter and try to force some sort of action or I could embrace it as an unexpected sabbatical and lean into the space I now had to work on my inner journey. I chose the latter.
The sense of peace and relief that came with this realization surprised me. As a person who had fought so hard for so long against losing control I was amazed how good it felt to relinquish it, to admit my powerlessness over so much of what took place.
Over the next many months I spent a lot of time meditating, studying, re-engaging affirmative prayer. I began learning to observe my emotions and thoughts rather than just react to them. I experimented with reacting to them in unusual ways just to see what would happen.
Life has sent me many teachers over this past year. Some were ministers, dharma teachers, professional counselors. Some were authors like Eckert Tolle, Pema Chodron, Michael Singer, Christine Green and Mark Nemo. They were not always gentle or easy on me, but they were always kind. I am immensely grateful that our paths crossed. I am in awe of their wisdom and generosity.
Don’t get me wrong I haven’t become all that enlightened. I still have many moments of fear and deep anger. I still live in the future and the past more than I’d like. For example, I am really looking forward to being able to look back on this (and that of course is the antithesis of being present)! However, I am a deeper, calmer person than I was a year ago. I know myself better. I like myself more.
In the process of having control over much of my life wrenched away I was given a profound opportunity to grow and to explore. Putting so much effort into controlling was actually blocking me from tremendous beauty. I am excited about what’s coming next. I want to live the rest of my life from this new place of being present and having faith that spirit has the reins. I’d like continue such growth without needing a crisis to get there, but of course I can’t really control that either!
What I can control, right now, is to take a deep breath, look around at all the beauty and smile. In the words of Ruth Burgess:
“The way ahead is unknown.
It will always be like that.
But having danced in the light
We will look for glory everywhere.”
Cylvia Hayes
But this past year, broken, on my knees, I surrendered. My life as I knew it was shattering and I, and a handful of others, were scrambling, trying to gain control, to manage the situation. None of it was working.
One very cold morning, I slunk down into my little hot tub on the deck in my small and lovely backyard. I was so shell-shocked and exhausted from stress and fear and hurt that I felt as if I were on some sort of drug.
Hundreds of times before I had been in that tub on cold mornings when the steam was rolling thick off the hot water but I had never seen the steam and light before that day. As the sunlight filtered through distant branches and onto my face I observed the snow and ice covered needles and leaves. Then I noticed beams of light appear right before my eyes. When the steam blew away they vanished then reappeared as the steam rolled back in.
I realized these gorgeous, vibrant beams of light were touching us everyday; we just didn’t see them. Accompanying the light were rich layers of sound and the silence behind each. The sheer beauty of it moved me to tears. I was deeply, intensely present. My mind was not racing forward, thinking, worrying, and it was not rummaging backwards, remembering, analyzing. It was just right there deeply open to the moment as light danced off icy crystalline branches, hot velvety water and my tired face.
In that instant I realized there was so much more to life than I could ever understand, let alone control. And much of it was so much more beautiful than I had seen before. I felt deeply peaceful.
That experience changed me, cracked something open. I realized there was very little I could control about the external events ripping into my life. I couldn’t control what it would do to my career, my reputation, my relationships. I couldn’t openly defend myself against the ugliness being poured forth.
All I could really control was how I handled myself each day, each hour, each moment. My work, goals and outer journey had been put on pause against my will. I could either remain angry and bitter and try to force some sort of action or I could embrace it as an unexpected sabbatical and lean into the space I now had to work on my inner journey. I chose the latter.
The sense of peace and relief that came with this realization surprised me. As a person who had fought so hard for so long against losing control I was amazed how good it felt to relinquish it, to admit my powerlessness over so much of what took place.
Over the next many months I spent a lot of time meditating, studying, re-engaging affirmative prayer. I began learning to observe my emotions and thoughts rather than just react to them. I experimented with reacting to them in unusual ways just to see what would happen.
Life has sent me many teachers over this past year. Some were ministers, dharma teachers, professional counselors. Some were authors like Eckert Tolle, Pema Chodron, Michael Singer, Christine Green and Mark Nemo. They were not always gentle or easy on me, but they were always kind. I am immensely grateful that our paths crossed. I am in awe of their wisdom and generosity.
Don’t get me wrong I haven’t become all that enlightened. I still have many moments of fear and deep anger. I still live in the future and the past more than I’d like. For example, I am really looking forward to being able to look back on this (and that of course is the antithesis of being present)! However, I am a deeper, calmer person than I was a year ago. I know myself better. I like myself more.
In the process of having control over much of my life wrenched away I was given a profound opportunity to grow and to explore. Putting so much effort into controlling was actually blocking me from tremendous beauty. I am excited about what’s coming next. I want to live the rest of my life from this new place of being present and having faith that spirit has the reins. I’d like continue such growth without needing a crisis to get there, but of course I can’t really control that either!
What I can control, right now, is to take a deep breath, look around at all the beauty and smile. In the words of Ruth Burgess:
“The way ahead is unknown.
It will always be like that.
But having danced in the light
We will look for glory everywhere.”
Cylvia Hayes
Impermanence and My Magical Back Yard by Cylvia Hayes
My magical, lively little backyard is a mirror when I take time to look, reflect.
Every year I've worked on it, planting many strong plants to return each spring. And they do.
The juniper and pine trees stand firm, deeply rooted.
The honeysuckle vines take ownership of their section of the tall, wood fence. Hummingbirds battle for turf there.
The massive rose bushes fill up the southwest corner creating a safe roost for dozens of fluttery sparrows.
The jays, doves, blackbirds and finches flock to the feeders, as do the gray squirrels.
Every year this happens. I count on it. It seems certain, familiar.
But it is constant change, unfamiliar from moment to moment.
The raspberry patch opens up in the same corner but also sends new shoots out a dozen feet away. These I pluck.
Last year my hanging planters on the tall wood fence were lush, colorful, vibrant. This year, they are pale and ratty. Mysterious.
The planters beneath my bedroom window, sitting in far too much shade, are bursting with vibrancy and color, flowers spilling all the way to the ground. Surprising.
The birds at the feeder feel like old friends but many of them are this year's fledglings and we've only just met. Many I'll never see again.
This place of constant change is home to me. I am utterly comfortable in its uncertainty.
What if I could feel the same way about all of life?
Cylvia Hayes
Every year I've worked on it, planting many strong plants to return each spring. And they do.
The juniper and pine trees stand firm, deeply rooted.
The honeysuckle vines take ownership of their section of the tall, wood fence. Hummingbirds battle for turf there.
The massive rose bushes fill up the southwest corner creating a safe roost for dozens of fluttery sparrows.
The jays, doves, blackbirds and finches flock to the feeders, as do the gray squirrels.
Every year this happens. I count on it. It seems certain, familiar.
But it is constant change, unfamiliar from moment to moment.
The raspberry patch opens up in the same corner but also sends new shoots out a dozen feet away. These I pluck.
Last year my hanging planters on the tall wood fence were lush, colorful, vibrant. This year, they are pale and ratty. Mysterious.
The planters beneath my bedroom window, sitting in far too much shade, are bursting with vibrancy and color, flowers spilling all the way to the ground. Surprising.
The birds at the feeder feel like old friends but many of them are this year's fledglings and we've only just met. Many I'll never see again.
This place of constant change is home to me. I am utterly comfortable in its uncertainty.
What if I could feel the same way about all of life?
Cylvia Hayes
Who's Running My Show by Cylvia Hayes
My whole life I’ve sought approval from others while believing myself confident and independent. I can see it so much more clearly now. Valued for being tough, competitive, for not crying. Compared and weighed against everyone around.
And I was pretty good at delivering the goods, playing the parts that earned approval and recognition. I was a tough, successful human doing. Always striving, always struggling. Being wasn’t enough. Never, ever enough. I can see it so much more clearly now.
Recently I’ve been on a quest to peel away the programmed, trained parts of myself, the armor I’ve added to shield the lack. I’ve asked many times:
“Why does that comment hurt so much?”
“Why am I so afraid that she’ll leave too?”
“Do I really want to compete all the time?”
“Why do I want to hurt back those that hurt me?”
In stiller moments, I, the deeper I, the I that touches Spirit, the I Am, doesn’t want to add to the hurt and ugliness in the world.
But then that old, familiar armored combat soldier resumes her place on the front line. My heart closes down and the possibilities narrow to the fight in front of me. In that moment who’s really running my show, calling my shots? Is it really me? Or is the disapprovers, the judgers whose opinion of me I allow to matter?
They don’t even know me. I’m only just beginning to really know me. Shake it off! Enough. Enough. Enough. Let it be. Be.
Cylvia Hayes
And I was pretty good at delivering the goods, playing the parts that earned approval and recognition. I was a tough, successful human doing. Always striving, always struggling. Being wasn’t enough. Never, ever enough. I can see it so much more clearly now.
Recently I’ve been on a quest to peel away the programmed, trained parts of myself, the armor I’ve added to shield the lack. I’ve asked many times:
“Why does that comment hurt so much?”
“Why am I so afraid that she’ll leave too?”
“Do I really want to compete all the time?”
“Why do I want to hurt back those that hurt me?”
In stiller moments, I, the deeper I, the I that touches Spirit, the I Am, doesn’t want to add to the hurt and ugliness in the world.
But then that old, familiar armored combat soldier resumes her place on the front line. My heart closes down and the possibilities narrow to the fight in front of me. In that moment who’s really running my show, calling my shots? Is it really me? Or is the disapprovers, the judgers whose opinion of me I allow to matter?
They don’t even know me. I’m only just beginning to really know me. Shake it off! Enough. Enough. Enough. Let it be. Be.
Cylvia Hayes
What's in Your Shopping Cart by Cylvia Hayes
A friend of mine recently had a dream about me and was kind enough to jot it down in an email.
It went something like this. She and I are sitting high up on the rungs at the top of a tall, arching bridge. Somehow I have a shopping cart up there with me. In front of us there are the outer frame arches of the bridge, but no rungs joining the sides. I start making a motion like I am going to launch myself forward toward the big, empty part of the bridge. My friend says, "Have you got a plan to proceed?" I get irritated and say that of course I do. My friend says she totally feels for me given the frustration of what I've been through and having so many people giving me advice. I agree that it's definitely been frustrating lately. Then I push the shopping cart away and it careens off the bridge, down the hill and smashes into something. I move boldly toward the open, unfinished expanse of the bridge.
My friend thought the dream might be about going forward despite not having all the support and structure in place. That certainly rings true just now.
However, the part that most caught my attention was the shopping cart. Shopping cart? On a bridge? Weird. Shopping, purchasing, buying …. then the question came to me: what am I buying into that I need to let go of in order to cross the bridge to the next amazing point on my my life's journey?
What's the crap in my cart that's weighing me down, keeping me from moving forward, from soaring? I noodled on this question for several days, surfacing it during my meditations, mulling it while I ran, journaling about it.
As I recently wrote, I was nervous about launching this blog, nervous that I might be criticized for it. But as soon as it went live support flooded in. I received dozens of comments from readers and friends, all of them uber positive. And then, I got one nasty, critical comment. It stung for an hour and was front and center in my mind. Then, I shook my head, regained my sanity and asked myself, "Self, why aren't you just as obsessed with all those positive responses? Why don't they feel as important as that one critic's opinion? Why are you giving that one mean comment the power to steal your peace?" And with that the sting was gone and I was back in balance.
We all get lots of judgements from others. Friends tell us what they think about our lovers or our clothes. Parents still caution and scold. Brothers give unsolicited advice. And oh my god the media and marketers tell us all kinds of things like we're not thin enough or fit enough or rich enough or groomed enough. Some of this we pass by and some of it we take off the shelf and put into our shopping carts and buy it.
This past year I have had huge opportunity wrapped in excruciating challenge to face myself more honestly than ever before. It has been frightening and sometimes pretty embarrasing. And while some of the pieces might not be pretty, the whole, though flawed, is pretty awesome.
I have been and will continue, working, everyday, to upset my shopping cart and dump out the crap -- the old patterns of not feeling good enough, the criticism, the self doubt. As I become more intentional about what I buy into, I more often remember that we are all utterly unique and precious expressions of creation, beautiful exactly as we are.
Writing this inspired me to revisit one of my favorite poems and I share it here.
The Invitation
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or you own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in empty moments.
Cylvia Hayes
It went something like this. She and I are sitting high up on the rungs at the top of a tall, arching bridge. Somehow I have a shopping cart up there with me. In front of us there are the outer frame arches of the bridge, but no rungs joining the sides. I start making a motion like I am going to launch myself forward toward the big, empty part of the bridge. My friend says, "Have you got a plan to proceed?" I get irritated and say that of course I do. My friend says she totally feels for me given the frustration of what I've been through and having so many people giving me advice. I agree that it's definitely been frustrating lately. Then I push the shopping cart away and it careens off the bridge, down the hill and smashes into something. I move boldly toward the open, unfinished expanse of the bridge.
My friend thought the dream might be about going forward despite not having all the support and structure in place. That certainly rings true just now.
However, the part that most caught my attention was the shopping cart. Shopping cart? On a bridge? Weird. Shopping, purchasing, buying …. then the question came to me: what am I buying into that I need to let go of in order to cross the bridge to the next amazing point on my my life's journey?
What's the crap in my cart that's weighing me down, keeping me from moving forward, from soaring? I noodled on this question for several days, surfacing it during my meditations, mulling it while I ran, journaling about it.
As I recently wrote, I was nervous about launching this blog, nervous that I might be criticized for it. But as soon as it went live support flooded in. I received dozens of comments from readers and friends, all of them uber positive. And then, I got one nasty, critical comment. It stung for an hour and was front and center in my mind. Then, I shook my head, regained my sanity and asked myself, "Self, why aren't you just as obsessed with all those positive responses? Why don't they feel as important as that one critic's opinion? Why are you giving that one mean comment the power to steal your peace?" And with that the sting was gone and I was back in balance.
We all get lots of judgements from others. Friends tell us what they think about our lovers or our clothes. Parents still caution and scold. Brothers give unsolicited advice. And oh my god the media and marketers tell us all kinds of things like we're not thin enough or fit enough or rich enough or groomed enough. Some of this we pass by and some of it we take off the shelf and put into our shopping carts and buy it.
This past year I have had huge opportunity wrapped in excruciating challenge to face myself more honestly than ever before. It has been frightening and sometimes pretty embarrasing. And while some of the pieces might not be pretty, the whole, though flawed, is pretty awesome.
I have been and will continue, working, everyday, to upset my shopping cart and dump out the crap -- the old patterns of not feeling good enough, the criticism, the self doubt. As I become more intentional about what I buy into, I more often remember that we are all utterly unique and precious expressions of creation, beautiful exactly as we are.
Writing this inspired me to revisit one of my favorite poems and I share it here.
The Invitation
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or you own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in empty moments.
Cylvia Hayes
K-9 Therapy by Cylvia Hayes
My dog doesn’t wear a special official-looking vest. She hasn’t been trained or certified for any special abilities. She’s not welcome in grocery stores or hospitals. But, she is most definitely a service dog, providing me with a continuous flow of mental health therapy.
Tessa and I have shared our lives for seven years. She has been with me through success and failure, happy times and despair. Her constant, unflagging, tail-wagging love has lifted me through some very painful times, especially over this past year.
Her therapeutic practices include:
When I am stressed and obsessed with some problem, my mind racing off in the distance, Tessa will take action. Sometimes she gently rubs her face against me. Sometimes she crawls up onto the couch beside me. Sometimes she flips her food bowl over with a loud metallic clang and I watch the kibbles explode across the kitchen floor. Sometimes she gets fussy and whiney, going to the door asking to be let out even though she has a pet door. It might annoy me a little bit but it brings me back to the present.
Like most well-loved, well-treated dogs, Tessa fully immerses herself in the moment. She sniffs all manner of things with nose buried deep, pulling in full, fascinating clouds of scent. She rips around with other dogs with no care at all who’s watching or when the next deadline is. She naps in the sun in the middle of the sidewalk or on the chaise lounge in my backyard, the full length of her 100-pound body totally relaxed soaking up the warm rays. She listens, with full focus, for the scrabble of “Rocky Raccoon” on the back deck.
By example, she reminds me to use my senses, to take time to fully focus on what’s before me, to see rare beauty in a simple moss and drool covered stick. To be present. To be.
When depression or emotional exhaustion overwhelms me I flatten out on the couch and anesthetize myself binge-watching Game of Thrones or Heartland or cheesy Hallmark movies. Patient, loving Tessa snuggles on the couch with me for hours, even a full day or so. Then, when she figures it’s gone on long enough, she gets up and flings her huge, but graceful long body into the air in an impish pounce landing just inches from the highly annoyed, hissing cat. If I remain prone she then seeks out the other cat, nosing it, pushing it off the chair where it is napping. This is when I know I need to get my butt off the couch and take her for a run. She deserves some exercise and the cats deserve a little peace. It’s enough to get me to shake off the funk and start moving forward again.
No matter what I have done, no matter what’s been done to me, no matter what people are saying about me, Tessa thinks I am terrific. On the day of my greatest achievement and the day of my most catastrophic failure she greets me with exactly the same joyous, smiling, gyrating affection. When I question my own worth she assures me I am the most valuable person on Earth.
Her services and her friendship are priceless.
Cylvia Hayes
Tessa and I have shared our lives for seven years. She has been with me through success and failure, happy times and despair. Her constant, unflagging, tail-wagging love has lifted me through some very painful times, especially over this past year.
Her therapeutic practices include:
When I am stressed and obsessed with some problem, my mind racing off in the distance, Tessa will take action. Sometimes she gently rubs her face against me. Sometimes she crawls up onto the couch beside me. Sometimes she flips her food bowl over with a loud metallic clang and I watch the kibbles explode across the kitchen floor. Sometimes she gets fussy and whiney, going to the door asking to be let out even though she has a pet door. It might annoy me a little bit but it brings me back to the present.
Like most well-loved, well-treated dogs, Tessa fully immerses herself in the moment. She sniffs all manner of things with nose buried deep, pulling in full, fascinating clouds of scent. She rips around with other dogs with no care at all who’s watching or when the next deadline is. She naps in the sun in the middle of the sidewalk or on the chaise lounge in my backyard, the full length of her 100-pound body totally relaxed soaking up the warm rays. She listens, with full focus, for the scrabble of “Rocky Raccoon” on the back deck.
By example, she reminds me to use my senses, to take time to fully focus on what’s before me, to see rare beauty in a simple moss and drool covered stick. To be present. To be.
When depression or emotional exhaustion overwhelms me I flatten out on the couch and anesthetize myself binge-watching Game of Thrones or Heartland or cheesy Hallmark movies. Patient, loving Tessa snuggles on the couch with me for hours, even a full day or so. Then, when she figures it’s gone on long enough, she gets up and flings her huge, but graceful long body into the air in an impish pounce landing just inches from the highly annoyed, hissing cat. If I remain prone she then seeks out the other cat, nosing it, pushing it off the chair where it is napping. This is when I know I need to get my butt off the couch and take her for a run. She deserves some exercise and the cats deserve a little peace. It’s enough to get me to shake off the funk and start moving forward again.
No matter what I have done, no matter what’s been done to me, no matter what people are saying about me, Tessa thinks I am terrific. On the day of my greatest achievement and the day of my most catastrophic failure she greets me with exactly the same joyous, smiling, gyrating affection. When I question my own worth she assures me I am the most valuable person on Earth.
Her services and her friendship are priceless.
Cylvia Hayes
The Comfortable Confines of Identity by Cylvia Hayes
One of the hardest aspects of being publically shamed was losing control of my own sense of self-identity. I had viewed myself as a hard working, deeply committed advocate working every day to try to make things a little better for the environment and people struggling with poverty. I thought of myself as fairly effective, flawed but basically a good person. I knew I had worked really hard to get to where I was in life.
And then, BOOM! I was simply unprepared for the horror of having that identity torn apart and replaced with a one-dimensional, ugly caricature, a me I didn’t recognize. It shook me to my core and ripped open deep knife wounds of self-examination and criticism.
In the most agonized moments of pain and humiliation I even found myself wondering if the disgraceful image of me, created by click-hungry reporters was accurate. Who was I really?
The first important answer came during a particularly powerful meditation. My mind stilled, the fear and anger eased to a point I hadn’t experienced in weeks. In that stillness I could sense Spirit, could feel the subtle connection between my one small life and the vast, beautiful mystery of life in the big sense. I touched my deeper, more powerful self, my I Am.
A few weeks later, still reeling, but having many times brushed against the powerful calmness of the I Am, it dawned on me that I still was everything I’d been before being publically dismantled. I was still a lover of and fighter for this miraculous, small blue planet. I was still a writer and speaker, a messenger. Whatever talents and skills, whatever flaws I’d had before were still within me.
Realizing that I was still all of who I’d been, led me to consider that perhaps I was even much more. What if, by clinging so desperately to the identity I’d crafted and was comfortable with, I was actually limiting my “becoming”?
This past year has indeed been one of becoming – becoming more self-aware, more compassionate and loving; slowing down and becoming kinder. I cannot see where it is headed, truly a work in progress. It is scary and uncertain but just in the past few weeks I feel a sense of anticipation.
Recently, on several mornings I woke unusually early, ahead of the alarm, and could not go back to sleep. As I lay there in the warmth and soft darkness, listening to the deep, calm breathing of the big dog stretched beside me, I realized something profoundly hopeful. For the first time in a year, I couldn’t get back to sleep not because I was stressed and fearful, but because I was excited about what was happening in my life and what was to come.
I am most grateful for this step in healing and moving forward. I can’t describe myself as readily as I could a year ago and in that I sense something deeply powerful and beautiful, a beckoning to become more.
Cylvia Hayes
And then, BOOM! I was simply unprepared for the horror of having that identity torn apart and replaced with a one-dimensional, ugly caricature, a me I didn’t recognize. It shook me to my core and ripped open deep knife wounds of self-examination and criticism.
In the most agonized moments of pain and humiliation I even found myself wondering if the disgraceful image of me, created by click-hungry reporters was accurate. Who was I really?
The first important answer came during a particularly powerful meditation. My mind stilled, the fear and anger eased to a point I hadn’t experienced in weeks. In that stillness I could sense Spirit, could feel the subtle connection between my one small life and the vast, beautiful mystery of life in the big sense. I touched my deeper, more powerful self, my I Am.
A few weeks later, still reeling, but having many times brushed against the powerful calmness of the I Am, it dawned on me that I still was everything I’d been before being publically dismantled. I was still a lover of and fighter for this miraculous, small blue planet. I was still a writer and speaker, a messenger. Whatever talents and skills, whatever flaws I’d had before were still within me.
Realizing that I was still all of who I’d been, led me to consider that perhaps I was even much more. What if, by clinging so desperately to the identity I’d crafted and was comfortable with, I was actually limiting my “becoming”?
This past year has indeed been one of becoming – becoming more self-aware, more compassionate and loving; slowing down and becoming kinder. I cannot see where it is headed, truly a work in progress. It is scary and uncertain but just in the past few weeks I feel a sense of anticipation.
Recently, on several mornings I woke unusually early, ahead of the alarm, and could not go back to sleep. As I lay there in the warmth and soft darkness, listening to the deep, calm breathing of the big dog stretched beside me, I realized something profoundly hopeful. For the first time in a year, I couldn’t get back to sleep not because I was stressed and fearful, but because I was excited about what was happening in my life and what was to come.
I am most grateful for this step in healing and moving forward. I can’t describe myself as readily as I could a year ago and in that I sense something deeply powerful and beautiful, a beckoning to become more.
Cylvia Hayes
Imagination Redirected by Cylvia Hayes
Worry. I have spent countless hours, days, cumulatively years of my life worrying. Worry about money, about having enough, or not. Fearful imaginings of what might come stirring up that gnawing, terrified feeling of scarcity and instability. Fretting about performance, would I be good enough to get the job done, to impress? Angst stoking deep insecurities. Worry about loved ones, relationships, people who were kind to me, people who weren’t.
Worry about what we are doing to each other and this beautiful planet. Nervous foreboding leaving me feeling small and powerless.
At some point I learned the concept that we attract into our lives what we focus our thoughts on. Then I worried about worrying!
Yesterday during my morning meditation I realized I was doing it again. I was worrying about money, worrying about getting my career moving again, worrying about all the things on my “To Do List”.
Then, I had a profound realization. Every single truly, deeply traumatic, life-changing thing that has ever happened to me – the episodes of abuse, horrific injuries, the public shaming – were things I had neverworried about. These were things I hadn’t seen coming. Out of the blue, they just reared up and hammered down.
Most of the things I’ve poured my worry into, drained my energy imagining, stirred my fear into a gut-churning tempest over, never came to pass. In every instance the reality that unfurled was not as bad as the terrible visions I’d conjured in my mind. It reminds me of a Mark Twain note I saw somewhere, “I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them have never happened.” Amen brother.
Moreover, those truly deeply traumatic events that I hadn’t seen coming, those that were so painful they defy adequate description – they didn’t break me down; they broke me open. Through the cracks I saw into myself in new ways. I met the calm, strong presence at my center. Through those cracks flowed in spectacular beauty from extraordinary ordinary people and this magical world we share.
So, if all my worried imaginings never come to pass anyway, and the really big things are unknown and beyond my capacity to perceive them let alone worry about them, what’s the best approach? What’s a worrier to do with the existential challenge of realizing that worry is impotent?
I’m going to try an experiment. Each time I find myself worrying about some possible future problem I am going to take a deep breath and bring my mind back to the present moment. Then I am going to spend a few moments envisioning that possible future, of which I’d been afraid, unfolding in worry-free beauty, abundance and joy.
In the words of Henry David Thoreau, “If one advances in the direction of their dream and endeavors to live the life they are imaging, one passes an invisible boundary. All sorts of things begin to occur that never otherwise would have occurred. One meets with a success unexpected in common hours.”
Instead of letting my imagination drag me down, I am going to use it to rise up, to see what I want to be.
By Cylvia Hayes
Worry about what we are doing to each other and this beautiful planet. Nervous foreboding leaving me feeling small and powerless.
At some point I learned the concept that we attract into our lives what we focus our thoughts on. Then I worried about worrying!
Yesterday during my morning meditation I realized I was doing it again. I was worrying about money, worrying about getting my career moving again, worrying about all the things on my “To Do List”.
Then, I had a profound realization. Every single truly, deeply traumatic, life-changing thing that has ever happened to me – the episodes of abuse, horrific injuries, the public shaming – were things I had neverworried about. These were things I hadn’t seen coming. Out of the blue, they just reared up and hammered down.
Most of the things I’ve poured my worry into, drained my energy imagining, stirred my fear into a gut-churning tempest over, never came to pass. In every instance the reality that unfurled was not as bad as the terrible visions I’d conjured in my mind. It reminds me of a Mark Twain note I saw somewhere, “I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them have never happened.” Amen brother.
Moreover, those truly deeply traumatic events that I hadn’t seen coming, those that were so painful they defy adequate description – they didn’t break me down; they broke me open. Through the cracks I saw into myself in new ways. I met the calm, strong presence at my center. Through those cracks flowed in spectacular beauty from extraordinary ordinary people and this magical world we share.
So, if all my worried imaginings never come to pass anyway, and the really big things are unknown and beyond my capacity to perceive them let alone worry about them, what’s the best approach? What’s a worrier to do with the existential challenge of realizing that worry is impotent?
I’m going to try an experiment. Each time I find myself worrying about some possible future problem I am going to take a deep breath and bring my mind back to the present moment. Then I am going to spend a few moments envisioning that possible future, of which I’d been afraid, unfolding in worry-free beauty, abundance and joy.
In the words of Henry David Thoreau, “If one advances in the direction of their dream and endeavors to live the life they are imaging, one passes an invisible boundary. All sorts of things begin to occur that never otherwise would have occurred. One meets with a success unexpected in common hours.”
Instead of letting my imagination drag me down, I am going to use it to rise up, to see what I want to be.
By Cylvia Hayes
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