Author: Cylvia Hayes

K-9 Therapy by Cylvia Hayes

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​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: 

  • Diversion Techniques

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. 

  • Leading by Example

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. 

  • Cat Salvation Exercises

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.

  • Acceptance Immersion Practices

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 

What’s in Your Shopping Cart? by Cylvia Hayes

Posted on by Cylvia Hayes

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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

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Simple Human Kindness by Cylvia Hayes

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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

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People That Stick by Cylvia Hayes

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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:

  • Reaching out proactively when we haven’t heard from one another in a while just to see how they’re doing and let them know I care.
  • Listening, deeply, to your joys or sorrows with an open heart and patience.
  • Being fully present, not distracted, when I am with you.  
  • Being there to help shore you up when others are unkind.
  • Putting you first, no matter what I am working on, when you have an urgent need that I can help with.  
  • I’m a pretty bad cook so I won’t promise homemade meals but I will go get you take-out!  
  • Sticking with you when life itself becomes a bit of a sticky mess.  


To my sticky people, thank you.  I hope you know how much I appreciate you.

 Cylvia Hayes


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Control and Surrender by Cylvia Hayes

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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

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Who’s Running My Show by Cylvia Hayes

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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

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Impermanence and My Magical Yard and Beyond

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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

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