Tag: life

  • Another Brick in the Wall

    Another Brick in the Wall

    I was out getting my steps in this morning when a song from Pink Floyd’s The Wall came through my headphones.

    I cannot even remember what playlist I had been listening to.

    I remember stopping it.

    Some albums you listen to; others wait for you.

    I had heard The Wall many times before. I had watched the movie many times before. When I was a teenager, people used to joke that you had to be under the influence of one substance or another to truly understand it.

    Maybe we had that backward.

    Maybe you just had to live long enough.

    So I stopped the playlist and started the album from the beginning.

    And somewhere along my walk, I understood the wall differently.

    Not as this strange, theatrical thing belonging to somebody else’s tortured imagination.

    I understood the bricks.

    Your mother hurts you.

    A brick.

    Someone you love betrays you.

    Another brick.

    Someone humiliates you.

    Another.

    You trust somebody who teaches you that perhaps you shouldn’t.

    Another.

    You are frightened, disappointed, rejected, abandoned, embarrassed. You learn that showing pain sometimes invites more pain, so you decide you won’t show it anymore.

    Brick.

    Mortar.

    Brick.

    Mortar.

    Eventually, what started as protection begins to look like architecture.

    And there you are, standing behind something you built yourself.

    Safe.

    Maybe.

    But alone.

    That was the part I understood this morning in a way I don’t think I could have understood as a teenager.

    Because I have built walls of my own.

    For years, when something bothered me, I often wouldn’t say anything. If I was hurt, I kept it to myself. If I was angry, I swallowed it. If somebody crossed a line, I sometimes moved it and convinced myself that keeping quiet meant I was handling it.

    I thought silence was control.

    It wasn’t.

    It was storage.

    And storage eventually reaches capacity.

    Sometimes everything I had refused to say came out at once. Anger became rage. Something that might have deserved a sentence received an explosion instead.

    Then came the embarrassment.

    The regret.

    The knowledge that whatever legitimate reason I had for being angry was now buried beneath the way I had expressed it.

    So what did I do?

    I added another brick.

    I became quieter.

    More guarded.

    More determined not to let it happen again.

    Which meant I returned to the very thing that helped create the problem in the first place.

    Silence.

    That is the cruelty of some walls. They convince us that the cure for what is hurting us is simply more wall.

    I eventually began talking to someone.

    Even now, it feels strange to admit that I needed another person to teach me something that sounds almost ridiculously simple:

    You are allowed to say you are angry.

    Not scream it.

    Not throw it.

    Not make another person afraid of it.

    Just say it.

    “I am very angry about what happened.”

    “That bothered me.”

    “What you said hurt me.”

    “I don’t like the way you treated me.”

    Simple sentences.

    I spent years carrying entire storms because I never learned to announce that it was raining.

    There is a difference between feeling anger and surrendering yourself to it. There is a difference between expressing pain and weaponizing it. Learning the first may help prevent the second.

    That is part of what I heard differently in The Wall this morning.

    I heard a person building protection around wound after wound until there was almost nowhere left for the wounded person to go. And when everything finally burst through, I heard something familiar—not an excuse for cruelty or destruction, but the terrible sound of emotions with nowhere healthy to live.

    Maybe that is one of the dangers of emotional walls.

    We imagine that the wall keeps everything outside.

    But it keeps things inside, too.

    The anger stays.

    The grief stays.

    The humiliation stays.

    The conversations we never had stay.

    The sentences we swallowed stay.

    And eventually we may discover that we haven’t built a fortress at all.

    We’ve built a pressure cooker.

    I am still learning this.

    I still get angry.

    I still get hurt.

    I still have moments when the old instinct tells me to say nothing, swallow it, keep moving, not make trouble, and not let anybody see that they got to you.

    I am not perfect.

    But I haven’t had one of those episodes in a long time.

    That matters to me.

    Not because I believe I have arrived somewhere, but because I know how far I have walked.

    And maybe healing sometimes looks less dramatic than we imagine.

    Maybe sometimes healing is simply catching yourself before you reach for another brick.

    Maybe it is saying, “That hurt me,” while the hurt is still small enough to name.

    Maybe it’s letting someone trustworthy stand beside you while you figure out why you started building the wall in the first place.

    And maybe strength isn’t proving that nobody can get through.

    Maybe strength is realizing that you need a door.

    This morning, I started my walk trying to get my steps in.

    Somewhere along the way, I found myself thinking about all the bricks I have carried.

    Some were handed to me.

    Some I picked up myself.

    Some probably saved me when I didn’t yet know another way to protect myself.

    I don’t hate the person who built them.

    He was doing what he knew how to do.

    But I know something now that he didn’t.

    I don’t have to keep building.

    One day at a time, I can learn to put the bricks down.

    And perhaps that is what growing older sometimes gives us.

    Not the chance to go back and live without wounds.

    The chance to finally understand what we built around them.

    And the courage to leave an opening.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

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  • Apparently, I’m a Sir Now

    Apparently, I’m a Sir Now

    The first time someone called me “sir,” I looked behind me.

    Surely a man stood there in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase. Someone who understood his insurance policy. Someone who came into the store specifically to buy sensible trousers.

    There was nobody behind me.

    They meant me.

    I’m still working through that.

    I’m Generation X. Technically, I’m in my fifties, but I don’t see myself as old. Somewhere inside me is the same young man who could stay out all night and still have plans for the following morning.

    He’s still there.

    He just doesn’t make the schedule anymore.

    These days, the idea of drinking all night sounds like something I would need to recover from financially, physically, and spiritually. Tell me the party starts at ten, and my first question is, “In the morning?”

    Because at ten at night, I have already made several commitments to being comfortable.

    But “sir”?

    I’m not that old.

    Yes, I make a few extra noises when I sit down. And when I get up. 

    Sometimes a small sound comes out in the middle, as my body considers whether we’ve made the right decision.

    I don’t remember agreeing to this soundtrack.

    I used to stand up and go somewhere. Now I stand up and give a brief statement.

    Still, I feel young.

    I’m even ready to throw hands if the need arises.

    Although I would appreciate knowing in advance. I need the right shoes on, and I’d prefer we settle whatever this is before dinner.

    I’ve accepted other truths.

    I love the wagon I use to take out my trash.

    Love it.

    There was a time when I might have carried everything in one trip just to prove I could. Now I load that wagon with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has solved a problem.

    Let the young people demonstrate their strength.

    I have wheels.

    And my slip-in, no-tie shoes? Those are a gift.

    I step into them, and we get on with our day. No bending down. No negotiations with my back. No little bow I have to make before I’m allowed to leave the house.

    I didn’t realize how much resentment I had been carrying toward shoelaces until someone offered me another way.

    Apparently, this is where my rebellion has led.

    Then there’s the music.

    I love hearing songs from my teenage years over the speakers while I’m shopping. A familiar song comes on, and suddenly I’m smiling, remembering who I was the first time I heard it.

    For a moment, I feel young.

    Then I realize the store is using music from my youth to help people choose produce more comfortably.

    That requires a minute.

    I came in for onions. I wasn’t prepared to confront the passage of time beside the bell peppers.

    And somewhere during this emotional event, a young employee asks, “Can I help you find anything, sir?”

    Yes.

    The person I was before you finished that sentence.

    Of course, they’re being polite. I know that. I appreciate good manners.

    I just didn’t expect to be the one receiving them so soon.

    In my mind, fifty-something still leaves room for a little mystery. A little danger. The possibility that I might do something spontaneous.

    And I might.

    I could go somewhere without checking the parking first.

    Let’s not rule anything out.

    Maybe I am becoming more mature. Maybe I’m finally learning that feeling young doesn’t require making every decision my younger self would have made.

    I can enjoy the song without staying out until sunrise.

    I can take care of my back without apologizing to it.

    I can let someone call me “sir” and accept the kindness in it, even if a small part of me still wants a second opinion.

    I’m still me. There’s plenty of life left, plenty to laugh about, and apparently a growing appreciation for things that roll.

    So go ahead. Call me sir.

    Just give me a moment to stand up.

    There’s usually a sound first.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

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  • A Meal for One Still Deserves a Plate

    A Meal for One Still Deserves a Plate

    If you’ve been reading Salt, Ink & Soul for a while, you know I cook. And you know I love doing it.

    But I had to learn one part of cooking on my own.

    Sitting down to enjoy the meal.

    That sounds a little ridiculous when I write it. I can spend time thinking about ingredients, adjusting the seasoning until something tastes the way I want, and patiently waiting for it to finish.

    Then, once the food is ready, I suddenly feel like I need to get through it.

    Apparently, I have time to cook dinner. Enjoying dinner requires a separate conversation.

    For a long time, I didn’t think much about how I ate.

    Sometimes I’d take my food to my desk. Other times, I’d put everything on a plate without much concern for how it looked. As long as it tasted good, I figured I’d done my part.

    And then I’d eat.

    Not really savoring anything. I barely gave myself enough time to taste what I’d spent so much time preparing.

    I ate as though someone had started a stopwatch.

    It was almost as if eating had become another chore. Something I absolutely had to do rather than something I might actually enjoy.

    Which is a strange way to treat something you love.

    I could spend an hour preparing a meal and only a few minutes eating it.

    Somewhere along the way, I’d separated the pleasure of cooking from the pleasure of eating.

    Lately, I’ve been trying to change that.

    I’ve started paying more attention to how I put food on my plate. Maybe all those years of watching the Food Network finally caught up with me. Who knows? YouTube has helped me learn a few basics, too.

    Nothing elaborate. Just considering where things go, how the colors work together, and whether the plate looks like something I’d be happy to sit down to.

    I cook. I am not a chef.

    Nobody needs to inspect my kitchen for a Michelin star.

    But we eat with our eyes as well as our taste buds. I’ve discovered that taking a few extra moments to arrange a meal changes how I approach it.

    When I look down and see something I’ve taken care to prepare, I want to give it a little more attention.

    I notice what I’ve made.

    The colors. The way a sauce settles around the food. The texture of each bite. That first bite when everything I hoped would work together finally does.

    There’s a quiet satisfaction in that.

    After all the effort I put into cooking, I’d like to be present for the result.

    So now I try to get everything together before I begin.

    My plate. My utensils. Something to drink.

    A napkin, because I do try to eat like I’ve had some home training.

    And then I sit down.

    Not at my desk, trying to eat between whatever else I’m doing. Not rushing through dinner as though finishing first will earn me something.

    Just sitting down to eat.

    I’m learning to tell the difference between being full and enjoying a meal.

    They aren’t necessarily the same thing.

    You can finish an entire plate of food and barely remember eating it. I know because I’ve done it more times than I care to admit.

    That makes me wonder how many other small pleasures I’ve rushed through simply because I was thinking about whatever came next.

    I don’t have an answer.

    But I am paying more attention.

    When you cook for other people, it’s natural to think about their experience. You want the food to taste good. You want them comfortable. You might choose a plate carefully or make sure they have everything they need before you sit down.

    Cooking for yourself means remembering you are sitting at the table, too.

    Dinner doesn’t need company to deserve a little attention.

    The person eating the meal is already there.

    I don’t mean every evening needs to become an occasion. Some days, getting something warm onto a plate is plenty. I have no interest in turning dinner into another assignment or grading myself on where I put a piece of chicken.

    And there will probably still be evenings when I eat at my desk.

    Old habits don’t disappear simply because you’ve written an essay about them.

    But when I have the time and energy, I’d like to do something different.

    I’d like to enjoy what I’ve made.

    To taste the seasoning I spent time getting right. To appreciate the texture I waited for. To take another bite because I want one, not because I’m trying to finish.

    Nobody has to compliment the meal. Nobody has to be impressed by the presentation.

    I can taste it and decide for myself.

    Perhaps that’s part of what I’m learning.

    Cooking for myself doesn’t have to mean giving myself whatever attention is left over.

    I’m still practicing.

    But lately, when dinner is ready, I try to remember that the work I put into it was meant to lead somewhere.

    To this plate. This chair. This moment when I finally get to taste what I’ve made.

    And I sit down.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

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  • Some Beauty Is Best Admired from the Ground

    Some Beauty Is Best Admired from the Ground

    It’s Balloon Fiesta time in Albuquerque, and once again, the sky is giving people a reason to look up.

    There is something wonderful about that. People stop what they are doing. Conversations pause. For a moment, whatever was demanding our attention has to compete with an enormous splash of color floating over the city.

    I admire it. The balloons, certainly, but also the people who make it all possible.

    The pilots. The ground crews. The vendors getting ready to feed people who have left their beds at an hour when breakfast feels like both a necessity and a reward. Everyone working behind the scenes, carrying equipment, preparing, organizing, and tending to details most of us will never notice.

    We see something beautiful in the sky. Beneath it is a great deal of human effort.

    I appreciate that. As someone who writes and cooks, I know the finished thing rarely tells the whole story of what it took to make it. People see the plate. They read the essay. They don’t necessarily see the preparation, the mistakes, or the work that happened before there was anything worth sharing.

    Those balloons carry some of that invisible work.

    And then, usually somewhere in the middle of my admiration, somebody asks:

    “Have you gone up in one?”

    “No.”

    My answer comes quickly. No need to check my calendar.

    I respect the people who pilot those balloons. I admire the people who climb into the baskets and trust the pilot, the equipment, and the wind. I understand that, for them, the experience might be peaceful, exhilarating, or something they will remember with joy for the rest of their lives.

    I would remember it, too.

    Peaceful is probably not the word I would use.

    I do not like heights. I don’t even particularly like going into tall buildings. I can appreciate windows perfectly well from several feet away, preferably while seated.

    And yes, I fly.

    But flying involves prayer, proper medication, and a prolonged conversation between the part of me that knows airplanes can fly and the part of me that would like to know why we couldn’t have driven.

    For me, the flight is a fairly constant feeling of terror until we land safely. Other people might settle in and enjoy a movie. I wait for the wheels to touch the Ground so my shoulders can return to their usual place.

    So a basket beneath a balloon, moving with the wind?

    I wish everybody a beautiful trip.

    I will be down here.

    There was a time when admitting something like that might have felt a little embarrassing. We hear so much about facing our fears, pushing our limits, and saying yes to experiences that frighten us. Sometimes that advice is useful. Some things are worth doing even when our hands shake.

    Sharing a piece of writing that reveals more than we intended. Beginning again after disappointment. Having a conversation we have spent years avoiding.

    I have fears I need to work through because something meaningful waits on the other side.

    But I have never stood beneath a hot-air balloon and felt that my unfinished life was waiting in its basket.

    What I feel is admiration. Curiosity. Pleasure in watching something extraordinary.

    And I am comfortable with that.

    Getting older has made me more honest about what I enjoy and what I merely feel expected to enjoy. There is a certain relief in appreciating someone else’s experience without needing to have it yourself.

    I can listen when they describe the view. I can enjoy their photographs. I can be glad they went and glad they came back with a story to tell.

    My own enjoyment begins with both feet on the Ground.

    From here, I can watch the colors move across the sky. I can think about the skill it takes to guide those balloons and the trust it takes to ride in them. I can appreciate the crews whose work allows the rest of us to stand around looking amazed.

    There is plenty to see from where I am.

    And perhaps that is part of what I love about the Fiesta: so many people contributing something different to the same occasion. Some fly. Some help them rise. Some feed the crowd. Some simply look up, grateful that somebody went to all this trouble to put a little wonder into the morning.

    I am happy to be among the people looking up.

    So if you ask whether I have gone up in one, the answer will still be quick.

    No.

    But if you want someone to admire the balloons with you, appreciate the people who make them possible, and perhaps find a breakfast burrito afterward, I’m available.

    You’ll know where to find me.

    On the Ground, having a lovely time.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • When the Hoodies Come Out

    When the Hoodies Come Out

    I know some people will be shocked to hear me say this. My siblings might be first in line: I’m cold.

    Maybe living in the Southwest has thinned my skin a little. These days, a morning in the fifties or sixties is enough to send me looking for long sleeves and a hoodie.

    And once the cold-weather clothes come out, I start thinking about cold-weather food—the kind people say sticks to your ribs. Something warm enough to make you slow down and stay at the table a little longer.

    It also gives me a reason to turn on the oven I’ve been ignoring since the air fryer moved in. I’m sure there’s an air-fryer way to make this casserole. Today, I want the baking dish, the bubbling cheese, and the familiar smell coming from the kitchen. I’m feeling nostalgic.

    Cheesy Chicken and Broccoli Casserole

    Ingredients

    • 4 cups cooked chicken, shredded
    • 4 cups broccoli florets
    • 2 cups shredded cheddar cheese, divided
    • 1 cup heavy cream
    • 1½ teaspoons garlic powder
    • 1 teaspoon onion powder
    • Âľ teaspoon paprika
    • ½ teaspoon dried thyme
    • ½ teaspoon black pepper
    • ½ teaspoon salt
    • ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
    • ½ teaspoon ground mustard

    Instructions

    1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly grease a baking dish.
    2. Steam the broccoli until just tender. Drain well so the casserole doesn’t become watery.
    3. In a large bowl, toss the cooked chicken with the garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, thyme, black pepper, salt, red pepper flakes, and ground mustard.
    4. Spread half the chicken in the baking dish. Add half the broccoli and ½ cup of the cheddar. Repeat with the remaining chicken, broccoli, and another ½ cup of cheddar.
    5. Pour the heavy cream evenly over the casserole. Sprinkle the remaining 1 cup of cheddar on top.
    6. Bake for about 30 minutes, until the casserole is hot and bubbling and the cheese is golden in spots. Let it rest for a few minutes before serving.

    Some meals belong to a season. For me, this is one of them: a hoodie on my shoulders, the oven warming the kitchen, and something good waiting in a baking dish.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • Nobody Tells You When You’ve Made It Through

    Nobody Tells You When You’ve Made It Through

    I used to think I would know when I had made it through something.

    I imagined a clear moment. A door closing behind me. A morning when I woke up, and it was gone.

    That rarely happened.

    Most of the time, what hurt didn’t disappear. It became a little less sharp. I still thought about it while cooking dinner, but it no longer followed me to bed. I still had difficult mornings, but somewhere along the way, I began having ordinary ones too.

    I didn’t notice the first time I made a meal because I was hungry, instead of because I knew I should eat. I didn’t mark the day I laughed without feeling guilty afterward. Those moments were too small to announce themselves. They were easy to mistake for nothing.

    When you are living through a hard season, you learn its details. You know which thoughts arrive when the house gets quiet. You know what it takes to answer a simple question like “How are you?” You know how much effort can hide inside getting dressed and stepping outside.

    Then, slowly, some of that effort goes elsewhere.

    You wash the dishes. You call someone back. You notice the weather. You make plans for next week and realize, only later, that you expected to be there to keep them.

    This does not mean what happened was smaller than you thought. I am careful with that. Distance can soften a memory, but it cannot tell the whole truth about what it cost to live through it. If it was hard, it was hard. The fact that I can carry it now does not mean it was light.

    Still, there are days when I look back and think, Maybe I could handle more than I knew.

    I do not always like that thought. Sometimes it makes me wonder why I had to learn it this way. But I can sit with both feelings. I can wish things had been easier and be grateful that I kept going.

    These days, I try to become a better person in small ways. I try to listen long enough to hear what someone is really saying. I try to apologize without explaining away the hurt. I try to make something good to eat and share it when I can. Some days, doing better means resting before I grow bitter with exhaustion.

    None of this makes me a finished person. It gives me a way to live today.

    Perhaps that is how I make it through. A choice here. A gentler word there. A little more patience for someone else, and sometimes for myself. Over time, those choices have changed the shape of my days.

    I still cannot always tell when I have made it through. Maybe I am waiting for a sign that doesn’t come.

    But every so often, I find myself in the kitchen, tending to something on the stove. The day has had its trouble. I have had mine. And for a few minutes, I am simply there, thinking about supper. I remember when even that small peace felt far away.

    I turn down the heat. I set out a plate.

    Tomorrow may ask more of me. Tonight, I have made it this far.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • I Came for the Fair Food. I’m Glad I Went Anyway.

    I Came for the Fair Food. I’m Glad I Went Anyway.

    Today I went to the New Mexico State Fair.

    I have written before about how much effort it can take to just go outside. Crowds add another layer. They gather somewhere, and I consider going somewhere else.

    Lately, I have been trying to renegotiate that arrangement.

    There are things I want to see, places I want to go, and afternoons I would like to have without first calculating how many other people might be having them. I am not expecting to become someone who enjoys standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers. I would just like a little more say in where I spend my day.

    So I went early.

    Almost at opening, with rain coming down and most children still in school. I had purchased a five-dollar flash-sale ticket that morning. One day only. Use it today.

    Apparently, even my reluctance has a price.

    Five dollars got the conversation started.

    The accessible parking was free and fairly close to the entrance, which I appreciated. When walking requires some thought, the distance between your car and where you are going becomes part of the outing before it begins. Having that part be manageable made it easier to enjoy what came next.

    I entered without the usual wall of people.

    There was room to walk. Room to stop and look without feeling that I was obstructing someone else’s afternoon. The rain had made the day less attractive to some people and a little more possible for me.

    I was grateful for that.

    The rides looked good. The people on them appeared to be having a wonderful time, which is exactly where I prefer my amusement-park excitement: happening to other people.

    I watched from the ground.

    There were T-shirt vendors everywhere. Plenty to look at. Bright signs announcing things that could be fried, things that could be put on a stick, and things someone had apparently decided needed both.

    But I had come for one thing.

    Fair Food.

    Colorful food booths lining a walkway at the New Mexico State Fair.

    There is a particular optimism involved in arriving at a fair hungry. You imagine that somewhere between the entrance and the Ferris wheel, someone is preparing something that will justify the price, the walk, and whatever conversation you later have with yourself about your choices.

    I looked at the photographs on the booths. I looked at the food people were carrying. I walked and waited for something to call my name.

    Nothing did.

    That surprised me.

    At my age, I have been to quite a few fairs. I have eaten quite a bit of fair Food. Perhaps some of what I once experienced as excitement was simply the pleasure of encountering something for the first time.

    You cannot ask every afternoon to give you that again.

    Still, I was willing to let lunch try.

    I found a stand selling Alligator on a stick and deep-fried boudin balls. That seemed promising. Two foods I associate with Louisiana, a place whose cooking has never suggested to me that seasoning should be approached with fear.

    I ordered both, found somewhere to sit, and ate.

    Deep-fried boudin balls topped with ranch in a paper tray.
    Alligator on a stick topped with Ranch and served in foil.

    Or, more accurately, I began looking for the flavor.

    Both tasted unseasoned to me. There was the Food itself, the fried coating, the expectation of something that should have arrived with it.

    I kept waiting.

    Louisiana would be disappointed.

    I wondered whether anyone cooking those dishes had ever lived there. That was my disappointed appetite talking; I had no way of knowing. All I could say was that the Louisiana I expected to taste hadn’t made it into my order.

    Food carries a place into rooms that place will never see. Someone takes a bite and forms an impression. Of a kitchen. Of a region. Sometimes of people they have never met.

    That is a considerable responsibility for a paper tray.

    I don’t expect a fair booth to reproduce somebody’s grandmother’s kitchen. I know there is work behind that counter, and I know a disappointing meal does not tell me everything about the person who prepared it.

    But I had hoped for more than the shape of the thing.

    I wanted the seasoning.

    I ate both dishes anyway.

    Then I stood up and wondered how two small portions had made me feel as though I had gained twenty pounds.

    There should have been more pleasure involved in feeling that full.

    I kept walking.

    After a while, that familiar feeling began settling over the afternoon.

    Been here. Seen this. Done that.

    It is an easy conclusion to reach as you get older. Sometimes it is accurate. Sometimes you really have seen enough T-shirts and fried Food for one day.

    But I wonder how often familiarity makes us stop looking before we are finished seeing.

    I had arrived with an idea of what would make the trip worthwhile. The Food was supposed to be the reward for getting myself out of the house and through the entrance. When it disappointed me, I was beginning to let it speak for the whole Fair.

    Then I saw the African American Pavilion Art Gallery.

    I had never been inside.

    In the middle of all that feeling that I had already done everything, there was a place I had yet to explore.

    I did not go inside today. I plan to visit soon and give it time, attention, and an essay of its own here on Salt, Ink & Soul.

    Exterior sign for the Alice K. Hoppes African-American Pavilion Art Gallery.

    But noticing it interrupted my mood. I had been walking around thinking about how familiar everything felt, and here was something I still knew so little about.

    I could leave the rides to the people enjoying them. I could decide the boudin balls had let me down. Still, there was a reason to come back.

    And nearby, something else caught my attention.

    A prominent marijuana dispensary had set up a tent.

    At the New Mexico State Fair.

    I smiled.

    I do not partake. I had no plans to start. But there was something quietly amusing about seeing that business with a booth among the other businesses, participating in the ordinary machinery of a fair.

    I have lived long enough for that sight to surprise me.

    No purchase was necessary. I could simply stand there and notice how much the scenery had changed.

    A few minutes earlier, I had been thinking I had seen it all.

    Apparently, I had not.

    Ferris wheel rising above trees near the New Mexico State Fair entrance.

    I would have preferred better Food. Let the record show that I have not become so philosophical that seasoning no longer matters.

    But I was glad I went.

    I had found a way to be somewhere that could make me uncomfortable. I had given myself an early start, a quieter entrance, and permission to enjoy the day at my own pace.

    For once, the crowd had not made the decision.

    I had.

    And somewhere between a disappointing lunch and making a plan to return, I stopped deciding what the afternoon should be.

    I looked around.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    Please like, comment, and share

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • Trying to Be Useful

    Trying to Be Useful

    Hello all,

    I have always been what some people call book smart.

    I know things.

    Some useful.

    Some not.

    Some filed away in the crowded rooms of my mind for reasons even I do not fully understand.

    I can remember fragments of history.

    A line from a song.

    The meaning behind a movement.

    The reason something happened long before I was born, and why it still has its hand around the present.

    For much of my life, knowledge has been a tool.

    It gave shape to things that hurt.

    It gave language to silence.

    It gave me something to hold when the world felt too large and too indifferent.

    But lately, I have been reminded of something humbling.

    There are moments when knowledge is not enough.

    I have another friend battling a terrible illness, and I find myself standing in that helpless place where the mind keeps reaching for answers and comes back with empty hands.

    I know the power of prayer.

    I believe in prayer.

    I believe in the quiet force of it.

    I believe there are rooms we cannot enter, battles we cannot fight directly, pain we cannot remove, and still our prayers can travel where our hands cannot.

    But I would be lying if I said prayer has quieted all of me.

    Because there is another part of me that wants to do more.

    That part of me wants a list.

    A plan.

    A solution.

    A way to fix what is breaking.

    A way to step into the storm and make myself useful.

    And that is where the ache begins.

    I am used to figuring things out. I am used to turning problems over, studying the corners, looking for the door everyone else missed. I am used to believing that if I sit with something long enough, I can find a path.

    But illness does not always offer a path.

    Sometimes illness is a locked room.

    Sometimes love stands outside of it with no key.

    That is a hard thing for a person like me to admit.

    Because when someone you care about is suffering, being still can feel like failure. Waiting can feel like abandonment. Saying “I am praying for you” can feel small, even when it is not.

    And maybe that is the difficulty.

    Not that prayer is weak.

    But that love is restless.

    Love wants hands.

    Love wants legs.

    Love wants to carry groceries, pay bills, sit in hospital rooms, answer phones, make soup, raise money, hold silence, and somehow bargain with the universe for more time.

    Love does not like standing helpless.

    And yet, so much of being human is learning how to stand in places where we cannot control the outcome.

    That may be one of the hardest lessons of adulthood. Not responsibility. Not discipline. Not survival. But the knowledge that you can love someone deeply and still not be able to save them from what they are facing.

    There is a particular kind of pain in that.

    It strips away the illusion that intelligence is protection. It reminds you that all the books, all the facts, all the carefully stored knowledge in the world cannot always tell you what to do when someone you love is hurting.

    And maybe that is why I have felt useless lately.

    Not because I am useless.

    But because the tools I usually trust do not seem large enough for the moment.

    Still, I am trying to remember that usefulness does not always look like rescue.

    Sometimes usefulness is presence.

    Sometimes it is a phone call.

    A message.

    A prayer whispered when no one is watching.

    A meal was dropped off without needing credit.

    A donation.

    A shared link.

    A ride.

    A quiet check-in that does not demand a response.

    A willingness to keep showing up after the first wave of concern has passed.

    Sometimes, usefulness is not solving the pain.

    Sometimes it refuses to let someone feel alone inside it.

    I am thinking about that now.

    I am praying.

    I am listening.

    I am looking for what can be done.

    Maybe that is where I begin.

    Not with the grand gesture.

    Not with the perfect answer.

    Not with the fantasy that I can fix what illness has broken.

    But with what I have.

    My prayers.

    My words.

    My books.

    My small platform.

    My willingness to ask others to care with me.

    Maybe that is nothing.

    Maybe, in a world that often teaches us to look away from suffering because it makes us uncomfortable, choosing to stay near is already an act of love.

    I do not yet know exactly what to do.

    That is the honest truth.

    But I know I do not want to do nothing.

    So I will keep praying.

    I will keep thinking.

    I will keep looking for the things my hands can do.

    And maybe that is what care becomes when we are out of answers.

    A prayer first.

    Then a step.

    Then another.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    If this found you at the right time,

    Feel free to like, comment, or share it with someone who might need it too.

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • The Weight of Staying

    The Weight of Staying

    Kofi lived in the low, breathing cradle of a Southern town where the sun didn’t just rise—it pressed.

    It leaned into the red dirt and the wooden porches, into the backs of people who worked outside because that’s what their lives required.

    The town wasn’t large. It didn’t need to be.

    Every face carried history.

    Every house leaned a little with age, like it had listened to too many stories and decided to rest into them.

    The land itself felt watched over, not owned—held carefully, as something fragile and sacred is.

    Kofi spent his days moving through open fields and fence lines, helping his family tend what little they had: a few animals, a garden, the kind of labor that teaches a boy where his strength ends and his patience must begin.

    He learned the rhythm of the place—the slow insistence of heat, the way time stretched instead of rushed.

    His father was a quiet man.

    Not the kind who filled rooms with speeches, but the kind whose words stayed with you because they were never wasted.

    “To live right,” his father told him once, leaning against a fence post worn smooth by generations of hands, “is to stand straight even when nobody’s watching.

    Especially then.”

    One afternoon, a stranger came into town.

    He arrived in a clean truck that looked too new for the road it traveled, carrying papers instead of tools. He spoke of opportunity. Of development. Of progress.

    He pointed at maps and lines drawn where lives already existed.

    He talked about money the way some people talk about salvation.

    The town gathered.

    Some listened closely.

    Some crossed their arms.

    Everyone felt the weight of the moment, even if they didn’t yet know how to name it.

    The land he wanted wasn’t empty. It was layered—with memories, with loss, with people who had already been moved once before in stories their grandparents told quietly.

    Kofi stood at the edge of the crowd, absorbing more than anyone realized.

    The stranger noticed him.

    Later, away from the others, the man crouched down and handed Kofi something small and shining.

    A token.

    A promise wrapped in metal.

    “Just tell them it’s good,” the man said softly. “They’ll listen to you.”

    Kofi felt the pull of it—the way temptation doesn’t shout but suggests.

    The way it pretends to be harmless.

    He remembered his father’s voice.

    Calm.

    Certain.

    Unbending.

    When the moment came, Kofi stepped forward.

    His hands trembled, but his feet held.

    “This land,” he said, his voice carrying farther than he expected, “isn’t just dirt. It’s where our people learned how to stay. It’s where they buried what they lost and planted what they hoped for.

    You can’t sell something that’s still holding us up.”

    The town grew quiet.

    Not shocked.

    Not dramatic.

    Just still—like something important had been named out loud.

    The stranger gathered his papers.

    He left the same way he came, promises evaporating in the heat.

    Kofi didn’t feel proud the way stories sometimes pretend you should.

    He felt steady.

    Anchored.

    As if he had chosen to belong rather than to escape.

    That evening, his father sat beside him without speaking for a long while.

    Then he nodded once.

    Integrity, Kofi learned, wasn’t loud.

    It didn’t glitter.

    It didn’t offer shortcuts.

    It was the decision to stay rooted when leaving looked easier.

    To speak truth even when silence offered comfort.

    And as Kofi grew, the town grew with him—not richer, not shinier—but intact.

    Still standing.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • What Stayed With Me This Month

    What Stayed With Me This Month

    January didn’t arrive with fireworks for me.

    It didn’t kick open the door and demand a reinvention.

    It sat down quietly and waited to see what I would do.

    Every year, January carries a certain pressure—the sense that you’re supposed to emerge from the holidays renewed, corrected, aimed in a better direction. As if surviving December isn’t an accomplishment in itself. As if rest only counts if it’s followed immediately by improvement.

    But this month didn’t ask that of me.

    And because it didn’t ask, I noticed more.

    What stayed with me wasn’t a resolution.

    It wasn’t a plan.

    It wasn’t the sudden clarity people like to perform this time of year.

    What stayed with me were smaller things.

    A kind of tired that didn’t feel like failure.

    The difference between being exhausted and being empty.

    The relief of realizing that not every ache is a problem to solve—some are just signals asking for care.

    What stayed with me was food that did its job without announcing itself.

    Meals that didn’t impress anyone but left me steady.

    Soup that didn’t look fancy.

    Chicken and cabbage in a single pan.

    Breakfast made from what was already there.

    There’s a particular kind of trust that builds when you stop chasing novelty and start paying attention to what actually holds you together. January reminded me that nourishment doesn’t need a spotlight. It needs consistency.

    What stayed with me were the stories meant for children that told the truth anyway.

    Felix learning that rest comes before effort.

    That nourishment matters more than appearance.

    That hard work has meaning when it serves something larger than ego.

    That staying—being present—is sometimes the bravest choice.

    Writing those stories reminded me that lessons don’t stop being true just because we age out of picture books. We just pretend we don’t need them anymore.

    What stayed with me was the question of work—the kind that doesn’t announce itself.

    The work of restraint.

    The work of not becoming what you oppose.

    The work of continuing without applause.

    Honoring Dr. King’s birthday this month brought that into sharper focus. Not the polished version of his legacy, but the disciplined one. The version that understood anger but refused to let it drive. The version that knew the dream was unfinished and chose responsibility anyway.

    That stayed with me.

    And maybe most of all, what stayed with me was permission.

    Permission to arrive slowly.

    Permission to trust what feeds me.

    Permission to stop fixing things that aren’t broken just because the calendar flipped.

    January didn’t make me new.

    It reminded me of what’s already working.

    As the month closes, I’m not carrying forward any goals. I’m carrying forward awareness. Attention. A quieter sense of direction.

    Not everything needs to be upgraded.

    Not everything needs to be optimized.

    Some things just need to be noticed—and kept.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    Please like, comment, and share

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times