Tag: mindfulness

  • Why Do We Stop Noticing?

    Why Do We Stop Noticing?

    There is something I’ve been guilty of lately.

    Not noticing.

    If it were left up to me, I could happily spend most of my days at home. I’d write, cook, read, and if I needed my daily dose of sunshine, I’d probably just stand in the doorway for a few minutes and call it enough.

    I know that’s part of who I am.

    So every day I make myself go outside.

    I go for a walk to get my steps in. To spend a little time in the sunshine. To breathe fresh air. It’s become part of my routine, and I genuinely enjoy it.

    At least, I thought I did.

    Before I leave the house, I do what I’ve done almost every day for months.

    I start my Apple Watch.

    I put in my earbuds.

    I choose something to listen to.

    Then I start walking.

    There’s nothing wrong with any of those things.

    But recently I realized something.

    Almost all of my attention was somewhere other than where I was.

    I was watching my pace.

    Checking my distance.

    Listening to music.

    Thinking about how many steps I had left before I reached my goal.

    My body had switched to autopilot.

    I was aware of people around me, but mostly as objects to walk around.

    I wasn’t really seeing my neighborhood.

    I was simply moving through it.

    One morning I caught myself looking down at my watch again.

    I looked up.

    The mountains were there.

    They had been there every morning.

    The sky was a deeper blue than I remembered.

    A breeze moved through the trees.

    Somewhere nearby, birds were carrying on a conversation I had apparently been missing for weeks.

    None of those things had suddenly appeared.

    I had.

    Or maybe that’s not quite true.

    My body had been showing up.

    My attention hadn’t.

    That made me wonder how often I was doing the same thing in the rest of my life.

    How many meals had I eaten while thinking about what came next instead of tasting what was already on my plate?

    How many conversations had I rushed through because my mind was already working on tomorrow?

    How many mornings had I traded for another item on my to-do list?

    I have spent so much of my life trying to be more efficient.

    Looking for the best way to do something.

    The quickest way.

    The smartest way.

    Anything to save a few minutes.

    And to be fair, that mindset has helped me in a lot of ways.

    My walks have improved my health.

    My Apple Watch has encouraged me to keep moving.

    The watch wasn’t the problem.

    Somewhere along the way, I realized I had become more interested in finishing my walk than experiencing it.

    I wasn’t only trying to reach a step goal.

    I was trying to live a healthier life.

    Part of living a healthier life is noticing the world you’re walking through.

    The sunshine.

    The mountains.

    The changing seasons.

    The maintenance man who always waves.

    The ordinary things that quietly become the memories we miss one day.

    Maybe beauty hasn’t become rare.

    Maybe we’ve simply become busy.

    Busy enough to walk through beautiful places without ever really seeing them.

    Tomorrow I’ll probably still wear my Apple Watch.

    I’ll probably still listen to music.

    I’ll probably still count my steps.

    But I think I’ll leave one earbud out for a little while.

    Because it would be a shame to spend my whole life moving through beautiful places…

    …without ever really noticing them.

    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

  • The Family Table Is Still Waiting

    The Family Table Is Still Waiting

    There is a particular kind of loneliness that doesn’t arrive when you’re by yourself.

    It arrives when the room is full.

    The plates are set. Glasses gather little rings of water on the table. Someone reaches for the salt without asking. Someone else laughs at a story you’ve all heard before, yet somehow it still earns another smile.

    And still…

    Something feels absent.

    Not because the chairs are empty.

    Because our attention is.

    I’ve watched it happen more times than I care to admit. Friends. Family. Holidays. Birthdays. A table filled with people I genuinely wanted to see.

    Then the food arrives.

    Almost instinctively, hands reach for phones before forks. Plates are turned toward the light. Someone asks everyone to wait while they find the right angle. Steam rises, curls into the air, and quietly disappears while filters are chosen and captions are written.

    “I’ll be just a second.”

    “Don’t eat yet.”

    “I haven’t posted it.”

    It’s become so ordinary that we rarely question it anymore.

    The meal is here.

    The people are here.

    Yet we’re busy proving it to everyone who isn’t.

    I’m not writing this as a complaint about technology. Some of my favorite conversations have happened because of it. I’ve stayed close to people who live hundreds of miles away. I’ve shared recipes with strangers who now feel like neighbors. This very blog exists because of a screen.

    Technology isn’t the enemy.

    Forgetfulness is.

    Somewhere along the way, we began forgetting what the table was for.

    Growing up, our table wasn’t remarkable. It wasn’t made from expensive wood, and nobody would’ve mistaken our dinners for something from a magazine.

    But that table had a way of telling the truth.

    You could tell who’d had a hard day before anyone said a word. You noticed who was quieter than usual. If someone pushed food around their plate instead of eating, someone would eventually ask, “You alright?”

    Not because they had studied body language.

    Because they were paying attention.

    That’s what the table did.

    It slowed us down just enough to notice one another.

    It was never really about the food.

    The fried chicken, the greens, the spaghetti, the macaroni—they were invitations. Reasons to gather. The meal gave everyone something to do with their hands while their hearts slowly caught up.

    Looking back, I couldn’t tell you exactly what every Sunday dinner tasted like.

    But I remember who sat beside me.

    I remember the laughter that made sweet tea come out somebody’s nose.

    I remember conversations that started over cornbread and somehow became lessons about life.

    I remember discovering that people rarely tell you the most important things right away. They tell you after the plates have been cleared. After dessert. After everyone has settled into the comfort of simply being together.

    Those moments didn’t happen because someone planned them.

    They happened because nobody was trying to be somewhere else.

    Today, we carry with us everywhere.

    A notification from work.

    A headline from across the world.

    A video someone says we have to watch.

    A message that feels urgent until tomorrow reminds us it wasn’t.

    Little by little, our attention leaves the room before we ever do.

    We call it staying connected.

    Sometimes I wonder if we’ve confused being connected with being present.

    They’re not the same thing.

    Presence asks something more of us.

    It asks us to look into someone’s eyes long enough to notice what they aren’t saying.

    To hear the hesitation before the words.

    To recognize that a quiet “I’m fine” can carry the weight of an entire year.

    No photograph captures that.

    No caption can.

    I’ve been thinking lately about a small act of rebellion.

    Nothing dramatic.

    Just a stack of phones in the middle of the table.

    Face down.

    Not because the phones are bad.

    Because the people around the table deserve our undivided attention, if only for the length of a meal.

    That stack becomes its own centerpiece.

    A quiet promise.

    For the next hour, no one outside this room needs more of us than the people inside it.

    Without the glow of our screens, we begin to notice things again.

    The way your father pauses before mentioning an old friend.

    The way your sister laughs a little harder than usual because she’s trying not to cry.

    The way your grandmother reaches for your hand without saying why.

    Those moments don’t trend.

    They don’t go viral.

    Most of them will never be photographed.

    But they are the moments that become our lives.

    The digital world will always ask us for another picture, another opinion, another performance of ourselves.

    The family table asks for something much simpler.

    It asks us to arrive.

    Not polished.

    Not interesting.

    Not curated.

    Just present.

    Maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe it always was.

    The family table is still waiting.

    The chairs are still there.

    The empty seat still knows your name.

    All it has ever wanted is the one thing no screen can offer.

    You.

    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

  • Becoming Careful About What Enters the Soul

    Becoming Careful About What Enters the Soul

    Years ago, for reasons I could not fully explain, I found myself moving in the opposite direction of everyone around me.

    People were talking about The Sopranos. They loved it.

    I tried.

    More than once.

    I could appreciate the acting. I could see the craftsmanship. I understood why people were drawn to it.

    But I never enjoyed it.

    Then came The Wire.

    Again, I tried.

    Everyone said it was brilliant. Everyone said it was important. Everyone said I simply needed to give it another chance.

    I did.

    Several times.

    Yet something in me remained unmoved.

    Then came Breaking Bad.

    The same story.

    The same recommendations.

    The same praise.

    And the same feeling that this was not for me.

    At the time, I thought perhaps I was missing something.

    Maybe I was.

    But as the years passed, I began to realize I was not rejecting great storytelling.

    I was becoming sensitive to what those stories required me to sit with,

    so many of them invited me to spend hours living inside darkness.

    Crime, violence, manipulation, corruption, and Greed.

    The slow collapse of the human spirit.

    The older I became, the less interested I was in making those places my home, even temporarily.

    What surprised me most was that the change did not stop there.

    Movies I once enjoyed began losing their appeal.

    Military films.

    Action movies.

    Stories built around guns, revenge, and destruction.

    Eventually I found myself turning away from anything that seemed determined to convince me that darkness was depth.

    Then I began noticing something else.

    Many stories no longer seemed interested in heroes.

    Even stories that claimed to be about heroes often spent most of their time glorifying villains.

    The villain was smarter.

    The villain was more interesting.

    The villain got the best lines.

    The villain became the person audiences secretly admired.

    Goodness became boring.

    Decency became weakness.

    Kindness became naïveté.

    And somewhere along the way, I realized I was growing tired.

    Not physically.

    Spiritually.

    I began asking myself a simple question.

    What am I feeding my mind?

    We understand this concept when it comes to food.

    No one is surprised when a person feels different after changing their diet.

    Yet we often act as though the soul can consume endless negativity without consequence.

    Hour after hour.

    Day after day.

    Year after year.

    Violence.

    Conflict.

    Anger.

    Fear.

    Contempt.

    Cynicism.

    Then we wonder why peace feels so difficult to find.

    So I started making changes.

    Not dramatic changes.

    Just intentional ones.

    I became more selective about what I watched.

    More selective about what I listened to.

    More selective about the conversations I participated in.

    I began paying attention to the words I spoke.

    I tried to spend less time discussing people and more time understanding them.

    Less time dwelling on problems and more time looking for solutions.

    Less time feeding outrage and more time feeding gratitude.

    Something changed.

    Not overnight.

    But slowly.

    Quietly.

    The way sunrise arrives.

    You do not notice it all at once.

    Then suddenly the darkness is no longer where it was.

    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