sethlewis.ie

The Treasure Chest at the Train Station

One morning as my wife and I were waiting for a train at our local station, I cast my eyes over the familiar utilitarian scene with its phone-holding inhabitants and I noticed something I had never paid attention to before. On the far side of the tracks there was an unassuming yellow-plastic treasure chest. I could see a padlock on it, but the latch was in front of the lock, ready to open. On the front it had large, black letters openly declared its contents: “Grit Salt”. I realise that this may not sound like treasure to you, or interesting or surprising or exceptional at all—and that’s just the point.

Feeding (a poem)

little love-heart likes
like drops of red rain
rain upon my image
imagine the approval—
approval!
       in my veins
in vain I try to keep it
it’s gone—the world moves on
on to ever newer stories
stories so sensational
sense is pushed aside
side yourself with someone
one side or the other—
other news is coming up
upward trending—multiplying
lying?
       maybe, I can’t tell
tell you what I saw just now
now is moving far too fast
faster still, the flow won’t stop
stop!
       or will it take us under?
understand that we will never
never find our fill
filling up on what this feed
feeds us

The Trouble Underneath

The problems in our world are easy to find. A quick glance at the headlines will prove that point at any time, any day. The more challenging search is for solutions that actually work, although there are always plenty of proposals. Every politician has a proven plan. Every organisation has a confident vision. Every government and charitable society invests its energy and resources into problem-solving—and yet, for all that, the problems persist, unsolved.

The Best Way To Resist Temptation

Temptation is an enemy that greets you like a close friend. It always wears a warm smile, always knows what to say, and always laughs with that mischievous “won’t this be fun?” twinkle in the eye—until you give in. After that, the spark of excitement begins to fade, chilled by the steadily encroaching cold of condemnation until it freezes hard into an icy, straightforward demand: Feed me. And again, this time shouting,

FEED ME.

NOW!

The Ingredients of a Petal (a poem)

What is a petal,
and how would you make it?
What alchemic mixes
would help you create it?

The basic ingredients
everyone knows—some
soil and sunshine and
air—then it grows

But how?

The microscope cannot define
the grand and mysterious
secret of life

We see it
observe it
and live it ourselves
we plant it
and grow it
and store it on shelves

But where did it come from
and why does it bloom
with a spring resurrection
on winter’s old tomb?

A petal’s a beauty you
cannot invent—
a wonder, an omen,
an Artist’s intent

Becoming an Interesting Person

The ad popped up and promised to help me become an interesting person at parties. Should I be offended at what my algorithm is implying?

It told me the best way for me to stop being boring is to use an app that summarises the main ideas of popular books. With a tool like this, I could get all the key talking points quickly and efficiently, and always sound thoughtful and informed. Would people be impressed? Perhaps. But I’m not going to buy the app. I think the ad made at least three major assumptions about becoming an interesting person that are just plain wrong (besides the assumption that I’m obviously boring at parties, which I hope is also false).

Searching for a Sign

“God, please give me a sign”, I said quietly, as I stepped outside.

I was in the middle of a confusing situation. I didn’t know what to do, or how. I couldn’t see how anything could work out well. I wanted to know that God was near, and involved. I wanted to see a display of his care, and power. I’m not sure what kind of sign I was looking for, exactly—a sudden bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky? A rainbow ending at my house? A rare bird landing on my shoulder?

Crumbs (a poem)

If you can take one seed
and grow a mighty tree
Lord, will the world see you,
if I am growing, too?

If you can use five loaves
to feed five thousand souls
I wonder what you’ll do
with the crumbs I offer you?

The Genius of Dirt

It’s everywhere. It sticks to your hands in the garden, and clings tightly to your shoes until the moment you step inside, where it promptly falls onto the just-cleaned floor. It stains the knees and elbows of children’s clothes, collects on the sides of cars, and turns into a sloppy mess in the rain. Dirt.

Does Heaven Move More Slowly?

The area we live in is booming. The fields are growing houses, and there are rivers of tail lights flooding the little roads that used to flow freely. As I sat in the car, waiting again, I thought about how the people who lived here in generations past used to get around. It was walking, mostly, at the pace of people or animals, and even with the traffic my car is faster than that. On the other hand, I know that walking is healthier, and also when I walk I often bump into people I know and we might have a friendly chat—which isn’t possible when we only glimpse each other through passing windscreens. All of this got me thinking about a question I’d never considered before: what kind of transportation will we use in Heaven?