Living – Page 10 – sethlewis.ie

A Personal Update

It’s been almost a year since I shared a personal update on the blog, and life has been moving along. It’s never boring!

Our children recently turned seventeen, fifteen, and twelve, and Jessica and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary this year as well. I feel like our family has moved decisively into a new stage of life—a middle stage, I suppose—and I have to say that I honestly love it. I have loved the other stages, too, each in their own way, each with their own challenges and joys. I think the stage we’re in now is my favourite so far, though. It has its own unique challenges, but I do love seeing our children grow and mature, and being able to relate to them on a grown-up level. I also love the stability and depth of a romance with two decades of shared life experience under it. We still disagree and argue, of course, but we’re a little better at it, I think, and quicker to forgive.

Outrunning The Rain

Living in Ireland, I’ve gotten used to the rain taking its own sweet time. It softly falls for days or weeks on end, completely oblivious to how egregiously it has overstayed its welcome. In Alabama, where I grew up, things are different. The rain there waits and builds up and waits some more and then suddenly bursts out of the clouds in a mad rush to pelt the ground all at once with all the drama and thunder and sky-splitting electricity it can muster (and sometimes tornadoes).

Pruning (a poem)

Everything grows fast in the garden this time of year. The rose stems stretch themselves upward, then droop with the weight of their own blooms. The grape vine climbs the arbour, blindly grasping anything it can hold on to. The weeds come back, and come back again, from somewhere, everywhere, while the vines on the back wall grow in every direction at once. All of this growth is a beautiful, abundant gift, yet I know that if I leave it untended for too long, my garden will eventually become something else entirely. The strawberries will send runners into the grass, the grass will colonise the herb bed, the weeds will colonise the grass, and the roses will block the path with thorns. The longer I leave it alone, the harder I’ll have to work to reclaim it. And here, in the wild tendencies of my garden, I see a reflection of myself. That’s what this poem is about:

All Of It, All At Once

There was still an hour before I had to be at my first meeting for the day. The morning was beautiful, promising to be one of the nicest days of the year. I had to go outside. I didn’t know the area, but my phone told me there was a park in a nearby town I’d never been to. A few minutes later, I pulled in next to the jogger and dog-walker sedans—the family cars hadn’t arrived yet. The park was extensive. It was build around a lake, with ancient trees and well-maintained lawns, meandering paths, benches, swans, and the dawn chorus echoing in stereo surround-sound all around me.

One Day Leads To Another

I have learned over the years to temper my expectations about what can actually be accomplished in a single day. I’m not proud of this—I would be far happier if I could tell you that after consistently exceeding my own expectations of productivity I’ve had to adjust them in the other direction. The days are quick, though, and before I know it the morning is almost over and then after lunch the hours fly and it’s evening and I should really get to bed or I’ll be cross in the morning with my sleep-stealing self. I would love to do great things and see great progress today, but it’s hard to fit all those big, shiny things into one little square on the calendar.

The Secret Of Contentment

When I see the ruins of old cottages around us in Ireland, I’m always struck by how small they are, and by how dramatically our everyday living has changed. Even the best of the ancient castles are not nearly as comfortable as a standard modern home or apartment. They didn’t have flushing toilets. They didn’t have radiators or refrigerators or wifi. They didn’t have washing machines or cars or exotic foods from around the world available year round in local shops. They couldn’t order whatever they wanted from anywhere and have it shipped to their door in days without ever needing to leave the climate-controlled comfort of their own couch. If our ancestors could see us now, they would probably expect us to be the happiest, most care-free and content people to ever live. And they would be wrong. Our modern society is anything but content. We are plagued by anxiety, depression, relational breakdown, hopelessness, and despair. We promote mental health now more than ever, but the problems persist, and grow. Clearly, contentment is not just the result of having more wealth, more opportunities, more education, or better conditions. If it were, we should be one of the most content societies to ever live on planet earth. And yet somehow, contentment has eluded us. Have we been looking for it in the wrong places?

A Curious Mind

Have you ever wondered about your ability to wonder about things? It’s a wonderful gift, when you think about it. It’s the ability that has unlocked most of our discoveries, because the most fertile ground for discovery is always a curious mind. I’m sure you can learn things without being curious—some lessons will slap you in the face whether you ask them to or not—but there’s no question you’ll learn a lot more if you start with questions. Isn’t our entire scientific method just a systematic series of questions? Without curiosity, the whole world fades into nothing more than a boring necessity, the people around us flatten down into a procession of stereotypes, and God himself starts to look like some kind of tired trope or taskmaster. Without curiosity, life goes stale. Tasteless.

The Good In Regret

What would it be like to be able to look back at your whole life and say with confidence, “no regrets”? It sounds amazing, but I can’t say I know how it feels. When I look back, there are plenty of moments that are permanently stuck as perfect, vivid memories—not because I’m proud of them, but because of how much they make me cringe. Out of all the thousands of things I’ve forgotten, I’d love to be able to forget the mean and stupid things I’ve said and the foolish choices I’ve made and the embarrassing immaturity I’ve displayed, but those memories are firmly fixed in place. “No regrets”? I have to be honest, that’s not me. I have regrets.

Slow Happiness

As I look out the window at the sunshine on my garden, I remember the many days that I saw the same view differently—when the glass was streaked with rain, when the ground was hard with frost, and the plants that are budding and growing so beautifully today were nothing but tiny seeds or bare sticks. It all changed so slowly, but it changed so much. And as good as it looks today, I know that there are even better things ahead—the apple blossoms will ripen into apples, the rose stems will bloom with their own unique colours and fill the air with their intoxicating aromas, there will be blueberries and strawberries and maybe this year we’ll finally get some grapes from the grape vine, now that it’s more established. It takes time, establishing. Our blueberry bushes give us a lot more now than they used to, and the apple tree is a little bigger every year. Life is like that, too, isn’t it?

To Welcome A Stain (a poem)

I had more than an hour to wait for my flight, so I was happy when I found a corner with armchairs in Manchester airport. The seats were comfortable, but after I sat down I noticed that they were at least as tired as I was. The colour was faded, the edges were dirty, and there was a stain on the armrest.

How long have those chairs been there, in that corner? How many strangers have they welcomed and provided comfort for? Over time, it has made them tired and stained, and I understand that. People can be hard to hold up. Messy. But the chairs are still there, still welcoming new travellers anyway. My hour in one of them reminded me that it’s better to wear out by accepting stains than collecting dust. That’s what this poem is about: