memories – sethlewis.ie

Small (a poem)

A sunbeam
A bird
A smile
A word
A song
So revealing
So filled up
With feeling
A wrinkle
A fear
A sweat bead
A tear
A dance in the kitchen
A laugh in the hall—
A lifetime so big
Made of moments
So small

An Elegy For Our Fireplace

When my father built a home for our family in the hills of Alabama he put a large wood stove in the very centre. A good fire in that stove could heat the entire house, upstairs and down, for most of the night. I grew up splitting logs and carrying them in, building fires and learning to finesse small sparks into roaring warmth. They say firewood warms you twice, and it’s true—first when you cut it, and again when you burn it. The sound of our fire sucking air through the stove vents like breath, the crackling wood, the reassuring smoke from the chimney as I headed in from the winter cold—all are essential pieces of my childhood, baked into my soul by the power of the flames.

A Wide Place

As the youngest of four children, I was always the last to experience the privileges that came with growing up. I remember one year waiting impatiently for my birthday—the day I would finally be allowed to have my very own pocketknife. I wanted it right away. I wanted to carve sticks and notch arrows like my older brother could. But my parents were very strict: I had to be old enough, and I also had to be trained through Scouts in how to use knives properly and safely. I knew that my pocketknife privileges would be revoked the first time I failed to abide by the safety rules I learned. I didn’t fully understand why my parents were so serious about these regulations until my neighbour cut his thumb with a pocketknife badly enough to need stitches. After that, I saw the wisdom of my parent’s rules more clearly. Their strictness was protecting me and freeing me to enjoy the benefits of my pocketknife without being hurt by it. I saw that their commands were actually an expression of their love for me.

A Fan

There is a simple machine in our house that gives me more happiness than is really logical or reasonable. Most of the year, it lives in the attic, waiting for the summer when the house warms up and we open the windows to let the breeze in (this is the only air conditioning system we need in Ireland). To help encourage that summer breeze inside, we take down the fan from storage and turn it on. I enjoy turning on the fan more than I can sensibly explain to you. I guess you could say I’m a fan of it. The sound of the motor and spinning blades resonates with something deep inside of me, which is strange, I know, but the breeze dusts off long-past memories of summer days and the places I used to spend them. In that mental swirl there arises an old and comfortable happiness, intangible but very real, and I can’t help but smile.

The Day I Told God No

I remember a day many years ago when I realised with a shudder that in order to obey what I had just read in the Bible, I would have to take a specific action. I knew very well what I had to do, but I also knew very well what it could cost me. There was a good chance that this step of obedience could fundamentally change—or even destroy—a close friendship, and I was terrified of that possibility. I knew what I had to do, but I did not want to do it. I tried to reason with the Lord, to show him that his command was too much to ask of me. He did not relent. So I tried a different approach: I simply said “no.” There on the floor of my bedroom, I told the Creator of everything that I was happy to follow him in everything except this one thing.

I told God “no.”

The Interests Of Others And The Art Of Conversation

There are many kinds of art in this world, and all of them speak to us in different ways. One of the most powerful art forms I know of is usually not recognised as a form of art at all, but it should be: it is the art of conversation. Complex communication between two conscious humans would be considered a miracle if it didn’t happen constantly. The ability to exchange thoughts and ideas and feelings with other people—to hear what is happening in the hidden realm of another soul and share what is happening in your own—this is one of the great gifts of humanity. To do it well is the great art of humanity.

The Green

When we moved from America to Ireland fourteen years ago, one of the first things we noticed was the architecture. The buildings in Ireland are quite different from the ones we grew up in, all the way up from the thick concrete (or stone) walls to the slate tiles (or rarely, thatch) on the roofs. The unique climate, resources, history, and culture have all helped to shape these buildings. And they have shaped not only the individual buildings, but also the way the buildings relate to each other and the spaces around them. For example, it makes sense that our village is compact enough to walk everywhere when you consider that it was built hundreds of years before cars were invented. We have cars now, but that’s still a great feature—I love being able to walk easily to any building in town. But one of my favourite features of Irish design is not a building at all. It’s not a structure of any kind, and it doesn’t take a degree in architecture or urban planning to understand it, imagine it, or built it. It’s just a bit of grass, and it’s known as “the green.”

Don’t Miss The Moment For A Picture

“Pictures or it didn’t happen!”

Believe me, it did. Or don’t believe me—it still happened. Every moment doesn’t have to be pictured to be real. Every picture doesn’t have to be shared to be precious. My camera roll is bigger than what I share online, and my life is bigger than my camera roll. And I’m happy to keep it that way. Usually.

Strangers Are Some Of The Nicest People You’ll Ever Meet

During the first covid lockdown, with its strict travel restrictions, our family discovered a local treasure: a little spot known as Brown Island. Our neighbour told us about it. It’s not an easy place to find. When we went the first time I had to ring him because we couldn’t find the entrance hidden away down a country lane through a small gap in the hedge you’d never notice unless someone like my neighbour told you exactly where to look.

Looking Back On Right Now

They say hindsight is 20/20, and if that’s true it’s amazing because I know how blurry the world can be when I don’t have my glasses on. Every morning I wake up and the world around me is blurry, but my memories are clear, and that clarity is a gift that should never be taken for granted. When I roll out of bed and put my glasses on, my eyes begin to see the sharp outlines of reality. When I cast my thoughts back with the glasses of hindsight, my mind begins to see the sharp outlines of the past.