Letters to the Universe

Spring Morning

Writing | March 23, 2010

It’s easy to sit here and watch the river rise. A grey early spring morning. A lone dove dances in the mud for unearthed worms last nights rain brought out from hibernation. It’s easy to calmly come out of dreams, to shuffle into the kitchen, to stir sugar into my coffee, to take a cigarette from the pack and step into the muted light of Tuesday. Begin here. Begin. To strike the match into fire, to inhale, to catch the Caw Caw calling of this brand new vernal season, the river with its swallowed banks, the thin branches of the neighbor’s young magnolia is heavy with buds, like this, my body, each curving limb stretching out the tense winter, exhale, arms raised, eyes widening. Start here. Begin. Renew. Don’t look back. Begin with this. This morning. This is easy. Words mingle with smoke, dance with the last bit of mist, rise, rise, rise. This is easy too. It is natural. It is life. It is the day beginning. It is time. Time to begin. Begin the way the Daffodils push up from the damp earth, from a cold hard bulb you pushed deep down into the frosty soil in autumn. The winter seeming centuries long you’re not sure where you put it, how it could possibly come to life, when that life would rise on it’s own, of it’s own accord, by it’s own nature. But when the bird calls sing you from sleep and you step in, step into this day, this life beginning, and look, there it is, the evidence of your work, somehow six inches high with green, a slight pale yellow head, a subtle swelling, waiting to burst and laugh with you. To laugh. To laugh in the face of doubt. This is easy. Easy as it is to imagine. To imagine all the things you could bring forth from the depths. The places we push it all down into, where they can’t grow from lack of time and enough light and proper temperatures. And just when you think they have hid dormant, near death, unapproachable, lost to darkness, they rise and greet you, and me, and as unsuspecting as I was that there, in fact, was a possibility that this could happen, I am split open. Split open as the very earth they parted to get to the light. The light that I am in standing in. The spring light. The morning light. And it’s easy to stand in if you can understand, or try to, a few things. That some mornings rise in calm grey mist and sing of nothing in particular, simply the nature of things, things like rain and darkness, like the muddy river rushing by as you stand still, like assurance that you are just another element in it, that withering and growing can look good on you, that you can stand humbled by your own heart. And some mornings and some light, the light that is to come, and to come on strong, this is another thing. It is a new light. A light to begin in, a light that creates movement, one that inspires, a yellow light, backed by blue, dressed in green, one that draws the bird song from your own lungs, that your body unravels to, that can greet the world or love or time or moonlight unafraid, even not knowing how to stand in it or sing with it or unravel to it, it will come naturally. As natural as a child begins to utter their first words or the downfalling summer sky clears the day of fog, or lovers slowly begin to understand the inner curves of one another. After all that darkness, I imagine it will be easy to begin here. To begin. As easy in the coming days as the barren branches of the trees reveal their secret, that there is so much more to this.


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About Patricia Lowden

Mix one part words. Add coffee. Stir. Throw in some highways, jungles, moonlight, food made with love, laughter, good beer, scribbled on napkins, and a seemingly constant dialogue with the universe, and there you have it, me.
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Words to live by....

'This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must ", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse' -Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet

Categories of Published Work

The Sunshine Coast's Eumudi Markets: Fashion, Food and Fun

By BAY OLIVER
Published: February 24, 2009

The Eumudi Markets, on the Sunshine Coast in South-East Queensland, showcase a plethora of local talent, with clothes, food, jewellery and craft on offer.

A quick note to an old friend

By PATRICIA LOWDEN
Published: February 20, 2010

a few words from one hopeless romantic to another.