I do breakfast

I finally did it! I finally went to Place des Arts in Montreal. Seeing an opera for the first time had been on my bucket list for ever, and I’m eager to tell you about this surreal and sublime evening this morning as I sit here and write. I got there early, around 5:30 p.m. It was nice outside, so I went for a walk in the area for nearly an hour before entering Puccini’s kingdom, where an expert host was talking about the opera that was about to take place before our eyes. I was already smitten. I knew the storyline. I thought I’d forgotten the music for Cio-Cio-San, the young geisha, but I recognized the famous musical melodies from Madama Butterfly when the host played a few strains for us. As a young woman, before suffering the psychological blows of a horrible husband, I adored the human voice. Pavarotti was my hero, and he was often accompanied by Plácido Domingo and José Carreras. The power of their voices transported me. I was, at the time, a young thinker with bold dreams of rewriting the world’s history. And yet it’s that very sea of possibilities that carried me into narrow streams, forcing me to swim against the current towards my true self. I was 15, the same age as Puccini’s young geisha, and even back then I loved the human voice. I knew that this voice was a hidden treasure, a volcanic eruption able to soften the most terrible sorrows. And I would eventually use that voice to come back to life. Thirteen long years wasted in a bad marriage had deprived me of books, music and divine voices. But I wrote a new story for myself. Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti. I escaped and found my life again. In 1980, I was free as a bird. I was 33 and Andrea Bocelli was 22. He sang like a god and I wanted to marry him. I felt this urgency to make up for lost time, but like Mom used to say: “It’s no use crying over spilled milk.” Most importantly, I had to go back to work to feed my children. And I did, for more than 30 years, with the an authoritative baritone voice. So there I was, seated in the first row, right in front of the orchestra. The curtain, a huge Japanese screen, opened. We are in Nagasaki and then Goro. The town’s matchmaker is giving the American Lieutenant a tour of his new house. He introduces him to Suzuki, his future wife’s new maid. The American Consul is present and warns Pinkerton against his union to Cio-Cio-San, a young 15-year-old geisha, who is beaming with happiness at the thought of the forthcoming nuptials. After the wedding ceremony, the bride’s uncle disowns her because Cio-Cio-San, lovingly nicknamed Madama Butterfly by her handsome American Lieutenant, has converted to her husband’s religion. The newlyweds then withdraw and sing a long love duet. Shortly after, Pinkerton returns to the United States. Three years go by and Butterfly is still without any word from him. In her heart, she is convinced he will come back to her. She even goes as far as to reject the advances of a wealthy prince whom she meets. As Cio-Cio-San patiently awaits her Lieutenant’s return, the American Consul learns that Pinkerton has remarried and he must announce the news to Butterfly. She doesn’t believe him, however, and continues to wait in vain. She announces that if it were true, she would end her life. She continues to wait for the return of her long lost love while filling her home with flowers and hope. One day, she learns that Pinkerton is returning… with his new American wife. When he arrives, Madama Butterfly lives the last moments of her life. She places her young son in the care of the new American wife and performs hara-kiri in front of the American Lieutenant. I cried my soul out during the opera, and all my heavy memories dissolved in Madama Butterfly’s tears. I’m extremely grateful to the extraordinary Lebanese-Canadian soprano, Joyce El-Khoury, who interpreted Madama Butterfly, for her uplifting experience. Cora 🎼🎤🎟

I have been wanting to write this letter to myself for a long time and I’ve been procrastinating. I systematically put it off until a tomorrow that never comes. What could I say or learn about myself that I don’t already know? “So many things,” would reply the friend who suggested this exercise a while ago. Am I too afraid to dive into the depths of my mind? Or, worse, to venture into my half-empty heart? Who am I? What am I really? “Powerful,” would say that same friend, a yoga teacher. “Powerful and diligent.” It’s true that I was once at the pinnacle of my field. I created something new; a restaurant concept that was unheard of at the time. I learned how to earn my keep. I surrounded myself with competent and important people. I was never afraid of asserting my ways in a world dominated by men, and I never hesitated to give my opinion when I knew what I was talking about. Why would I write a letter to myself? Glory and compliments don’t come easily to me. Am I putting it off because I may be worried to find myself on a stormy ocean? I prefer writing to others; to those who are kind enough to read my letters. I write to them to expel the deluge of words raining down in my head. “The list of self-criticism that cuts us down is long, dear Cora. Try to write this letter as if it were addressed to somebody else,” my friend suggests. “Imagine that you are sending a letter to a close friend who needs advice and wants to be comforted. Call her Corina. Try to convince Corina to soften the way she sees herself.” — “Fine. I will write the letter,” I say. Dear Corina, I have known you all my life and you are my best friend. You are brilliant and talented. I remember your youth very well. You were audacious and creative, always the first one to find solutions to the preoccupations of a young woman.   I spent enough time with your family to know that the love between your parents was scarce. You suffered cruelly from a lack of love yourself. Your heart likely hardened as a result. Your calamitous wedding gave you three amazing children, and they allowed your heart to know the feeling of unconditional love. As a single mother, you had to work very hard to succeed, but you earned a living that surpassed your needs. Don’t ever forget that. Your 13 years of imprisoned marriage to a mean man bruised your heart and you concluded that your heart must be defective. No one would ever be able to find their way inside. Dearest Corina, I have known you forever and I understand. You did suffer from a lack of love, but rest assured that your heart works fine. And it returned to life during the pandemic. The universe has not forgotten you. It has offered you a tremendous gift by offering you the chance to realize your young girl’s dream to write. Today, writing allows you to connect with thousands of readers who no doubt love you. You have everything you need, dear Corina, to be a wonderful person. Count your blessings. You are kind, generous, inventive and caring towards others, with a gift for words. You are the person I love the most in this world, dear Corina. We are the best of friends, allies and sisters of all women on this planet. Brunettes, blondes, old, young, fair-skinned or dark; regardless of the names on our birth certificates, our hearts are all alike. They suffer, they throb, they cry and they explode with happiness when they recognize themselves in the mirror. That’s me! My heart goes boom, boom as I stare at my own reflection in the window at the coffee shop. It is I, Cora, who just recognized myself for who I am. My friend the yoga teacher was right. You should try it! Write a letter to yourself, dear readers. Address it to yourself or an imaginary friend. Pour your heart out and cry a little between the lines, allow the excess grief to overflow into the margins; unfurl the bruising parchment and cut open the wound, if you must. This is all about healing our hearts. Cora 👵 P.S. I love each and every one of you, dear readers! If any of you wish to write your own letter and have it read by a caring heart, I invite you to mail them to me and I will read every one of them, I promise. Use a pseudonym like I did if you prefer. Send your letter, addressed as follows, to the company’s head office: Letter for Madame Cora 16 rue Sicard, Local 50 Sainte-Thérèse, QC J7E 3W7

Surely you remember Isabel P., the young lady who interviewed me a few weeks ago as part of a project to feature a well-known figure from the restaurant industry. Well, she appreciated the sincerity of my answers and was curious to dig a little deeper into my life. I agreed, dear readers, out of affection for you. I’m curious to see what these new questions are, so let’s go. — “Which three words best define you?” — “Vitality, creativity and courage. It sounds like I am tooting my own horn, but these qualities literally saved my life.” — “What do you do to relax?” — “I listen to classical music, mostly baroque, I string beads to create bracelets, I draw faces, I knit, I write haikus and I practice making a variety of jams. I am rarely immobile, except at night, when I’m glued to the couch watching addictive TV series. — “Name a flaw you have finally mastered.” — “With time, and especially once I let go of my work-related responsibilities, I am not as headstrong as I used to be. I do miss having power though. I am just an advisor at the company, which is now in the hands of the children. Often I simply sit there, chomping at the bit.” — “What was the most beautiful day of your life?” — “It will happen when a grandiose bird will deliver my remains at heaven’s door. My eyes will open, my heart will start beating again and a new life will open its door to me.” — “Will you write your biography?” — “No, not as such. I am dispensing a little of my life each Sunday, as memories resurface or by acting on an unexpected inspiration. Writing every day makes my heart lighter and keeps me in love with life.” — “Do you have a spiritual guide?” — “I like to believe that all of Heaven’s saints keep a close eye on me and protect and guide me when necessary. I do believe in the infinite kindness of a force greater than us.” — “You have written close to 200 Sunday letters. Aren’t you tired of it yet? Do you look forward to moving onto something else?” — “I love writing these letters! I consider them to be my “morning pages,” something writer Julia Cameron popularized in her book THE ARTIST’S WAY, published in 1992.” Julia Cameron recommends writing three pages each morning in order to release your inner artist. These pages help to build strong writing habits. They amplify your creativity and writing skills. They help you focus each morning and teach you how to draw from your subconscious. These morning pages strengthen your self-confidence and allow you to free each day the emotions you often keep pushed down. I wrote these “morning pages” for a long time and, by some miracle, they became the Sunday letters. I am very happy about that, and I have no intention of stopping. — “Not many women of your generation took the reins of their destiny like you did. How did you do it?” — “It’s a long story, but the short version is, I had the courage to leave the family home with my three young kids in tow. I was shattered, but with the love of my kids, I rebuilt myself. It would take a few Sunday letters to explain all of it in detail, but it will come, I am certain of it.” Hope is the biggest gift we can receive on this Mother’s Day Sunday. Go out, turn your face towards the sky, a bird will bring you hope and an angel will place it in your heart. With bright eyes, you’ll speak words filled with optimism. HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL OF YOU! Cora ❤