I do breakfast

My firstborn’s fingers are stained in bright colours. He struggles, painting all day long, to find the right shade that will put his torments to rest. Sometimes, he sends me a picture of a painting darker than an impenetrable obscurity and asks me if I see a dragon. Maybe a pilgrim lost in the woods? Or a drifting boat? My first son is an artist. He sees things before they even exist. My eldest can spend an entire week shaping the swell of a choppy sea, caressing every wave that breaks or crashes on the shore. He has the patience of a Buddhist monk as he plays with 10 shades of blue. I observe, sometimes up to several months, as his sketch evolves. We have this in common: the draft, or rough outline, a still imperfect form we give our work. The drafts of my letters and his drawings are very similar – both adventuring towards a beginning. An ephemeral title to start, a preliminary layer of colour or a series of spun sentences, locked under a mountain of doubt and hesitation. Stringing words together isn’t as messy as painting, but it takes longer for meaning to emerge. Like undisciplined kids in a schoolyard, subjects, verbs and adverbs have to wait for the bell to ring to move in a straight line. Recess often lasts for a few days in my head. Sentences lurch and sway on a slippery skating rink. I wait, suffer and doubt my talent. I implore creativity to come to my rescue. You and I, dear son, began our artistic careers late in life. With our white heads as furious as a snowstorm, we don’t need to know who we are or to divine the destination before leaping. We love to create, blending red with blue to create purple. We harness all that inspires us; simple truths, books, masterpieces, inspiring quotes, conversations with our friends, dreams and words whispered to our souls at night. Let’s have a little fun with Picasso and pretend we’re as good as him! Let’s use what feeds us and gives us reason to believe we’re making progress. Let’s trust in Lady Inspiration, the lifeline that feeds the canvas and the text. The artist, my dear son, takes their measure and worth by working, praying, striking the keyboard and caressing the same landscape a thousand times. They experiment, practice and wade through the sketches of the masters, imitating this and that until they discover their own individual artistry. It’s by failing to do justice to the original that we often discover our own path. Let’s build our own universe with a few trusty carrier pigeons resting on our windows. Let’s share letters, text messages, photos, wild ideas, unusual colours and divine inspiration. And let’s get some fresh air. Inhale long and deep. The brain gets sleepy when it stays in its usual place. Distance and unfamiliar scenery stimulate the imagination. Apparently, even bad weather can flame the artistic fire. Embrace austerity, dear son, because all belongings are an obstacle to creativity. Have confidence in your work, in the magical, indescribable moment when a brushstroke illuminates your painting. Savour this microsecond when you feel bliss, astonishment and wonder; the moment when all the forces of the universe converge to reveal to you what is hidden to others. Know that this moment of euphoria is like a drug; once we’ve tasted it, we spend forever trying to recapture the fleeting jubilation. You likely know already that creativity is 95% hard work and 5% magical inspiration. Creativity is a set of skills that we can master if we put our minds to it. I type on my keyboard for hours on end, trying to link together a breathtaking sentence. I hope and pray; begging the muses and writing’s grace. Dear son, I wish to encounter that rare moment of genius too, when unpredictability opens the door to possibility. Isn’t it what we’re both experiencing? You’re painting the picture you’d like to hang in your living room. I’ve published the book I wanted to read. The wise ones say that it’s never too late. And I, your mother, will search for the black eagle hidden beneath your bright colours until my very last breath. Cora ♥️

I’ve already shared with you that I dreamt of becoming a writer when I was young. Life’s rough hands tore my dream from me and shut it away for the longest time. Today, as an old woman, writing brings me the most pleasure. I write to share my experience, my secrets and my long life. I write to sow a little love and to reap a lot. I write mostly because I can’t do otherwise. I type tirelessly on my iPad to learn how to love myself and to discover who I am. I write to surprise myself with all the small revelations that emerge, secrets buried deep within me. I write to woo life’s impenetrability and breathe a little hope into my battered heart. I write to uproot the worst and slay it. I write to trace my life, so I don’t forget the little things and convince myself that my life until now hasn’t been in vain. I do it to try and figure out what might happen to me. I mostly write to avoid the sleepiness of my consciousness. Words are little pick-me-ups that, with any luck, will keep my ink busy for years to come. I lay my words out on the paper for my own pleasure and that of those who read me. Writing allows me to express myself and display my dreams. I sometimes take myself for a relentless creator, imagining worlds, surreal situations and scenarios, and giving birth to characters. Yet the stories that come to life at my fingertips often turn out to be true. Most of the time, I write to expel the unspeakable, well-hidden truth. I darken pages to dream and to strengthen my imagination. I don’t know how to dance or sing any better than I can flirt or love. I console myself believing that my last magical power stems in a nicely crafted sentence I’ve strung together. Could my writing add something that wasn’t already part of this world? A wreath of flowers, a four-leaf clover, a wise crow, my heart on its knees. My sentences are empty of meaning but filled with poetry. My head is a circus and the stories I tell help me survive. Writing in a coffee shop or sitting at my large kitchen table, I type, amuse myself and weave a story. I write to shout that my heart still has so much love to give. I write to embrace my solitude, lighten my sadness and dull my useless anguish. I flee the desert of the blank page to distract myself with the unruliness of words. I write to imagine paradise and its great golden door. I write to think out loud about the mysteries of the universe and tame the indecipherable. With each new dawn, I rejoice. I turn on the lamp and write for about an hour in my bed. Fighting the vertigo that comes with still being alive, I imagine my heart purring with love. I write to chase away my old sorrows, heal from the scratches of time and to save my story from erasure. I pick up the pen to tease forth inspiration, counter the dullness of the everyday and to keep my 10 fingers from going numb. I sometimes bury my sorrow deep within the page. I write to honour inspiration’s muse, stimulate my creative hemisphere and enjoy the tremendous happiness writing fills me with. I write to express my emotions and, mostly, my obsessions. I write to catch up on a life that is slipping away too quickly. I write to make the most of my originality as a human being. I write to open myself to wonder. I write to learn how to live without working. I write to learn how to become a good person. I write so that I don’t cry. I write to befriend the reaper. Dear readers, might you have a few good reasons to write too? Cora ❤️

The body in which I inhabit is starting to frighten me. Has it reached the maximum number of times it can regenerate its cells? Are they functioning at a slower pace now that they’re almost 78? Like my memory, and my legs, which, once quick and athletic, vaulted me high over poles. They even propelled me to the top of the podium at an intercollegiate pole vault competition in Montreal. I can still see them – long, thin and agile, jumping into the air. When I see pretty faces aging behind my television screen, I freeze. My gaze fixed on the plasma, I touch my deflated cheeks, my wrinkling lips and my eyes, receding into my skull. In my opinion, one of the most elegant words reserved for elderly people is “mature.” Think about it for a moment. A state of peak existence, not decrepitude. I have a habit of eating apples constantly. I buy so many that sometimes they start to shrivel before I’ve had the chance to bite into one. Almost imperceptibly, the flesh of the forbidden fruit dries, sags and atrophies, its skin becoming flaccid. Even if its flesh remains enjoyable for human consumption, the envelope has deteriorated. My face is a good approximation of a wizened apple adorned with beautiful, coloured glasses perched on the nose! Thanks to the town’s optician, I can still see the words I write and watch them fly away in the wind. According to what I’ve read on the subject, as the three cutaneous layers lose volume and efficacy a number of effects can be observed: reduced elasticity and essential lipids, lower cutaneous nerve endings and loss of sensitivity. Heaven help me! But the worst part is, which no one expects, the reduction in the number of sweat glands and the atrophy of blood vessels that diminishes the skin’s ability to protect itself from the heat. So, in addition to being less tolerant of the sun’s rays, we wilt more quickly in the heat, even though we no longer sweat like we did in our prime! I’ll never lounge in the sun again! I vividly remember the years as a cook when the heat was unrelenting, thanks to the hot flashes of menopause. In my first small kitchen, I’d break the eggs, flip the crêpes and put up with it. I’d do my best to stifle my sensations and, when an intense hot flash would soak my neck, I’d call my daughter for backup so she could take my place at the griddle for 30 minutes or so. I’d say the code “the tortellini is boiling,” and she knew straight away what to do. Dear reader, I’m sharing this secret code in case it might come in handy! Thank heavens, I can’t see my sagging bottom. My flabby behind is the culprit causing my legs to move slower these days. During the pandemic, I walked a fair share, but since I’ve settled into my morning coffee routine with my friends, my bottom is always parked on a chair. While I type away at the keyboard and pile up drafts, my lower body is losing its agility. My poor old legs even wake me up at night. I must get out of bed and walk for a good 15 minutes around the house until the pain subsides. You know this about me already: I’m crazy about colours. I loved decorating my breakfast dishes with colourful fruit. I enjoy dressing up in bright colours. Why do you think I dress this body that’s about to lose the battle against age in an array of hues? When you turn on your screen to read my letters, don’t you notice the energizing colours and the beautiful brooches I wear like badges of strength and courage? Before we pack our bags to leave, let’s thank our old wobbly shells for taking us this far and congratulate ourselves for living. For many, the slow decay of aging is worse for worrying about it; as if a pink-horned devil blamed all the world’s pain on age. Moustaches spring from discarded carrots, and sprouts strut their stuff on the noggin of overripe potatoes. In my book, age doesn’t have an age, but aging, although it displeases me, is inevitable. Que sera, sera! This morning, I wanted to poke fun at this mortal shell that seems so precious. We have to treat it with care to help it last as long as possible, but for the rest, it’s just an ornate Buddha decorating our lives and our little palaces. Our true nature is invisible to the naked eye. Like a miraculous sap that feeds us, shapes us and sets us apart. This true nature shines like a light inside us; it’s our duty to keep this flame alive. I’m aging, dwindling, weakening; I’m dying terribly slowly, in small steps. Toes and fingers climbing on top of one another trying to escape their fate. My memory is a sieve that has allowed the provocateurs that once tripped my temper to escape. My old heart, almost as empty as a church, still hopes to fulfill a few desires yet. Old, tired and clumsy servants, my hands still prefer to WRITE. They insist on telling my story. More than all the gold, myrrh and incense, these precious hands have no desire to return to dust. Cora ♥️