Depuis\u00a0ma d\u00e9couverte de l\u2019alphabet en premi\u00e8re ann\u00e9e, j\u2019ai commenc\u00e9 \u00e0 \u00e9crire et je n\u2019ai jamais vraiment arr\u00eat\u00e9. Toute petite, j\u2019ai tout de suite \u00e9t\u00e9 \u00e9blouie par le pouvoir magique de chaque voyelle ou consonne servant \u00e0 la transcription des sons de notre langue. Et j\u2019ai vite appris \u00e0 reproduire dans mon petit cahier d\u2019\u00e9criture tous les signes graphiques de l\u2019alphabet. Je jouais \u00e0 accoler trois ou quatre lettres ensemble pour former un mot ayant une signification bien pr\u00e9cise comme\u00a0:\u00a0CIEL, MOI, OUI, BLEU, VRAI, SOIR, FILLE, \u0152IL, PAPA, JOUR, CHAT, B\u00c9B\u00c9, PEUR, NUIT, F\u00caTE.<\/p>\n
J\u2019\u00e9tais fascin\u00e9e par la magie de ces petits mots pouvant d\u00e9signer tant\u00f4t une chose aussi immense que le CIEL, et tant\u00f4t un moment aussi noir que la NUIT. Cette d\u00e9couverte fut pour moi plus pr\u00e9cieuse que l\u2019OR de la bague de maman. Oui, oui, vous avez bien lu : un si petit mot pour un m\u00e9tal aussi pr\u00e9cieux.<\/p>\n
Ayant vite compris le pouvoir des mots, quels qu\u2019ils soient, j\u2019\u00e9tais doublement heureuse d\u2019avoir la possibilit\u00e9 d'en apprendre davantage, et surtout, de m'exprimer de mieux en mieux, en silence sur la page.\u00a0J\u2019ai vite pr\u00e9f\u00e9r\u00e9 l\u2019\u00e9crire plut\u00f4t que de le dire tout haut, lorsque j\u2019\u00e9tais f\u00e2ch\u00e9e contre fr\u00e9rot. Bien souvent j'\u00e9crivais ma peine au lieu de pleurer lorsque je voyais maman trop triste.<\/p>\n
\u00c9crire devint \u00e0 l\u2019adolescence l\u2019ultime refuge \u00e0 tous mes \u00e9tats d\u2019\u00e2me. Bien souvent, je noircissais la page essayant de d\u00e9couvrir qui j\u2019\u00e9tais face aux choses qui survenaient. J\u2019\u00e9crivais sans doute en vain puisque chaque jour, chaque chose et chaque \u00e9v\u00e9nement me transformaient en une nouvelle personne \u00e0 d\u00e9couvrir.<\/p>\n
Toute petite, l\u2019\u00e9criture me servait \u00e0 r\u00e9inventer mon quotidien. Je me souviens d\u2019un texte que j\u2019avais \u00e9crit en troisi\u00e8me ann\u00e9e dans lequel j\u2019imaginais une cuisine \u00e9poustouflante de joie avec maman tout de rose v\u00eatue et mettant au four le pouding pr\u00e9f\u00e9r\u00e9 de papa. Elle l\u2019attendait en fredonnant pendant que nous, les enfants, \u00e9tions cord\u00e9s sur le grand banc de la galerie, nos yeux scrutant l\u2019horizon. Puis, soudain, un minuscule point bleu \u00e9mergeait du lointain et avan\u00e7ait sur la route\u00a0132. Nous sautions de joie lorsque l\u2019automobile bifurquait sur notre lot. Et papa, tout mince et rayonnant de bonheur, montait les marches au galop tellement il avait h\u00e2te de nous gratouiller les joues avec sa barbe piquante.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai noirci des centaines de pages \u00e0 me faire accroire que nous \u00e9tions une famille parfaite. \u00c0 quinze ans, j\u2019ai m\u00eame commenc\u00e9 \u00e0 \u00e9crire des po\u00e8mes pour mieux dissimuler la tromperie que j\u2019entretenais d\u2019embl\u00e9e dans mes longs textes. Influenc\u00e9e tout probablement par Verlaine et Raimbault, ma po\u00e9sie beaucoup plus r\u00e9aliste \u00e9tait capable de faire valser ensemble noiraude tristesse et franche all\u00e9gresse.<\/p>\n
Puis la vie, la vraie, m\u2019est tomb\u00e9e dessus \u00e0 l\u2019aube de mes vingt ans\u00a0: un enfant arriv\u00e9 trop t\u00f4t, un m\u00e9chant mari, tous mes r\u00eaves bris\u00e9s et une r\u00e9alit\u00e9 encore pire que la cuisine de mon enfance. L\u2019\u00e9criture a vite foutu le camp me laissant aussi seule qu\u2019un unique lapin cherchant une carotte dans le Sahara. Deux autres enfants m\u2019ont emp\u00each\u00e9e de mourir de chagrin. Et l\u2019\u00e9poux s\u2019est enfui permettant \u00e0 la vie de me revenir. Trente ans sont pass\u00e9s \u00e0 gagner notre cro\u00fbte, \u00e0 cr\u00e9er une belle entreprise pour laquelle j\u2019ai tout \u00e9crit, de la simple recette \u00e0 l\u2019histoire d\u00e9taill\u00e9e de chaque avancement significatif.<\/p>\n
Puis, vieillotte aguerrie, j\u2019entame mon dernier quart de si\u00e8cle. \u00c0 la retraite et bien au chaud, voil\u00e0 qu\u2019une pand\u00e9mie mondiale nous enferme dans nos chaumi\u00e8res.<\/p>\n
Acceptant mon sort, un v\u00e9ritable miracle se produit. Tel un ange se mat\u00e9rialisant devant moi,\u00a0l\u2019\u00c9CRITURE s\u2019empare de moi. Plus fougueuse et exaltante que jamais, elle devient ma raison de vivre, mon passe-temps favori et la nourriture de mon contentement.<\/p>\n
C\u2019est donc avec cette volont\u00e9 de demeurer tout pr\u00e8s de vous, tr\u00e8s chers clients, que j\u2019ai commenc\u00e9 \u00e0 vous \u00e9crire chaque semaine une belle lettre parlant de tout et de rien; du pass\u00e9, du pr\u00e9sent et d\u2019un avenir fantastique qui nous attend. Bien souvent, je constate que des miracles de souvenance arrivent dans ma t\u00eate et me font vous raconter toutes ces histoires des d\u00e9jeuners de chez CORA, de l\u2019ouverture des restos, et de tout ce que je pensais avoir oubli\u00e9.<\/p>\n
\u00c9CRIRE c\u2019est magique; \u00e7a ne s\u2019explique pas! \u00c9CRIRE c\u2019est comme ouvrir des fen\u00eatres imaginaires, dessiner des ponts vers demain, arroser des fleurs c\u00e9lestes et accueillir des cigognes venant de nulle part. \u00c7a ne s\u2019explique pas. \u00c7a ne s\u2019enferme pas.<\/p>\n
\u00c9CRIRE c\u2019est un tr\u00e9sor \u00e0 la port\u00e9e de tous. Ainsi, plusieurs\u00a0\u00e9crivent pour d\u00e9sherber leur jardin avant de quitter leur vie ici-bas. D\u2019autres veulent laisser une trace de leur passage. Moi j\u2019esp\u00e8re \u00eatre capable de vous laisser des lignes blanches vers demain; de grandes pages blanches o\u00f9 vous pourrez vous d\u00e9poser de votre vivant. Je vous souhaite des trous dans le ciel par o\u00f9 vous pourrez vous immiscer dans la magie du monde.<\/p>\n
Je vous souhaite de d\u00e9couvrir en vous cette \u00ab\u2009folle du logis\u2009\u00bb que l\u2019on nomme IMAGINATION.<\/p>\n
Je vous souhaite \u00e9galement de rencontrer la princesse INSPIRATION, celle-l\u00e0 m\u00eame qui arrive \u00e0 magnifier tous vos r\u00eaves.<\/p>\n
Et puisse l\u2019an\u00a02022 ramener \u00e0 tous\u00a0\u2764\ufe0fla s\u00e9r\u00e9nit\u00e9,\u00a0\u2764\ufe0fl\u2019esp\u00e9rance et notre ch\u00e8re\u00a0\u2764\ufe0f\u00a0libert\u00e9 de jadis.<\/p>\n
Cora<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Depuis\u00a0ma d\u00e9couverte de l\u2019alphabet en premi\u00e8re ann\u00e9e, j\u2019ai commenc\u00e9 \u00e0 \u00e9crire et […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2152,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2150","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"When I first discovered the alphabet in first grade, I started writing and have never really stopped. As a child, I was instantly amazed by the magical power of each vowel or consonant to transcribe the sounds of our language. And I quickly learned to reproduce all the graphic signs of the alphabet in my little notebook. I played with choosing three or four letters strung together to form a word with a specific meaning. For example: SKY, ME, YES, BLUE, TRUE, EVENING, GIRL, EYE, DADDY, DAY, CAT, BABY, FEAR, NIGHT, PARTY.<\/span>\r\n\r\nI was fascinated by the wizardry of these little words that could mean something as immense as the SKY and something as impenetrable as the NIGHT. The discovery felt like a bigger treasure than even my mother\u2019s GOLD ring. Yes, you read it right: such a small word (and even smaller in French!) for such a precious metal.\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\r\nHaving quickly understood the power of different words, I was doubly happy to master more, and even more so as my ability to express myself silently on the page grew. I soon preferred to write rather than speak up when I was angry with my brother. I wrote down my pain instead of crying when I saw my mother\u2019s great sadness.<\/span>\r\n\r\nAs a teen, writing became the ultimate refuge for my shifting moods. Often I would darken the page in an effort to know myself as I dealt with what life served me. I wrote to illuminate, perhaps in vain, because each day, each thing, each event transformed me into a new person I needed to discover.\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\r\nAs a child, I used writing to reinvent my daily life. I remember a story I wrote in third grade in which I imagined a kitchen bursting with joy as Mom, dressed in pink, baked Dad\u2019s favourite pudding. She was waiting for him, humming, while we kids sat side by side on the big balcony bench, our eyes scanning the horizon. Suddenly a tiny blue dot would emerge from the distance and move onto Highway 132. We would jump for joy as the car turned into our lot. And Dad, all slim and happy, would dash up the steps, eager to press his bristly beard against our faces.\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\r\nI filled hundreds of pages to make myself believe that we were a perfect family. At 15, I even started writing poems to better conceal the dishonesty I had been depicting in my long texts from the start. Influenced most likely by Verlaine and Rimbaud, my more realistic poetry was capable of making gloomy sadness twirl on the dance floor with pure joy.\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\r\nReal life hit when I turned 20 \u2013 a child who arrived too early, a nasty husband, shattered dreams and an existence that was even worse than the kitchen of my childhood. I quickly abandoned my notebook, which left me as alone as a rabbit looking for a carrot in the Sahara.\u00a0Two more children prevented me from dying of grief. One day the husband left, allowing me to breathe once again. Thirty years passed as we earned our bread and created an incredible business for which I have written everything, from a simplest recipe to the details of every milestone reached.<\/span>\r\n\r\nNow an old woman who has lived a full life, I began my last quarter century retired and comfortable, but locked away in her home like everyone else thanks to a global pandemic.<\/span>\r\n\r\nIn accepting my fate, a true miracle occurred: the desire to WRITE has taken hold of me, like an angel that appears before me.\u00a0More spirited and exhilarating than ever, it has become my reason for living, my favourite pastime and the food that nourishes my happiness.<\/span>\r\n\r\nWanting to stay close to you, dear readers, I started to write a weekly letter about everything and nothing. About the past, the present and the fantastic future that awaits us.\u00a0Often miracles of remembrance surface in my mind and instruct me to recount to you stories about lunches at Cora, restaurant openings and the events and people I thought I had long forgotten.<\/span>\r\n\r\nWRITING is magic; it cannot be explained. WRITING is like opening imaginary windows, like drawing bridges to tomorrow, watering celestial flowers and welcoming storks who seem to arrive out of nowhere. It can\u2019t be explained or shut away.\u00a0<\/span>\r\n\r\nWRITING is a treasure within everyone\u2019s reach.\u00a0Many write to weed the garden before leaving this world. Others want to leave a trace of their passage. I hope to leave you blank lines that lead to tomorrow; large blank pages where you can record yourself during this lifetime. I wish you portals in the sky through which you can immerse yourself in the world\u2019s magic.<\/span>\r\n\r\nFind your inner \u201ccrazy housewife,\u201d a.k.a. IMAGINATION, and meet the princess called INSPIRATION. It is she who makes all your dreams bigger and more vivid. And may 2022 restore to us\u00a0<\/span>\u2764<\/span>\ufe0fserenity,\u00a0<\/span>\u2764<\/span>\ufe0fhope and the precious\u00a0<\/span>\u2764<\/span>\ufe0ffreedom we once enjoyed.<\/span>\r\n\r\nCora<\/span>"},"yoast_head":"\n