Pourquoi ai-je autant tard\u00e9 \u00e0 \u00e9crire? J\u2019avais, je suppose, besoin d\u2019\u00eatre secou\u00e9e comme le pommier pour que les mots tombent d\u2019eux-m\u00eames sur la terre ferme. Ce r\u00eave d\u2019\u00e9criture pi\u00e9tinait dans ma t\u00eate depuis toujours, mais la mar\u00e2tre de vie m\u2019en priva. Je me souviens, fillette, avec mes cuisses z\u00e9br\u00e9es d\u2019\u00e9raflures, je cherchais des tr\u00e8fles \u00e0 quatre feuilles. Je voulais tellement que la chance m\u2019empoigne. Et voil\u00e0 que je trouve une jolie branche d\u00e9nud\u00e9e de feuilles avec une excroissance en forme d\u2019\u00e9toile \u00e0 son extr\u00e9mit\u00e9. J\u2019ai tout de suite pens\u00e9 \u00e0 une baguette magique abandonn\u00e9e aux fourmis. Je l\u2019ai saisie et, tout doucement, je l\u2019ai utilis\u00e9e pour caresser les lupins sauvages, les boutons d\u2019or et les d\u00e9licates campanules. Je voulais changer les fleurs en mots magiques. Peine perdue, ce sont les vilains chardons mauves qui m\u2019ont griff\u00e9 les doigts.<\/p>\n
J\u2019attendais qu\u2019il m\u2019arrive quelque chose de grandiose, mais chaque fois, un d\u00e9sir enfantin restait bloqu\u00e9 dans ma gorge. Je ne recueillais que des brindilles de tristesse et le sang des framboises sur mes petits doigts. Tant bien que mal, je tentais l\u2019impossible.<\/p>\n
\u00c0 l\u2019adolescence, cach\u00e9e dans une petite chambre du sous-sol des parents, j\u2019emmagasinais beaucoup trop de r\u00eaves. Ma nature gourmande m\u2019emp\u00eachait d\u2019\u00eatre heureuse. Que d\u2019heures perdues \u00e0 me croire po\u00e8te! Des milliers de feuillets barbouill\u00e9s d\u2019espoir s\u2019empilaient sous mon lit; un ruisseau d\u2019esquisses prometteuses se vidait dans la mer. Je n\u2019avais, \u00e0 cette \u00e9poque, qu\u2019un seul dieu, en retrait derri\u00e8re un nuage.<\/p>\n
Lorsqu\u2019arriv\u00e8rent les \u00e9tudes coll\u00e9giales, mon c\u0153ur se mit enfin \u00e0 battre tr\u00e8s fort. Ces huit longues ann\u00e9es furent un continuel banquet de connaissances et enfin, je pouvais ouvertement embrasser l\u2019\u00e9criture; en faire l\u2019\u0153uvre de ma vie. Je jubilais. Dans ma t\u00eate immens\u00e9ment combl\u00e9e, des milliers de mots se cherchaient de jolies phrases. Des histoires abracadabrantes s\u2019\u00e9chafaudaient et ma po\u00e9sie, j\u2019en \u00e9tais certaine, allait pouvoir r\u00e9veiller tous les endormis du monde. Pour s\u00fbr, j\u2019allais bourrer mes poches de lourds cailloux pour ne pas m\u2019envoler.<\/p>\n
Les derniers examens r\u00e9ussis, j\u2019allais f\u00eater avec quelques copines. J\u2019avais aussi r\u00e9ussi l\u2019examen du permis de conduire et papa me pr\u00eata sa petite Volvo blanche pour ma premi\u00e8re sortie dans la grande ville. Je me croyais intelligente et instruite. J\u2019\u00e9tais sotte et ignorante des choses de la vie.<\/p>\n
M\u00eame les plus belles feuilles d\u2019\u00e9rable sautent dans le vide lorsque l\u2019automne les d\u00e9colore. Mes b\u00e9vues sont inracontables. Cent mille oreilles pour m\u2019entendre si je pleure. J\u2019allais prendre mon erre d\u2019aller et encore la gueuse de vie m\u2019en priva.<\/p>\n
Depuis, je r\u00e9capitule \u00e0 r\u00e9p\u00e9tition mon enfance caboss\u00e9e, mon envol mort dans l\u2019\u0153uf et ce mariage abim\u00e9 qui me donna pourtant trois beaux enfants. Je ne peux plus rebrousser chemin. Ainsi va la gouverne du monde; l\u2019ach\u00e8vement de l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9, la d\u00e9coloration de l\u2019automne, les lourds froids blancs et nos vies amplement charg\u00e9es de malheurs. Nous nous en allons tous vers une nouvelle terre incognito et il nous est possible de nous reconstruire galamment.<\/p>\n
Oui, oui! J\u2019ai beaucoup tard\u00e9 \u00e0 entrer dans le monde de l\u2019\u00e9criture, mais je n\u2019ai pas perdu mon temps. J\u2019ai exp\u00e9riment\u00e9 ce qu\u2019\u00e9tait la vie et j\u2019ai compris que les griffures du temps sont longues \u00e0 gu\u00e9rir.<\/p>\n
Malgr\u00e9 l\u2019indiscipline des mots et malgr\u00e9 mon c\u0153ur faussement tranquille bien souvent, je vais continuer d\u2019\u00e9crire jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce que le bon Saint-Pierre me tende la main.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\ud83d\udcdd\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Pourquoi ai-je autant tard\u00e9 \u00e0 \u00e9crire? J\u2019avais, je suppose, besoin d\u2019\u00eatre secou\u00e9e […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":24978,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-24977","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"Why did I wait so long to write? I suppose I needed to be shaken, like an apple tree, for the words to fall to the ground. This dream of writing that had been long trampled in my mind, denied by a cruel life. I remember as a young girl, my thighs grooved with scratches, looking for four-leaf clovers. I was so desperate for luck to discover me. I found a nice leafless branch shaped like a star at the end. It was a magic wand, of course, left for the ants to claim. I grabbed it and used it to gently stroke the wild lupines, buttercups and delicate bellflowers. I wanted to change the wildflowers into magical words. My efforts were wasted. The ugly purple thistles only scratched my fingers.\r\n\r\nI was waiting for something grand to happen to me, but each time, a childish desire stuck in my throat. I was only gathering twigs of sorrow and the blood of raspberries on my small fingers. In some way, I was trying to reach for the impossible.\r\n\r\nDuring my teenage years, hidden in a small room in my parents\u2019 basement, too many dreams filled my mind. Greed stopped me from being happy. I lost so many hours thinking I was a poet! Thousands of notebooks scribbled with hope were piling up under my bed; a stream of promising sketches spilled into the sea. At that time all I possessed was a single god, tucked away behind a cloud.\r\n\r\nWhen the time came to start college, my heart began to pound. These eight long years were an endless feast of knowledge. I could finally openly embrace my writing and make it my life\u2019s work. I was jubilant. In my perfectly satisfied mind, thousands of words waited to be placed in pretty sentences. Amazing stories were taking shape inside my head, and my poetry was going to waken all the sleepy souls of this world. I would have to fill my pockets with heavy rocks to stop myself from flying away in the wind.\r\n\r\nI passed my final exams and went to celebrate with a few girlfriends. Having recently obtained my drivers\u2019 licence, Dad let me borrow his small white Volvo for my first night out in the big city. I thought I was so clever and educated. In fact I was stupid and ignorant of life.\r\n\r\nEven the prettiest maple leaves fall to their demise when autumn discolours them. My mistakes cannot be put into words. A hundred ears will hear me if I cry. I was about to fly towards my dreams and a merciless fate snatched them away.\r\n\r\nSince then, I have repeatedly told the story of my unfortunate childhood, my cancelled takeoff as an author and a miserable marriage that was broken from the start that nonetheless gave me three beautiful children. I can\u2019t turn back time. The world continues to turn, summer ends, fall hues fade away, winter turns heavy and cold, and our lives are liberally burdened with misfortunes. We are all headed for a new incognito world and it\u2019s still possible for us to pluck up our courage and rebuild ourselves.\r\n\r\nI waited far too long to participate in the world of writing, but I never wasted my time. I experienced life, and I have come to understand that old wounds take time to heal.\r\n\r\nDespite the undisciplined words and my seemingly calm heart, I will continue to write until the good St. Peter reaches for my hand.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\ud83d\udcdd\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n