Dire OUI \u00e0 la vie c\u2019est consentir \u00e0 ce qui nous arrive, \u00e0 ce qui se pr\u00e9sente \u00e0 nous. Face aux diverses \u00e9preuves de la vie, je ne me suis jamais r\u00e9volt\u00e9e. J\u2019encaissais et en cachette, j\u2019\u00e9crivais. C\u2019\u00e9tait en quelque sorte ma fa\u00e7on de r\u00e9sister au courant d\u2019agressivit\u00e9 que j\u2019ai eu \u00e0 affronter pendant de longues ann\u00e9es.<\/p>\n
\u00c9crire, m\u00eame avec une encre dilu\u00e9e par les larmes, m\u2019a permis de m\u2019inscrire dans le temps et aussi de planter des rep\u00e8res dans l\u2019immat\u00e9rialit\u00e9 de cette horrible odyss\u00e9e. Mon calepin ne consignait point les dates, mais les faits. Les calamit\u00e9s du quotidien, les explosions de tristesse, l\u2019injustice du sort, l\u2019amertume coll\u00e9e \u00e0 ma peau, la d\u00e9sesp\u00e9rance mena\u00e7ante et les continuels ressentiments qu\u2019\u00e0 contrec\u0153ur j\u2019entretenais.<\/p>\n
Selon l\u2019auteur H\u00e9l\u00e8ne Dorion, dans son beau livre intitul\u00e9 RECOMMENCEMENTS, \u00ab\u2009notre fa\u00e7on d\u2019aimer prend sa source dans l\u2019enfance, \u00e0 travers la satisfaction ou non de nos besoins fondamentaux et par les exp\u00e9riences \u00e9motionnelles d\u00e9terminantes que nous y faisons. Eden ou affres, c\u2019est l\u00e0 o\u00f9 se creusent nos blessures ou s\u2019\u00e9difient notre premi\u00e8re vision de l\u2019amour et du lien.\u2009\u00bb<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai assur\u00e9ment manqu\u00e9 le bateau en ce qui concerne l\u2019affection, la tendresse, l\u2019apprentissage des choses de la vie et l\u2019amour, cet innommable tr\u00e9sor qui assure la continuit\u00e9 de l\u2019esp\u00e8ce. Mari\u00e9e sans crier gare, j\u2019avais d\u00e9j\u00e0 dans mon ventre des orteils minuscules, un petit sexe visible, un embryon presque pr\u00eat \u00e0 sortir de sa zone de confort. Mais d\u00e9j\u00e0 l\u2019enfant ne voulait pas affronter ce monde du dehors. Il fallut l\u2019arracher de mes chaires avec cet horrible instrument d\u2019extraction m\u00e9tallique en forme de pince. Sa fr\u00eale ossature marqu\u00e9e \u00e0 jamais sur le c\u00f4t\u00e9 droit de son front.<\/p>\n
Tous ces morceaux d\u2019histoires \u00e0 la d\u00e9rive dans ma t\u00eate; mosa\u00efque flottante de d\u00e9tails agressants. Tous ces appartements de fortune du temps du mariage. Ces troisi\u00e8mes \u00e9tages moins chers et miteux, ces escaliers trop longs et trop dangereux, ces coquerelles nocturnes envahissant la cuisine, ces cordes \u00e0 linge bord en bord du logis. Ni cadre, ni plante, ni beau divan, ni tapis. Tout \u00e9tait usag\u00e9, outrageusement us\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Je prolonge cette page parce que ma bouche d\u00e9borde de mots. J\u2019\u00e9cris, je rature et je compose. Toujours, toujours, l\u2019encre s\u2019agite. Certains paragraphes ne sont que de petits vestibules, des phrases assassines qui n\u2019entreront jamais dans la maison; des horribles pens\u00e9es qui s\u2019agitent et tourmentent ma logique.<\/p>\n
Ces lieux de l\u2019enfance, ces gestes, ces mots s\u2019enfuiront-ils peu \u00e0 peu de ma m\u00e9moire? Assise sur le divan bleu, mes pieds touchant \u00e0 peine le sol, j\u2019ai peut-\u00eatre quatre ou cinq ans et je suis triste comme la pluie tombant lentement. Papa \u00e9coute encore Mario Lanza. Devant moi, quelques grosses larmes glissent sur ses joues et sautent dans le vide. Je voudrais les toucher, prendre un de ses gros doigts dans ma main et pleurer avec lui.<\/p>\n
Tac, tac, tac dans la cuisine, maman hache un oignon pour le rago\u00fbt du souper. Elle a mis ses gants blancs qui se mouillent \u00e0 mesure que l\u2019oignon crache son jus. Tac, tac, tac les d\u00e9s de carottes sautillant dans le bol en fer blanc.<\/p>\n
Mes phrases sont des morceaux \u00e9parpill\u00e9s de r\u00eaves et de r\u00e9alit\u00e9; de pr\u00e9sences immat\u00e9rielles plus bavardes bien souvent que des aigles adolescents.<\/p>\n
Ces jours-ci, je d\u00e9couvre le po\u00e8te su\u00e9dois Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer (avril\u00a01931-mars 2015). Je b\u00e9nis sa grande force d\u2019\u00e9criture, son savant m\u00e9lange d\u2019all\u00e9gories et de fid\u00e8les descriptions de l\u2019univers naturel et cosmique. J\u2019aime beaucoup ce po\u00e8te qui, \u00e0 travers une s\u00e9rie d\u2019exp\u00e9riences int\u00e9rieures, n\u2019a de cesse de soulever les grands myst\u00e8res de l\u2019existence.<\/p>\n
M\u2019inspirant de ce ma\u00eetre, je voudrais tellement composer des phrases illuminantes, des temp\u00eates de neige sans froid, des amours sans tracas.<\/p>\n
\u00ab\u2009AIMER CE QUI EST\u2009\u00bb est aujourd\u2019hui ma ligne directrice. Comme dire OUI \u00e0 la vie et \u00e0 tout ce qui m\u2019arrive. J\u2019ai cette divine assurance qu\u2019un ange trace ma route et qu\u2019avec une patience infinie, il peaufine mes meilleures lignes.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Dire OUI \u00e0 la vie c\u2019est consentir \u00e0 ce qui nous arrive, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":26714,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-26713","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"Saying YES to life is to agree to what happens, to whatever comes our way. I never rebelled against the various trials of my life. I would take the blows and write in secret. It was my way of resisting the hostility I had to face for many long years.\r\n\r\nWriting, even when the tears fell onto the ink and turned it into small watercolours, allowed me to mark my passage through time and to leave points of reference like lighthouses along this horrible odyssey. My notepad didn\u2019t register dates, just the facts. The daily calamities, the explosions of sadness, the unfairness of fate, the bitterness stuck to my skin, the threatening despair and the endless resentments I reluctantly harboured.\r\n\r\nAccording to author H\u00e9l\u00e8ne Dorion in her wonderful book RECOMMENCEMENTS (\u201cNew Beginnings\u201d<\/em>), \u201cour way of loving has its source in childhood, through the satisfaction or not of our basic needs, and through the defining emotional experiences that we have then. Paradise or agony, this is where our wounds are deepened or our first vision of love and connections are built.\u201d\r\n\r\nI definitely missed the boat when it came to affection, tenderness, learning the way of life and love, this unfathomable treasure that insures the perpetuation of species. Married without a warning, I already bore in my abdomen tiny toes, a visible reproductive organ, an embryo that would soon leave its sanctuary. When the time came, the child refused to face the outside world. He had to be ripped out of my womb with a horrible, tong-shaped metallic instrument. His frail frame was marked permanently on his right forehead as a result.\r\n\r\nAll these shreds of history drift along in my head; like a wandering mosaic of corrosive details. Every makeshift apartment during my wedded years. The cheaper shabby third floors with their endless and dangerous stairs. The cockroaches who invaded the kitchen at night. The make-do clotheslines strung across the rooms. Not a single painting, plant, chesterfield or rug. Everything was secondhand, old and threadbare.\r\n\r\nI keep on writing because the words overflow in my mouth. I write, I strike out, I compose. Always, the ink wriggles about. Some paragraphs are only tiny vestibules; killer sentences that will never make it into the house; horrible thoughts that agitate and torment my mind.\r\n\r\nThese places from childhood, these gestures and words will they ever flee my memory? Sitting on the blue couch, my feet barely touching the ground, I may be 4 or 5. I\u2019m sad like slowly falling rain. Dad is listening to Mario Lanza. A few large tears roll off his cheeks and disappear into the abyss. I want to touch them, to take his big fingers in my small hand and cry alongside him.\r\n\r\nChop, chop, chop. In the kitchen, Mom\u2019s mincing an onion for the stew she\u2019s making for dinner. She\u2019s put on her white gloves; they soak up the juice the onion lets out with each slice. Chop, chop, chop. Diced carrots jump into the white tin bowl.\r\n\r\nMy sentences are sprinkled with bits of dreams and reality, immaterial existences often more talkative than young eagles.\r\n\r\nThese days, I am discovering the work of Swedish poet Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer. I bless his incredible writing ability, his clever blend of allegories and faithful descriptions of the natural and cosmic universe. I really like this poet who, in a series of interior experiences, relentlessly explored the great mysteries of life.\r\n\r\nInspired by this master, I would love to compose illuminating sentences, snowstorms without cold, love stories without irritations.\r\n\r\n\u201cLOVE YOUR FATE\u201d is my motto today. Say YES to life and to everything that happens to me. I have divine assurance that an angel is tracing my way forward and, and with infinite patience, he\u2019s polishing my best sentences.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n