Hier soir, je peinais \u00e0 m\u2019endormir et j\u2019essayais d\u2019imaginer ce que c\u2019\u00e9tait que de venir au monde. Apr\u00e8s le fait accompli, personne ne se souvient de sa naissance, d\u2019o\u00f9 l\u2019on vient et comment \u00e7a se passe v\u00e9ritablement.<\/p>\n
J\u2019allais na\u00eetre le 27\u00a0mai 1947, vers 15\u00a0heures selon maman. Avant que ne s\u2019ouvre un couloir de lumi\u00e8re par lequel j\u2019allais sortir de ma caverne, je nageais dans une eau ti\u00e8de et bienveillante. Une cavit\u00e9, un ventre, j\u2019appris le mot plus tard. Un ventre maternel prenait soin de moi. J\u2019apprendrai aussi que quelqu\u2019un avait mis une petite semence dont j\u2019ignorais la forme dans ce ventre qu\u2019une femme transportait.<\/p>\n
Le temps s\u2019\u00e9coulait comme l\u2019eau d\u2019un ruisseau descendant vers la mer, et la petite semence grossissait. D\u2019elle sortaient d\u2019\u00e9tranges excroissances dont on me dira plus tard les noms : bras, jambes, oreilles, orteils et petit nez qu\u2019un petit doigt apprit \u00e0 toucher. J\u2019\u00e9tais une toute petite chose qui, d\u2019elle-m\u00eame, grossissait. Une jambe, un bras s\u2019\u00e9tiraient et touchaient le pourtour de mon refuge. Je sentais une certaine r\u00e9sistance. Plus le temps passait et plus l\u2019amoncellement de chairs vivantes grossissait.<\/p>\n
Au milieu du mois de mai de cette ann\u00e9e-l\u00e0, j\u2019entendis une voix rauque disant \u00e0 celle qui allait \u00eatre ma m\u00e8re que l\u2019enfant se portait tr\u00e8s bien. \u00c0 travers la cloison protectrice qui m\u2019emprisonnait, j\u2019avais senti la chaleur d\u2019une grosse joue qui avait dit le mot \u00ab\u2009enfant\u2009\u00bb. La petite semence \u00e9tait-elle devenue cet enfant?<\/p>\n
Lorsqu\u2019enfin ma t\u00eate sortit de l\u2019\u00e9trange refuge o\u00f9 j\u2019\u00e9tais, deux mains rosies de sang me plong\u00e8rent dans une bassine d\u2019eau claire. On siphonna mon nez, on nettoya mes oreilles, et mes yeux s\u2019entrouvrirent d\u2019eux-m\u00eames. O\u00f9 \u00e9tais-je donc? On m\u2019enroula dans un tissu laineux et on me d\u00e9posa sur le corps inanim\u00e9 de la femme appel\u00e9e maman. On mit ma joue dans le creux de son cou comme pour me faire entendre ce que sa t\u00eate savait.<\/p>\n
L\u2019eau coula sous les ponts jusqu\u2019au jour o\u00f9 je d\u00e9couvre un gar\u00e7onnet marchant debout. \u00c0 quatre pattes, je le poursuis et j\u2019empoigne son jouet. Il a les fesses \u00e0 l\u2019air et entre ses deux cuisses, un petit doigt. Je tire sur ses boucles dor\u00e9es jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce qu\u2019il pleure et que l\u2019homme qu\u2019on appelle papa me soul\u00e8ve de terre.<\/p>\n
Le premier pas de l\u2019homme sur la lune fut certainement moins brutal que de na\u00eetre sur terre.<\/p>\n
Petite semence, nous flottions innocemment sur l\u2019eau et c\u2019est la terre qui demain mangera nos os. Entretemps, l\u2019enfant grandissant s\u2019exerce \u00e0 vivre. Il interroge ses parents, ses grands-parents, et \u00e9ventuellement des professeurs qui bourreront son cr\u00e2ne de diff\u00e9rents raisonnements.<\/p>\n
Qu\u2019est-ce que je suis venue faire sur terre et o\u00f9 sont toutes ces actions pass\u00e9es et ses vies ant\u00e9rieures qui suppos\u00e9ment guideraient mon pr\u00e9sent? Suis-je r\u00e9ellement responsable de mes actes? Serais-je juste la propri\u00e9taire d\u2019une histoire invent\u00e9e? D\u2019un moule \u00e0 g\u00e2teau sans r\u00e9el g\u00e2teau?<\/p>\n
Vous et moi, qui sommes-nous, chers lecteurs? Huit milliards de petits clones intelligents et tous diff\u00e9rents! La vie serait tellement triste si toutes les fleurs se ressemblaient, si elles avaient toutes la m\u00eame couleur et le m\u00eame parfum. Pourtant, je me regarde dans la glace et je me crois unique. Squelette branlant, barniques vieux rose et foulard bleu-mauve.<\/p>\n
Petite semence vient de tr\u00e8s loin, de l\u2019arri\u00e8re-monde de ce monde que les sots croient avoir eux-m\u00eames invent\u00e9. Il y a pourtant ce premier souffle qui jamais ne s\u2019essouffle, ce verbe semeur, cette main cr\u00e9atrice de milliards de matrices donnant naissance \u00e0 l\u2019univers entier.<\/p>\n
\u00c9crire est cette douce fa\u00e7on de me garder en vie et je vais juste faire cela. Me nourrir de bons mots, boire des phrases r\u00e9confortantes et, par tr\u00e8s grand vent, peut-\u00eatre pondre un roman?<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Hier soir, je peinais \u00e0 m\u2019endormir et j\u2019essayais d\u2019imaginer ce que c\u2019\u00e9tait […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":27345,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-27344","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"I was having a hard time falling asleep last night, so I tried to imagine what it\u2019s like to be born. Not a single newborn remembers their birth, where they\u2019re from and how it actually happened.\r\n\r\nI was born around 3 p.m. on May 27, 1947, according to my mother. Before taking the corridor that led from my haven to the bright light, I was swimming in comforting, warm waters. I was cared for in a cavity, a womb (I learned the word later), a maternal womb. I also learned later that someone had planted a tiny seed, whose shape I knew nothing of, in that young woman\u2019s belly.\r\n\r\nTime flowed like water from a stream headed to the sea, and the small seed was expanding. Strange protrusions started forming and someone would eventually tell me their names: arms, legs, ears, toes, and a small nose that a small finger learned how to touch. I was a tiny thing who was growing all on its own. A leg and an arm would stretch and touch the inside walls of its refuge. A barrier pushed back. As time passed, the bundle of living flesh grew bigger and bigger.\r\n\r\nAround mid-month in May of that year, I heard a hoarse voice telling the woman I\u2019d soon call my mother that \u201cthe child is doing very well.\u201d Through the protective wall that enveloped me, I felt the warmth of the large cheek of the one who had said the word \u201cchild.\u201d Had the small seed become the child?\r\n\r\nWhen at last I emerge from my human shelter, two hands coloured in blood plunge me into a basin of clear water. My nose is suctioned, my ears cleaned and my eyes slowly open by themselves. Where am I? I am wrapped in wool and placed on the still body of the woman called mother. My cheek is cradled against her neck as though I am meant to hear her thoughts.\r\n\r\nDays slipped by until one day I discover a small boy walking in front of me. On all fours, I chase him and grab his toy. He isn\u2019t wearing any clothes; a small appendage hangs between his thighs. I pull on his golden locks until he starts to cry and the man we call daddy scoops me up.\r\n\r\nMan\u2019s first steps on the moon were certainly less brutal than being born on this earth.\r\n\r\nWe innocently floated in water as small seeds and, tomorrow, the soil will consume our bones. In the meantime, the child grows and learns to live. They interrogate their parents, grandparents, and eventually, teachers who will fill their head with beliefs and doctrines.\r\n\r\nWhat have I come here to this earth to do? What happened to all the past actions and previous lives that are supposed to guide my present? Am I really responsible for my actions? Could I simply be the owner of a made-up story? A cake tin without an actual cake?\r\n\r\nWho are we, you and I, dear readers? Eight billion small intelligent clones, and all different! Life would be so sad if all the flowers were alike, if they all had the same colour and the same smell. I look at myself in the mirror and still think myself unique. A wobbly frame, dusty-rose eyewear and a purple-blue scarf.\r\n\r\nThese small seeds come from far away, from the back of this world, which fools believe they invented themselves. Yet the first breath is endless, the verb brings into being, the hand creates billions of innermost beings giving birth to the entire universe.\r\n\r\nWriting provides me with a gentle way to stay alive, and I\u2019ll keep on doing just that. I\u2019ll feed myself with kind words, drink comforting sentences and, on windy days, maybe I\u2019ll produce a novel?\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n