{"id":63768,"date":"2025-05-25T05:51:16","date_gmt":"2025-05-25T09:51:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/?p=63768"},"modified":"2026-06-24T10:29:07","modified_gmt":"2026-06-24T14:29:07","slug":"my-days-of-fog-and-sun","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/mes-brouillards-et-mon-beau-temps\/","title":{"rendered":"My days of fog and sun"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

The older I get, the more I\u2019m tempted to jump the fence of common sense. I realize that my life will come to an end sooner than later. I imagine a few scenarios. My wrinkling knees, my fingers climbing over each other, my awful forgetfulness and memory, which is becoming like a sieve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I scatter a few seeds in my declining cerebellum every day, and nothing grows. I try to write, search for evocative words, elaborate sentences, a new story to tell. I go on with my day and implore the angels. Could writing still be my morning prayer?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Very early, often at the coffee shop, I write my story as if I will never die. Today (May 11, 2025), I celebrate Mother\u2019s Day, the day of mothers everywhere, and wonder where my three children are. All of them are in their fifties, and maybe it\u2019ll be their offspring that\u2019ll wish me \u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day, Gran!\u201d before the end of the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s how life goes, and so does my age, busy climbing higher than the clouds. I try to be strong but my memory is failing me. I live according to my inner weather, with its fog-shrouded and sun-lit days hidden within me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I see the yellow, dandelion-flecked grass, the uncomfortably cold water in the pool, the two groundhogs under my porch, a few young deer chewing on my cedar hedge. Outside, a few crows cling and flap on my sloped roof, fixing their eyes on a small yellow goldfinch with blackish wings. I quickly put on my old boots and fill all the bird feeders with sunflower seeds. Will the yellow bird build its nest close to my large kitchen windows? Am I in control of the situation? I sometimes get the impression that the sides of my big house are shrinking by the minute. The more I read, the more the books stack up, and the more I forget the themes of my book shelves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every morning, I write so that my life continues to be worth living. Fatherless mother, addicted to words, I always have a notepad nearby, one or two pens that don\u2019t stain my fingers, notes and a thousand more to remember, copy and tweak\u2026 My mind goes down unpredictable paths; a unique succession of lines all heading towards the empire of silence. Will I live much longer? I\u2019d like to fall asleep in a vast forest of firs. Lying on my back, I\u2019d breathe in the sublime fragrance of the trees. Without any tears or remorse, I\u2019d simply become nourishment for the earthworms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For me, living is a pleasure that\u2019s starting to crease with worry. No more long trips in my Mini, spontaneous road trips and exhausted arrivals. I hope I can still imagine everything I haven\u2019t lived. Even love, this unstoppable vagabond. Would I have heard him if he had knocked on my door? I was too busy earning a living as a businesswoman; did all my success keep me from love? Even though my name is posted in large letters on more than 140 restaurant locations, who will remember me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I swear writing remains the best thing I can do to lighten the mental fog in my mind. For the last five years now, I\u2019ve been writing almost daily. I also often write at night in my bed when a nightmare wakes me with a start. I only drink water during the night so that my ideas can flow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I often feel that writing a story causes quivers in my mind that are increasingly difficult to define. Sometimes a title comes to me ready to be laid out on the page, an enigmatic line is forgotten, maybe a half-unearthed memory from my childhood in Gasp\u00e9sie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I dig, explore and search for time to extend my existence. I may be an old slate, but in excellent health despite the whims of a memory that seems to have a mind of its own. I still have so much to say before I head out to the open sea. So many questions to answer, so many people to thank for loving me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cora
\u2665\ufe0f<\/p>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The older I get, the more I\u2019m tempted to jump the fence of common sense. I realize that my life will come to an end sooner than later. I imagine a few scenarios. My wrinkling knees, my fingers climbing over each other, my awful forgetfulness and memory, which is becoming like a sieve. I scatter a few seeds in my declining cerebellum every day, and nothing grows. I try to write, search for evocative words, elaborate sentences, a new story to tell. I go on with my day and implore the angels. Could writing still be my morning prayer? Very early, often at the coffee shop, I write my story as if I will never die. Today (May 11, 2025), I celebrate Mother\u2019s Day, the day of mothers everywhere, and wonder where my three children are. All of them are in their fifties, and maybe it\u2019ll be their offspring that\u2019ll wish me \u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day, Gran!\u201d before the end of the day. That\u2019s how life goes, and so does my age, busy climbing higher than the clouds. I try to be strong but my memory is failing me. I live according to my inner weather, with its fog-shrouded and sun-lit days hidden within me. I see the yellow, dandelion-flecked grass, the uncomfortably cold water in the pool, the two groundhogs under my porch, a few young deer chewing on my cedar hedge. Outside, a few crows cling and flap on my sloped roof, fixing their eyes on a small yellow goldfinch with blackish wings. I quickly put on my old boots and fill all the bird feeders with sunflower seeds. Will the yellow bird build its nest close to my large kitchen windows? Am I in control of the situation? I sometimes get the impression that the sides of my\u2026<\/p>","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":63769,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_seopress_titles_title":"","_seopress_titles_desc":"Plus elle vieillit, plus Mme Cora a envie de sauter les cl\u00f4tures du gros bon sens. Une lettre sur ses jours de brouillard et de soleil.","_seopress_robots_index":"","_seopress_robots_follow":"","_seopress_robots_imageindex":"","_seopress_robots_snippet":"","_seopress_robots_primary_cat":"","_seopress_robots_breadcrumbs":"","_seopress_robots_freeze_modified_date":"","_seopress_robots_custom_modified_date":"","_seopress_robots_canonical":"","_seopress_social_fb_title":"","_seopress_social_fb_desc":"","_seopress_social_fb_img":"","_seopress_social_fb_img_attachment_id":0,"_seopress_social_fb_img_width":0,"_seopress_social_fb_img_height":0,"_seopress_social_twitter_title":"","_seopress_social_twitter_desc":"","_seopress_social_twitter_img":"","_seopress_social_twitter_img_attachment_id":0,"_seopress_social_twitter_img_width":0,"_seopress_social_twitter_img_height":0,"_seopress_redirections_value":"","_seopress_redirections_enabled":"","_seopress_redirections_enabled_regex":"","_seopress_redirections_logged_status":"","_seopress_redirections_param":"","_seopress_redirections_type":0,"_seopress_analysis_target_kw":"","_seopress_news_disabled":"","_seopress_video_disabled":"","_seopress_video":[],"_seopress_pro_schemas_manual":[],"_seopress_pro_rich_snippets_disable_all":"","_seopress_pro_rich_snippets_disable":[],"_seopress_pro_schemas":[],"footnotes":""},"categories":[42],"class_list":["post-63768","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"blocksy_meta":{"styles_descriptor":{"styles":{"desktop":"","tablet":"","mobile":""},"google_fonts":[],"version":8}},"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/63768","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/414"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=63768"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/63768\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/63769"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=63768"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=63768"}],"curies":[{"name":"WP","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}