\u00c9crire sur une page blanche c\u2019est comme y voir appara\u00eetre des pattes de mouches dansant sur la neige. J\u2019\u00e9cris ce matin avec l\u2019aide du vent qui tourne mes pages. Lorsque je trempe ma plume dans mon c\u0153ur, tout s\u2019inscrit comme par magie.<\/p>\n
Depuis tant d\u2019heures, tant de jours, tant d\u2019ann\u00e9es, l\u2019aiguille du temps coll\u00e9e \u00e0 mon poignet, je lis, j\u2019\u00e9cris, je l\u00e2che prise et je me crois b\u00e9nie. Les souffrances du pass\u00e9 sont pass\u00e9es. Mon vide d\u2019amour se comble de jour en jour.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai souvent entendu dire que le meilleur moyen de pr\u00e9dire son avenir, c\u2019est de le cr\u00e9er. Intelligente, astucieuse et quelques fois provocante, ai-je \u00e9t\u00e9 \u00e0 la hauteur de ce cirque plan\u00e9taire? Occasionnellement, la r\u00e9cente fragilit\u00e9 du monde m\u2019inqui\u00e8te. Cette terre n\u2019est apr\u00e8s tout qu\u2019un caillou rev\u00eatu de chair humaine!<\/p>\n
Est-ce qu\u2019un nuage dans le ciel parle avec d\u2019autres nuages? Tous ces fragments d\u2019instants qui nous semblent \u00eatre la vie. Ces terriens dans la rue qui \u00e0 peine se saluent. O\u00f9 s\u2019en va l\u2019humanit\u00e9?<\/p>\n
Po\u00e9sie, je t\u2019aime! Tu enlaces toutes mes tournures de phrases. Tu m\u2019attends lorsqu\u2019une rime houspille mon propos; ta patience est sans limite lorsque ma folle m\u00e9moire se met \u00e0 caracoler. Parfois les mots me font d\u00e9faut pour d\u00e9crire ma peine ou pour allonger ma vie. Toujours, toujours, ma volont\u00e9 de vivre s\u2019av\u00e8re beaucoup plus forte que mon d\u00e9sir de quitter ce monde. Jusqu\u2019au bout, jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce que je puisse encore imaginer la longue \u00e9chelle qui m\u00e8ne l\u00e0-haut, j\u2019implorerai les anges de me garder dans le club des vivants.<\/p>\n
Sur ma page blanche poussent de petites fleurs; de jolis mots \u00e0 peine sortis de terre et qui d\u00e9j\u00e0 ressemblent \u00e0 des \u00e9toiles brillantes. N\u2019ai-je jamais connu un seul moment d\u2019extase?<\/p>\n
Derri\u00e8re ma maison, trois jeunes \u00e9rables noirs me d\u00e9visagent. Leurs feuilles, un tantinet craquel\u00e9es et d\u2019aspect fan\u00e9, m\u2019\u00e9meuvent et je regarde mes mains, mes bras, mon cou, mon front, tout ce corps qui se fane et d\u00e9p\u00e9rit. Je n\u2019ai d\u2019espoir que mon \u00e9criture quotidienne pour garder mes sens \u00e9veill\u00e9s.<\/p>\n
Tard l\u2019autre soir, je n\u2019arrivais pas \u00e0 dormir. J\u2019ai eu beau noircir trois pages, allumer une chandelle et sentir le parfum de la cire, ma lettre faiblarde tardait \u00e0 prendre forme. Il arrive que l\u2019inspiration s\u2019endorme avant moi.<\/p>\n
Je revois souvent mon p\u00e8re dans mes r\u00eaves. J\u2019entends la musique de Mario\u00a0Lanza, je vois ses larmes qui tombent sur ses grosses joues mouill\u00e9es.<\/p>\n
L\u2019intr\u00e9pide ruisseau qui coule encore en moi m\u2019emp\u00eache de partir. Le cri d\u2019un colibri, une jolie branche de lilas, mes deux arri\u00e8re-petits-fils, mes pr\u00e9cieux petits-enfants, mes enfants ch\u00e9ris, cette entreprise qui m\u2019a appris \u00e0 vivre honorablement.<\/p>\n
Moi qui ai toujours tendance \u00e0 perdre mon chemin, devrais-je avoir en main une carte du ciel pour m\u2019y rendre?<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai soif, j\u2019ai faim, j\u2019ai peur. Je me demande \u00e0 quoi ressemble la salle d\u2019attente de la mort. Ma vie dans l\u2019urne p\u00e8sera le poids d\u2019une petite pommette. Esp\u00e9rons toutefois que les p\u00e9pins naviguant sous terre puissent s\u2019enorgueillir d\u2019un immense verger.<\/p>\n
L\u2019autre soir, j\u2019ai lu quelque part une tr\u00e8s belle phrase de Saint-Augustin et je m\u2019empresse de la partager avec vous\u00a0: \u00ab\u00a0Si vous voulez devenir ce que vous n\u2019\u00eates pas encore, restez toujours insatisfait de ce que vous \u00eates. Car, l\u00e0 o\u00f9 vous serez satisfait, l\u00e0 vous resterez claquemur\u00e9 dans un maigre monde. Continuez donc \u00e0 progresser, continuez \u00e0 marcher, continuez \u00e0 avancer.\u00a0\u00bb<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2665\ufe0f<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u00c9crire sur une page blanche c\u2019est comme y voir appara\u00eetre des pattes […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":73345,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-73344","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"Writing on a blank page is like watching the tiny feet of flies dancing on the snow. I\u2019m writing this morning with help from the wind, who\u2019s kindly turning my pages. When I dip my fountain pen in my heart, everything writes itself as if by magic.\r\n\r\nI\u2019ve been reading and writing for so many hours, days and years, the hands of time affixed to my wrist; I let go and consider myself blessed. Past sufferings have gone. The void of love inside me is filling up with each passing day.\r\n\r\nI\u2019ve often heard that the best way to predict our future is to create it. Intelligent, clever and occasionally daring as I am, has my performance been good enough for this planetary circus? The recent fragility of the world worries me at times. The earth is only a rock covered with human flesh after all!\r\n\r\nDoes a cloud talk to the other clouds in the sky? All these fragments of moments we call life. These earthlings on the street that barely say hello to each other. Where is humanity headed?\r\n\r\nPoetry, I adore you! You are woven through all my sentences. You wait for me when a rhyme scolds my words, your patience is boundless when my crazy memory starts to run wild. Sometimes words fail me when I try to describe my sorrow or prolong my days. My will to live always overpowers my desire to leave this world. Until the very end, while I can still imagine the long staircase that leads skyward, I\u2019ll implore the angels to allow me stay in the club of the living.\r\n\r\nSmall flowers are springing from my blank page; pretty words barely out of the soil and they already look like stars. Have I ever known a single moment of bliss?\r\n\r\nBehind my house, three young dark maple trees stare at me. Their leaves, a bit wrinkled and faded, stir something inside me, and I look at my hands, arms, neck, forehead and this body that is fading and withering. I can only hope that my daily writing will keep my senses sharp.\r\n\r\nLate the other night, I couldn\u2019t sleep. Despite darkening three pages, lighting a candle and smelling the scent of the wax, my feeble letter was slow to take shape. Sometimes inspiration falls asleep before I do.\r\n\r\nI often see my dad in my dreams. Mario Lanza is singing as tears fall down my dad\u2019s big, wet cheeks.\r\n\r\nThe undaunted stream that still flows in me prevents me from leaving. The cry of a hummingbird, a beautiful lilac branch, my two great-grandsons, my precious grandkids, my beloved children and this business that taught me how to live honorably.\r\n\r\nI tend to always lose my way; should I have a map of heaven to help me get there? I\u2019m thirsty, hungry and scared. I wonder what death\u2019s waiting room looks like. My life in the urn will weigh about the same as a small apple. Let\u2019s hope at least that the seeds burrowing in the ground will be able to take satisfaction in their huge orchard.\r\n\r\nThe other night, I read somewhere a wonderful sentence by St. Augustine. I will share it with you now: \u201cGo forth on your path, as it exists only through your walking. If you would attain to what you are not yet, you must always be displeased by what you are. For where you are pleased with yourself there you have remained.\u00a0Keep adding, keep walking, keep advancing.\u201d\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2665\ufe0f"},"yoast_head":"\n