I want words to shape my life, from the morning when I wake up to the evening when I close my eyes. Is it too much to ask? What is this remote place in the heart of nature where I could live from reading and writing?
Here, I no longer hear the birds singing. I am no longer awakened by the swallows that used to nest in the corner of the window overlooking the courtyard in front of the house. I only come across this tawny owl that says good night to me when I come home late at night. I answer her with sweet thoughts.
Here, I no longer see the insects, bumblebees, bees, and butterflies that swarmed around the lavender right next to the pear tree. I’m no longer on the lookout for the blue chickadees that used to come every morning to have breakfast under the apple tree in front of the dining room French window.
Here, I no longer hear the dry clacking of the woodpecker’s beak against the cherry tree trunk next to the clothesline. I am no longer lulled by the song of the blackbird at nightfall, perched at the top of the fir tree at the bottom of the garden.
Here, I can no longer smell the intense scent of red roses from the generous rosebush climbing up the wall next to the kitchen. I can no longer caress with my fingertips the colorful tulips planted and lovingly tended by my mother.
Where has this luxuriant nature that filled me with happiness in my young years gone? I think about it again and here I am melancholy. As I write these words, my throat closes. But what am I to do but write? Where do I have to live to find some of that childhood scent? Is there an enchanting place where the birds sing and the words dance on the pages?
Tonight, I have only one certainty. I want words to shape my life, from the morning when I wake up to the evening when I close my eyes.