Two or three days on an island in Brittany. The New Year approached us like a shooting star. A white fire that leaves a sparkling powder in the starry night. Something wonderful that sometimes comes with a dull fear. As if the new, the unknown came to remind me of my savagery and my intensity: more broken heart than peace or gentleness. It will be fine, we say to ourselves, trembling in the wind blowing from the sea. Three generations meet on an island on the last days of the year, and none of us dares to say out loud what troubles us and agitates us. It will take another year to relearn how to love. No, no, it’s never too late to learn to love because every hour, every year yet to come, the task of living with and for each other is to be taken up as we sew the same dress, impossible, the same. garment to wear and darning.
Fear of losing love
Your daughter is calm and beautiful. You watch him take care of his two little boys. Two small children in the dunes, near the sea hitting the rocks. Who already know everything about loving and the wonderful fear that accompanies us throughout life. Will it end? Will it resume? All the love that we receive at the beginning of our existence is the love that remains but that we will always be afraid of losing. I see that in the blue eyes of little Hugo, who runs in front of me. He laughs and cries with the speed of a galloping horse. I understand that in the peaceful and precise gestures of consolation of their mother. Sew up every second of life the thread of what to love means. Trips, anger and enthusiasm.
→ INVESTIGATION. Hymn to love, the La Croix file
And this sweet lesson which imposes itself on me carnally to the rhythm of the walk: to improve and improve. In small defiant actions like only children can, in their imaginary games, I understand that to welcome the new year is to accept to continue the same human and awkward walk, with each other. Young and old.
Expand his life
The day before, we were in Normandy. A man, already old, was expanding his house. And in his eyes, on the muddy site of its construction, I saw the gaze of the stubborn child and builder. It was not only his house that he was enlarging, but his life that he challenged to expand and pursue, like one chasing a dream, a fiction of oneself that one projects in front of oneself and others. . Maybe for others too. For the coming years. All those we still have and those where we will no longer be. The hard hours will have made us stiff and tired. But the task of living is in front of us until the end. Melancholy of stars and dreams. I thought: you are right, you the little playful child in the dunes, your tears cry out for love and your laughter encourages him to follow you.
You will know the “all or nothing” that love sometimes demands and which causes terrible losses. The years will follow, taking away dreams and games, but you will know, become an old man, still build and enlarge life with the living memory of the first love.
Let us promise not to give in to the worst that some tell us. Like children, let us remember that there is always a joker to pass the tests. And make the world a middle ground. The open and free space of our imagination that comes to challenge our old wars and our old enemies. And when the sea roars, the wind blows, let’s go up on the dune to gain height to observe the horizon. I did not dare to tell all this to my grandchildren. I felt like a fool and a dreamer. I understood that I would still have to find a point that year where my own life could come to terms with itself by welcoming each other’s dreams.