Le cœur est une vaste maison

Le cœur est une vaste maison avec de larges fenêtres qui restent grandes ouvertes en toutes saisons.

Les êtres qui croisent notre temps y viennent et s’y reposent au milieu de vieilles choses à l’ombre du vent.

Et ceux qui nous ont aimés portent une traîne ondulante et frêle comme un pétale de cerisier.

En entrant, ils posent sur nos têtes une couronne d’amour, une couronne si légère qu’avec délice, elle devient lumière et illumine cette vaste maison aux vastes fenêtres.


Un poème que j’ai écrit il y a quelques années et que j’ai eu envie de publier aujourd’hui, comme ode à l’amitié sincère.

Let us not fret about the world

“We live no more than one hundred years” wrote Sikong Tu at the start of a poem more than one thousand years ago.

We live but a speck in timelessness.

So, why not let our hair turn white and the soft breeze rustle through our clothes?

Why not let the moss cover the stone?

Let us not fret about the world, shall we?


Inspiration: Sikong Tu (China, 837-908), Tang Dynasty poet, known for his poems and for writing the Chinese poetry manual “The twenty-four styles of poetry.”

Just as the sun


Just as the sun starts to light up the sky, flocks of birds fly over the house.

White snow egrets with gold reflected on their wings, ducks in almost perfect formations and swallows moving in waves.

Closer to me, a few hummingbirds buzz around the lavender; while, despite the coolness of the air, bees start their morning collection around the same flowers.

These are the sights I am privileged to, and every dawn I give thanks for the beauty.

This morning, from way way up, a white egret pooped. As simple as that, and it landed a few centimeters from my foot.

I took it as a blessing both for its ordinary nature and … for having missed me.

I smiled and the smile remained with me for the entire day.

Who would have thought? Life brings us joy in so many forms!


As I knead the dough in the early morning …


As I knead the dough in the early morning…

… Doing the same gesture on a stone slab of pale color, I look up and see the bend where the two rivers meet.

I continue to work the dough, lifting a few strands of hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. Small particles of flour float in the air; as the sun rises, they turn into gold.

The house is still asleep. I so enjoy this moment of solitude, working the dough to the rhythm of the river.

I shape the dough into small sunshines, and place them in the clay oven.

The aroma of bread will be the same a few millennia from now, and maybe, just maybe, someone will be thinking of me as they knead the dough in the early morning.