The Restory Retreat Centre

Coffee In Heaven You'll be greeted by a nice cup of coffee when you get to heaven and strains of angelic harmony. But wouldn't you be devastated if they only serve decaffeinated while from the percolators of hell your soul was assaulted by Satan's fresh espresso smell?                                             John Agard              -- o -- Peas I always eat peas with honey, I've done it all my life, They do taste kind of funny, But it keeps them on the knife.                                             Anon

Much truth in the following Unfortunately, it is not the whole truth. We can add another frame: How the majority lives in South Africa  with a picture of a squatter camp or informal settlement. Here, often the most basic services are lacking. South Africa is one of the countries with the biggest gap between the rich and the poor, a major factor in our high crime rate. We still have a lot to do and a long way to go, living in South Africa. For us who love our country and live under the maxim God in all things,  the challenge is somehow even greater. George

Monday morning weekly planning session time again. All go well until I list my monthly monetary dues. Let’s just say; its time to start thinking creatively.   I am faced with a two-fold dilemma, which, I know, I’m not alone in. I have a difficult relationship with money. I believe mainly in its bad boy status and try my best to avoid it’s company. I feel shame when I ask money for my art, because it seems wrong to want to earn a living with something which awards me with such enjoyment. It feels as if I’m asking for double pay! We somehow got the message that money pays for worldly things and causes. It belongs “down below”. It is either earned with much sweat and hardship, or come by through luck or dubious means. But everything that has a higher purpose, or is done in response to a higher calling or passion, be it caring for the sick, raising children or monkhood, is done for love and paid in kind.  Artmaking falls in this last category in the warped system where we pla

Yesterday, RSG ( Radio Sonder Grense ) the officia l Afrikaans radio service of the SABC celebrated its 75 th birthday. Afrikaans is one of the 11 official languages of South Africa (I might be mistaken, but I think that makes us one of the countries with the most official languages on the planet). It is no longer in the powerful, privileged position that it had during the years of National Party rule. Fortunately there have been a number of corrections for the good in that regard. Today there is a deeper appreciation for the contributions of other population groups, besides the whites, in the development and growth of this fairly young language at the southern tip of Africa. RSG as radio station reflects the variety of the people who speak Afrikaans, whether it be their different music styles, matters of interest or viewpoints. In a balanced responsible way it acts as a window of what is current and happening in our country on a daily basis and in a style that is very ap

I treated myself to an Artist date today and attended the opening of Alice Elahi's exhibition called Reflections, held at her beautiful studio gallery in Brooklyn, Pretoria. She greeted me taking my hand in both hers as I introduced myself. Frail, but looking sprightly at 86 years of age, she stands welcoming waves of people arriving at the exhibition. Her work is inspired by nature, and she believes in fully experiencing the landscape she's painting. So much so, that she had spent many a day painting alone on a sand dune in the Namib desert, being dropped of in the morning only to be fetched again at nightfall. I read this in one of  the many publications on display. She has had a lifetime of prolific painting and judging from the scores of people, excitedly discussing her work, she is well loved and respected as an artist. This fills me with hope. A quotation that speaks to my budding artist's heart reads: "Unless I have something to communicate, my work is

This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home. A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth Turns and twindles over the broth Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning, It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning. Degged with dew, dappled with dew Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn. What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet. Gerard Manley Hopkins This is a very important poem for me personally. It was my first introduction to the work of this great nature poet. Much of Hopkins' poetry I cannot fathom by trying to understand it mentally. I have to read it out aloud and allow the rhythm and the sounds to paint the picture for me. I remember how I felt when

The bud stands for all things, even those things that don't flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing; though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing; as St. Francis put his hand on the creased forehead of the sow, and told her in words and in touch blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow began remembering all down her thick length, from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of                 the tail, from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine down through the great broken heart to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking                 and blowing beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.                                                     

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean– the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down– who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Mary Oliver

Sitting in a restaurant, Daniel J. O’Leary writes: “The Budweiser tastes weak; the cajun-style chicken is spicy and tasty. It is stifling hot outside; the air-conditioning inside is heaven. A small child’s face is all crumpled up with loss and fear – she has just inadvertently burst her red balloon. Her sister offers her own. One grandparent chides her; the other smiles. There’s music in the background – country and western songs from the sixties. A murmur of conversation. The telephone rings. A loud laugh draws attention to itself. Another car sweeps into the parking lot. Bright with smiles, energy, mutual adoration and jewelry, two young black people flow out of the car and dance into The Village Inn. The telephone rings again. I come back to my thoughts. So this is it. If I’m right, here in front of me the true nature of God is being revealed. Right here and right now the paschal mystery is gradually unfolding in all its ordinariness and in all its glory. All I have to do

We're expanding! Since the 19th of October The Restory  has its own page on facebook. It opens up other means of communication with our readers and creates endless opportunities to share happenings, news and musings of The Restory  with you. By looking at the likes  and comments (which is so easy to use in facebook) we get to know you better, it becomes a conversation and it helps us in our writing and postings. Thank you so much for your support, suggestions and encouragement. Keep it coming. George

"I should have brought my camera along." Words that I have used more times than I care to remember, in moments I know that can never again be recaptured with the same intensity of light and life in it. It lives on in my memory, sometimes. But more often than not it fades away, lost forever. I saw Red Riding Hood this morning. Driving down the small dirt road from the farm on my way to town, I enjoyed the misty greyness of an overcast morning. I always find that greenery seem to shine with an intense vividness against a background of grey sky as opposed to the brilliant blue of a sunny sky. With all the rain we've been blessed with since the beginning of Spring, the veld is lush with grass, the meadows smothered in wildflowers, and the deciduous pin oaks, planes and willows decked in the freshest of newly sprouted green.  From afar the tiny spot of red against this backdrop shone like a traffic light. As I got closer, I saw it clearly. A red pointed hood and w

A few weeks ago I got the middle finger of my right hand onto the grinding wheel of the pedestal grinder. I was busy grinding spring steel pins on the side of the wheel for a crimping roller I was making. The next moment the pin slipped over the edge and my finger followed. Now I must confess that my immediate steps after the accident were quite extraordinary taking my history into account. Usually, whenever I get hurt badly in the workshop, the first thing I do is to carefully take off my glasses and put it somewhere safe. I have a tendency to faint. This time around I quickly switched off the grinder and went to the cupboard where we keep plasters for emergencies in the workshop. At that stage I acted quite calmly because I realised I had to stop the bleeding. Blood was by now dripping onto the ground. It helped to a degree but I knew I had to get to the house where my dad could help me to first clean the finger somehow, determine the damage and cover it properly.

The national matric exams for all grade 12 learners in South Africa starts today. Dane, Matilda's youngest son, is one of the more than 600 000 young people who are entering this last phase of their basic school education. At one stage during my matric year we wrote a shocker of a chemistry paper. A friend of mine said afterwards: "This has been such a difficult paper that I'm glad I didn't study for it." May this year's matrics have only papers worth the study.Good luck guys! And to all the parents: hang in there. George

There is something about the written word on a page. They sing to me. I love to read about writing. And reading. “No iron can stab the heart with such force as a period put just at the right place.” Isaac Babel “A person who won't read has no advantage over one who can't read.” Mark Twain “I never read a book before reviewing it; it prejudices a man so.” Sydney Smith “People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.” Logan Pearsall Smith “Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.” Groucho Marx “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.” Emily Dickinson “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” Oscar Wilde “Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.” Henry David Thoreau I shall stop now. There is a danger in sayin

We sat late into the night bringing Leon up to date after his well deserved two week's break from the farm. He beamed with pride at the sight of the top quality of the produce that George brought back from the farm to be delivered to his shipping agents. Having spent time in his world, that of being a farmer specializing in baby vegetables, gave us so much insight in the challenges that he has to face. In a country where farming is not subsidised and the markets demand nothing less than perfection, coupled with the astronomic costs involved, getting a venture like this up and running and growing it into a viable business, seems almost impossible. I cringe at the demands that he is living under.  I see his passion, hear in his words the unwavering certainty and total dedication in what he believes to be his calling in life, and I pray that others will see what I see: incredible potential that will burst its banks if he be supported at this crucial stage with the trust

I am returning to Gauteng this afternoon. It has been two weeks of constant harvesting and taking care of shipments to clients here on the vegetable farm. This quote is very good for balance and perspective. Not bad for priorities as well. George

Dane, my youngest son, is finishing school in a couple of weeks. There are only a few days left before the final exam starts and then he will not need school lunches any longer. It might seem a small thing, but after packing them for twelve years, I felt it needed to be documented before it finally ends. So this is his lunch for the 18th of October 2012. Lovely ciabatta rolls studded with baby tomatoes and with a filling of powdered biltong, chedder cheese, watercress and other leafy things. I know, I know. His friends says he has the best lunches ever. Having an artist for a mom has its perks. Matilda

In between farmsitting George is reading a book by Peggy Noonan, called, What I Saw at the Revolution. He reads bits out loud to me and I add her to my list of heroes.  I admire people who have a clear view of exactly what it is they are meant for in life. Peggy Noonan, a journalist in the 1980’s, had a very definite dream. She wanted to be a speech writer for President Ronald Reagan. She writes: I had no connections in Washington, knew no one in the Republican Party, no one who’d worked for Reagan. But I was right for the job, I knew it. So I did a number of things, from telling everyone I knew what I wanted to do to praying that God would open a door. (I know now I was asking for a small miracle, but I believe in miracles. The way I see it, life isn’t flat and thin and “realistic,” it’s rich and full of mystery and surprise.)  I think miracles exist and happen every day, form the baby’s perfect shoulder in the sonogram to saints performing wonders. I think saints are with us, w

The Indian shop is part of our rich culture. Growing up in rural South Africa in the 1970's and 80's even the smallest town had one. It literally had everything - from a needle to an anchor. All at very reasonable prices and always open for bargaining. Only the shop owner had knowledge of the method in the madness of his store with its feeling of comforting chaos.  A lot has changed since and their numbers are dwindling. There has been a movement to the cities and Indian owned shops are now often situated in modern malls and are much more specialized. Bennet, the supervisor on the farm here in White River, wanted a tube for his bicycle. Not being that familiar with the area I yesterday followed the shortest route and asked for directions in town to the nearest Indian shop. It led me to one in Nelspruit where I found what Bennet requested. I must add however: I bought the tube in the modern cycle section of the shop. And although I got what I was looking for

So, here I am, back in Pretoria, while George stays on and manages the farm in White River until the weekend. To get my head back to basics, I had a personal planning session this morning. It nearly floored me! So many things to fit into each day, so much month left at the end of my money. I browsed through the  photos I had taken this past week in the Lowveld and remembered something that I had read in one of Sarah Ban Breathnach's books, Simple Abundance, A daybook of comfort and joy. Spirit knows that the rate of exchange used here on earth is cash, not clamshells or sheep. But the rate of exchange in Heaven is wonder. Doing what you love is not about the money, it's about wonder. As soon as you understand you're supposed to be asking for wonder instead of money, you'll start experiencing abundance. I keep forgetting, but every now and then I ask for wonder, and I have many pictures to show how I am showered with it! Matilda

We spent yesterday in "cloud country". Literally being so high up in the mountains at a lookout post called Wonder View on the road to Graskop, that the clouds seem to drift up from below. The view across the Lowveld carries on forever. We live in a beautiful country. Matilda

I love this quote by Annie Dillard. May you take care of today. 14/10/2012 George

We're in White River, looking after Matilda's son Leon's vegetable farm. It rained all day yesterday. People usually say when it rains: "You farmers must be glad." No, not always. Constant rain creates its own problems and challenges to stay afloat. We don't know half the story of that  patty pan on the shelve and what it took to get it there looking so good. 13/10/2012 George

I don’t LIVE enough.  Alive, but missing.  Missing in action. Missing out. Missing the point. The moment. Sunlight is wasted on me. I walk oblivious of the gold in my hair. Of the glowing in my skin I know only when the chill of nightfall replaces it. Why do we know better through loss? Why not stand and feel that one simple golden thread of breath that links the sky, birdsong, the sun, the incense of Spring flaming in purple petals? So much goes on while we draw air and dispense of it. In that small unconscious act of survival a world stands at attention to witness it. Breathing cannot be solely for this. We are made exquisitely sensuous. To go through a day and not be able to recall a scent, a colour, a touch, a feeling, a sound, a taste, is to be dead. The door to life  nailed shut. Each breath one closer to the last I’ll take. How often do I think this? When I write the date in my journal. One day closer.  I panic. When I think of t