The Restory Retreat Centre

This November a strange zeal took hold of me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we are working through Julia Cameron's Artist's Way in a small group we started. The previous time I did that, my life took a whole new direction, which to me now, reviewing the seven years since, seem to have been the most chaotic, most demanding and most creatively alive years of my life. Two days prior to November 1, I stumbled upon a website, http://www.nanowrimo.org of The Office of Letters and Light, who has, since 1999, declared November to be National Novel Writing Month. A challenge is then made and roughly 300 000 people worldwide sign up for this crazy venture - to write a novel of 50 000 words during the month of November. I have one and a half days and 2600 words to go. In South Africa, November is the crazy month when everything has to be fitted in before the summer holidays. School exams are written, year-end parties happen while work deadlines loom, Christmas C

My dad and I live together on the farm. Most of the time we only have each other as company. He is 78 years old, his short term memory is very bad, for all practical purposes he made the days and places of his youth his home and he is unable to grasp modern concepts like Google, email, or blogs. Spiritual direction is Greek to him and I am unable to convey to him the importance writing has for me. Something that cannot be welded or turned in a lathe, or measured or calculated and for which you do not have to wear an overall in his eyes does not count for work. There are conflicting emotions within me where my father is concerned.   Quite often I am frustrated out of my wits. Our conversations are repetitions of well worn phrases. First thing in the morning: “What’s the weather like?” or “Beautiful morning, isn’t it.” Watching him where he is pouring tea into our cups I wait for the familiar: “There are still left if you want some more.” Every time the washing i

Cat in window - photo by Elitess You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forgo, This warm kind world is all I know. You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men. You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To sexless souls, ideal quires, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend’s remembered tones. Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.                                                              

I built my house by the sea. Not on the sands, mind you, not on the shifting sand. And I built it of rock. A strong house by a strong sea. And we got well acquainted, the sea and I. Good neighbours. Not that we spoke much. We met in silences, respectful, keeping our distance but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand. Always the fence of sand our barrier, always the sand between. And then one day (and I still don't know how it happened) The sea came. Without warning. Without welcome even. Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine, less like the flow of water than the flow of blood. Slow, but flowing like an open wound. And I thought of flight, and I thought of drowning, and I thought of death. But while I thought, the sea crept higher till it reached my door. And I knew that there was neither flight nor death nor drowning. That when the sea comes calling you stop being good neighbours, Well acquainted, friendly fro

Photo by Matilda Clifford                                                      In the name of the bee                                             And of the butterfly                                             And of the breeze                                             Amen.                                       -Emily Dickinson

November 23rd is Buy Nothing Day in the USA and Canada. Buy Nothing Day Europe is November 24th.The idea is to opt out of the consumer culture for just one day. Totally by accident I typed "consumer vulture".   Now doesn't that put an interesting spin on things? I wish I've thought of that! It leads right into what I wanted to say. If the total population of the world were to make the lifestyle of the upper sector of the population in leading Western countries the ideal, one everybody aspires to, one planet earth won’t be enough to supply the raw material needed to sustain such a lifestyle. Such a lifestyle is in essence totally out of step with what our planet has to offer. Through our compulsive buying and consumerism we are quite literally raising consumer vultures waiting to pick the bones of a dying planet. By not buying on Buy Nothing Day we may not create a major change in the flow of things, but at least we start objecting. At least we begin t

I always try to choose the menu for lunch on Quiet days carefully. I have to be able to prepare it in advance to allow myself to also enjoy the quiet. It has to be something that can wait patiently on the table for retreatants to eat at will, without wilting, drying out, or, heaven forbid, going bad. For yesterday's Quiet Day I prepared an old favourite, Butternut and Leek Quiche, the recipe of which I got from my friend Anita, who is one of the best cooks I know. It bursts with flavour and is not for the lactose intolerant among us, containing cheddar and feta cheese as well as cream (I use double thick yoghurt as substitute). Also, the crust is the best and easiest I have ever made! The only real effort goes into cutting the butternut into chunks, but I scrub and wash it well and use it unpeeled. The skins goes soft and just slightly chewy which gives it an interesting texture, while also keeping the cubes from cooking to a pulp. Perfect fair for the holidays and lovely se

Photograph by Andrew Montgomery God comes to us disguised as our life. Paula D’Arcy In spiritual direction sessions with directees and living my life in general, this is a quote that is a constant companion. It has something to say about our daily living and our experiences. It is a guide in our relationship with God. That said, I must confess that in my dealings with this quote, I often feel like St Augustine who, on a thorny Scriptural issue, once remarked, “If you do not ask me about it, I know what it is; if you ask me about it, I do not know.” I know exactly what Paula D’Arcy is saying – if you don’t ask me what it is she is saying. On a deep level it comforts me, creates order in chaos. The moment I dress that understanding in words however, meaning somehow stumbles over its own feet. It soothes and comforts because it says that God is coming towards me. Constantly. Never ending. Unstoppable. If you are alive, God comes towards you. Fair enough.

Throw away all your begging bowls at God’s door, For I have heard the Beloved prefers sweet threatening shouts, Something on the order of: “Hey Beloved, My heart is a raging volcano Of love for you! You better start kissing me - Or Else!” Hafiz

 This little bloke kept me company all day long: his own reflection in the glass sliding door close to my study drove him crazy. He just had to show the little twirp who's territory this is. If he could just get to him! I had to laugh at the antics and bullheadedness. I was tapping away haltingly at my keyboard, struggling to find the flow to a story that up till now has led me smoothly down interesting pathways. Why today was any different I don't know. There seemed to be an obstruction of sorts. Some invisible wall, much like the finch was experiencing. Then I read the Daily placed by George. We don't coordinate of even plan ahead for the daily posts, enjoying each others input and marvelling at the scope that is represented in our respective lives.                                     It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals,  that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse.  As our eyes grow accustomed to sight  they armor t

"Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting.  It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals,  that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse.  As our eyes grow accustomed to sight  they armor themselves against wonder."                                                                                                         ~ Leonard Cohen

Artist: Quint Buchholz Not everything that counts can be counted,  and not everything that can be counted counts.                                                                          Sign hanging in Einstein's office at Princeton P.S This is the 100th post on our blog - but who's counting?

Le Brun - Dromedaries While working in the workshop my mind wanders leisurely all over the place. Today I remembered a story that I have heard for the first time many years ago. There once was an old father who had 3 sons and 17 camels. When the old man died, he left ½ of the camels to his eldest son, ⅓ of the camels to the middle son, and  1 / 9  of the camels to the youngest son. They realized that you can't divide 17 by ½, ⅓, or  1 / 9 , so the began arguing and tension started to rise. Frustrated they asked the advice of a wise old neighbour. After listening to them he thought for a while and then said, “I’ll give you my camel.”  So the three brothers took the neighbour’s camel and now had 18 camels. The first son took ½ of the camels (which is 9), the second son took ⅓ of the camels (which is 6), and the third son took  1 / 9  of the camels (which is 2) and everybody was happy. But now they had an extra camel. They gave the 18 th  camel back to

Suzanne Valadon - Maurice Utrillo as a boy, drying up the back I imagine myself walking on the beach of images next to the sea of words. Mostly I just listen, or look. Sometimes I stop to pick up what the sea has washed ashore. I keep my findings in a drawer and on quiet days I take them out and let them speak to me. At other times I feel their weight in my palm and run my fingers along their lines.  Lately I am fascinated by b eautiful descriptions in literature of the human body or lack thereof. ~ ~ o ~ ~ Mr. Duffy lived at a little distance from his body. ~ James Joyce She fitted into my biggest armchair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing armchairs tight about the hips that season. ~ P.G. Wodehouse Not body enough to cover his mind decently with; his intellect is improperly exposed. ~ Revd Sydney Smith Had Cleopatra’s nose been shorter, the whole face of the world would have changed. ~ Blaise Pascal

Some keep the Sabbath going to the Church — I keep it, staying at Home — With a Bobolink for a Chorister — And an Orchard, for a Dome — Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice — I just wear my Wings — And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church, Our little Sexton — sings. God preaches, a noted Clergyman — And the sermon is never long, So instead of getting to Heaven, at last — I'm going, all along.                                                                                                  Emily Dickinson

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;    As tumbled over rim in roundy wells         Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's         Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;                 Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:              Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;           Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,       Crying What I do is me: for that I came .    I say more: the just man justices;                Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;                     Acts in God's eye what in God’s eye he is—               Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,        Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his                    To the Father through the features of men’s faces.                                                       Gerard Manley Hopkins

As often happens, a book jumped out at me the other day in one of the many second hand bookshops I frequent. I was so exited I could hardly bear it! Gerard Manley Hopkins - A selection of his Poems and Prose by W.H. Gardner. Inside these pages I would be able to get to know him better, as is befitting for one I feel to be a soul-friend even if he lived and died many years before I was even born. The eldest of eight children, Gerard was born in 1844, into a Victorian family where art, literature and religion formed part of their daily diet. For many years, Gerard aspired to become a painter, and two of his brothers did. Gerard's talent in drawing is as evident as his genius in writing and poetry. He was a brilliant student and during his studies after his acceptance into the Catholic Church in 1866, he was proclaimed "the star of Balliol". He was influenced greatly by the Discipline of the Society of Jesus as based on the Spiritual Exercises written by it's fo

I must confess. I am totally hooked on trucks. Give me a choice between an expensive sports car and a truck and I’ll choose the latter every time. On a day like today where I had to travel all over Johannesburg and the East Rand, the stress of traffic is to a large extent compensated for by all the opportunities to look at trucks. New models, all types of loads, driving next to a favourite on the highway. It is difficult to explain why these heavy vehicles have such an impact on me but I can think of a number of factors that come into play: their sheer power, their sound, their size, the brilliant application of physics in all its forms. For years now I’ve been a secret admirer. Creating files on my computer where I collect all the images I find or dig up of Macks, Kenworths, Freightliners, Peterbilts, Western Stars, Scanias, Internationals. There will come a day when the driver of such a giant will witness my admiration at a depot or petrol station and ask: “Do you w