The Restory Retreat Centre

Every now and again George remembers his duties as my personal muse and assigns me a writing exercise with themes that range from truly mediocre, like to write about who lives in my street, to spectacularly bizarre: the Queen's handbag being one I distinctly remember. Of course, he knows that I will find out, as I write along, that no theme is ever mediocre, but the writing makes it so. As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, mediocrity is often the shades we wear looking at the world around us. "Write about what you don't think about." I ignored the assignment for a bit. I usually do when I know it will take me places I might not find comfortable. In any case, writing about what I'm not thinking about will have me thinking about it, won't it? But yes, I know what he means. So let's see where this leads me. It really depends on the season, but in these glorious, golden, autumn days, and again in late spring, I don't think about climatic temp

Crucifixion icon in Christian Orthodox church St. Atanasij the Great in Bogdanci, Macedonia When Jesus came to Golgotha, they hanged Him on a tree, They drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary; They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep, For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap. When Jesus came to Birmingham, they simply passed Him by. They would not hurt a hair of Him, they only let Him die; For men had grown more tender, and they would not give Him pain, They only just passed down the street, and left Him in the rain. Still Jesus cried, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do,’ And still it rained the winter rain that drenched Him through and through; The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see, And Jesus crouched against a wall, and cried for Calvary.                                                                       GA Studdert Kennedy

Photograph by Orren Jack Turner This past weekend we thoroughly enjoyed the performances at the annual Wakkerstroom Music Festival. Such talent! While listening to the classical music coming forth from violin, piano, marimba, clarinet, bassoon, organ and the rest, the following came to mind. It originally appeared in the November 1955 edition of Reader's Digest . The Night I Met Einstein by Jerome Weidman When I was a very young man, just beginning to make my way, I was invited to dine at the home of a distinguished New York philanthropist. After dinner our hostess led us to an enormous drawing room. Other guests were pouring in, and my eyes beheld two unnerving sights: servants were arranging small gilt chairs in long, neat rows; and up front, leaning against the wall, were musical instruments. Apparently I was in for an evening of Chamber music. I use the phrase “in for” because music meant nothing to me. I am almost tone deaf. Only with great

Photograph by Brian Sano There is more to life than increasing its speed.                                                                 Gandhi  In contemporary society our Adversary majors in three things: noise, hurry, and crowds.  If he can keep us engaged in “muchness” and “manyness,” he will rest satisfied.  Psychiatrist Carl Jung once remarked, “Hurry is not of the Devil; it is the Devil.”                                                                            Richard J. Foster

As in all languages, grammar also applies to Sunbirdish. I reflect on some of the rules, seeking clarity for myself as well as for anybody who is learning the ropes on their very own God dialect. I am sure that there will be vast differences, but also a degree of congruity and this might be helpful to other "birders" out there. Also, to make it quite clear: I did not create these, but make the deductions by reflection and listening as the encounters occur. The ABC: Awareness is the key to initially becoming aware of a conversation between God and myself and then to try to not miss a "word" by being absent minded going about my life. There is nothing supernatural about any of the sunbird encounters. They were born of such ordinary scenarios that I could have missed all or any of them at the blink of an eye. In this, living consciously, is the challenge and the adventure. I have to say that, thankfully, to not have had the sunbird experiences will not have

Photograph by George Angus The following usually serves one, but more can be nourished by it as well. Ingredients: * A workshop * A lathe (other machinery will do as well, but I find the rhythm and sound of the lathe to be soothing) * A job (not job as in “At least I have a job”. In the workshop we use it more in the sense of “Can you do this job for me, or do you have another one in the lathe?”). What works well is something repetitive, without being too complicated. Otherwise you have to concentrate too hard. A fairly big diameter or reasonable length is also an advantage. It ensures a nice long travel for the tool. *All the paraphernalia that goes with working on the lathe: enough soluble oil in the sump to keep the job lubricated, the necessary drills and tooltips, the wire hook that you use to remove the shavings from the bed, the splash plate to prevent the soluble oil from being flung in a fine spray all over the floor by the fast turning chuck, the peg spanner to fasten t

I have a feeling that my boat has struck, down there in the depths, against a great thing. And nothing happens! Nothing…Silence…Waves… –Nothing happens? Or has everything happened, and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?                                                           ~ Juan Ramon Jimenez

Reality is that place between the sea and the foam.                                                                   ~  Irish Proverb Matilda and I are in a process of being born while dying. Things are changing, left behind, opening up, not yet, finished, beginning. We won’t be at this place where we are now within the next four months. You might find us at the same address, but it will be different from what is here today. Or we won’t be living here any more. Where we’ll be, we don’t know. There has not been revealed. But it won’t be here. Do not ask me where here is. I cannot show you. Maps tell only parts of stories. As to what exactly we’ll do once we’re there?  About that there is not clarity. The farm is up for sale. When will it be sold? Will it be sold? What will open up in Wakkerstroom? Must we buy or rent? How big must the workshops and studio be at the place we are moving to? What must we focus on in terms of our own creativity? Being freelance artists

“I saw God the other day. He was a builder. I saw him plastering a wall at the coffee shop Nino’s in Rosebank, Johannesburg, at about eight thirty at night. I stopped for a good five minutes and watched him plaster. For that length of time, nothing mattered in the world. Not the conflict in the Congo. Not HIV/AIDS. Put it this way, if a truck came shuttling down on me at that very moment I would hardly have looked up, even if the driver were hooting. God was busy, you see?  And I was watching him. It occurred to me there and then, as that white man’s image reminded me of my late black father, that there is no better way to make colour acceptable than to do what you do extremely well. There is no quicker way to shut down prejudice than to be an expert at what you do. There’s no quicker way to bring out the God in you than to do what you do with intense honesty, love, focus, passion, concentration and total spiritual commitment. You see, Mandingo, God exists in al

On reading Matilda's encounters with the sunbirds again and being present at some, I am in total agreement with the wise who experienced before us. -           I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance than I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.                                                                     Henry David Thoreau How great the reverence I feel when a small bird accepts me as a friend.                Helen Thomson George

In writing about my experiences with sunbirds, I considered starting with the most recent encounter first, a little like the Lord of the Rings films. As far as I can tell it started somewhere in the middle of the very long tale and then moved hither and thither, with the film of the prelude, The Hobbit, only very recently being made and released. But I'm glad I didn't. In reliving the experiences in the sequence that it had happened, I am reminded of the subtlety with which I was led deeper and deeper into the analogy. It became rich with symbolism and has a luminality that cannot be explained rationally, and yet can also not be reasoned away. In sharing it in this way, I am convinced anew that we are not alone on this journey in life. We are safe and we are loved even more than we can ever fathom. To get the full story up till now, please see posts: Lessons in Sunbirdish (1) Lessons in Sunbirdish (2) Lessons in Sunbirdish (3)  (I am told it is not boring reading) When

Kry wolke seer? (Met apologie aan Hildegard Knef) Wie blaas die winde op hul baan? Kan oseane ook gaan staan? Wie knoop die sterre tot ‘n kruis? Sal skulpe elders anders ruis? Kry wolke seer wat skielik val? Het hobbelperdjies ook ‘n stal? Wie knip die kleed vir Tafelberg? Kan vredesduifies hul vererg? Kan eendagmooi ook langer hou? Trou jakkals wél met wolf se vrou? Wat is dit wat die mantis bid? Kan slange knak en regop sit? Ek is nie meer ‘n kindjie klein, want vragies hou my hart onrein en neem van my die amen-sê waarin ons rus en vrede lê.                                                      Hennie Aucamp: Teen Latenstyd

Bounty from the farm: Two crates of  freshly picked, plump passion fruit Irresistible insides!  Passion preserved. In South Africa we call them granadillas. But I prefer the name passion fruit, like they are also known widely. This name is derived from an analogy drawn centuries ago by Spanish Missionaries to South America between the flower's anatomy and Christ's Crucifixion. They called it Flor de las cinco lagas (flower of the five wounds) .  Hence the name passion fruit.  But for me it has more to do with a sensation bordering on bliss when I take a mouthful of fragrant pulp. It is near impossible to describe the taste: a tantalizing tartness combined with something like a flowery perfume fills your mouth and overwhelms your tastebuds before it slips down your throat with a silky coolness. I can never get enough of passion fruit. So it felt like Christmas when Leon gifted me with two huge crates filled with passion fruit that didn't make the grade f