The Restory Retreat Centre

My sister Marinetha and I (left) during one of our annual seaside holidays. Strange forces are at work in the creative process. I often find myself buckling under the heavy hand of a dry spell that settles on the back of my neck and keeps my vision aimed downward. Downhill it rapidly pushes me and soon I find myself in a dark valley where I am convinced that no light ever reaches. No spark of inspiration seems possible as I don't really have the capability of NOTICING things to produce the necessary spark.       I know rationally that at such times the trick is to simply carry on creating. Even if it feels hollow or nothing much. To just keep going. But it is almost impossible to propel my inner artist to do this when there is simply nothing that excites.       At other times it is a subtler enemy that sneaks in and knocks me off balance. I get a commission to make a really special gift  for a really special person on a really special occasion. I know it is really, reall

There's something magical about the Farmer's Market held on the grounds of the Pioneer's Museum every Saturday from 05:30 to 09:30, come rain or shine. And I suspect it's exactly these ungodly hours that gives it its charm! To get parking within a decent walking distance to the gates, you need to get there really early, which, during these shortening autumn days, means arriving along with scores of others and strolling through the myriad of stalls in near darkness for close on an hour before the sun leisurely shows up. Many stalls sport their own ingenious methods of lighting in the twilight zone, ranging from all manner of lamps to small generators powering electric light, but as the day dawns, the incredible abundance of all things natural and hand made and gorgeously wholesome spill into view and my senses do somersaults in my still rather sleepy body. A little boy scoops handfuls of rose petals from a bucket his father is carrying and throws it up into the ai

668 rhinos were poached in South Africa in 2012. The 2013 statistics - 249 already killed. It is so difficult to protect a wild thing. The growing number of rhinos lost despite a variety of methods implemented by authorities is a case in point. It asks for a multidisciplinary approach. It costs a lot of money. As ordinary people we can make donations and get involved in the work of a number of organisations such as http://www.kariega.co.za/about-us/help-save-our-rhino-project and http://www.savetherhino.org/support_us/donate to name but two. On Fridays we can wear our T-shirts to raise awareness about this very important issue. Despite the challenges we cannot give up trying. The haunting question remains: once the rhinos are gone, what will be next? Or deeper still – can the rhinos help us to become aware of and open our hearts to the rest of creation as well? Even to people? George

“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,  finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,  sermons in stones, and good in everything.  I would not change it.”                                                         William Shakespeare, As You Like It

“He’s at the door again, Honey.” “I know. He’s been there all night. Making that high whining sound.” “We have to do something. The phone has been ringing non-stop. I think his presence was the only thing preventing the neighbours to come over in person and complain about his presence. You can’t blame them. His rear must be in, I would say, Ostrich Ave, and his wings stretch from here to the primary school on the one side and the traffic circle in Dan Pienaar Dr on the other. What a mess!” “I am sorry, Love. I never should have mentioned how lonely he looked there on the tarmac after we’ve landed. It was just that I wasn’t that aware of him during our flight. But seeing him from outside and all the people leaving him in such a rush after travelling together for that distance... They didn’t even look in his direction. It just felt right to say thank you.” “Shhh... It’s not your fault. How were you to know that he was going to follow us home? We just have to stay

Glory be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; -Gerard Manley Hopkins

Discovering Prague's delights Writing my recent post  Any pair will do , reminded me of one of the most memorable summons we've had to a bookshop and the cache awaiting us there.     During our visit to Prague in December 2011, Linda showed us around the city just before Christmas. As we crossed the famous Charles Bridge, she showed us one of the sights we were heading to - the Franz Kafka museum.    But she had a few surprises up her sleeve and one of them was                                                            Shakespeare & Sons As far as we know, it is the only second hand bookshop in all of Prague dealing in English books! Being in the part of the city called The Old Town, the building is many centuries old and coming in from the icy cold through the huge wooden door on street level we walked into its warm, musty embrace.     It must surely be the most beautiful bookshop I've ever been to: with its thick walls lined with wooden book cases, mello

Photograph  by Troy Mayr Sit and be still until in the time of no rain you hear beneath the dry wind's commotion in the trees the sound of flowing water among the rocks, a stream unheard before, and you are where breathing is prayer.                             Wendell Berry

Internet image -Source unknown The way some, OK, many  women are drawn to shoes, I am drawn to books. Or to be more exact, to second hand book stores. I couldn't care less what pair of shoes I'm book browsing in, but the feeling of finding the perfect book is very similar to finding the perfect fit.      It is rather uncanny how, out of the clear blue, an image of the interior of one of my favourite haunts will pop up and stay with me. Every now and again gently nudging me with the view of a shelf of books, the smell of old print when I open one of my own collection. And I know: I am being summoned. There is a book waiting for me.      As with the Sunbirdish , it didn't happen overnight. It dawned on me that something was afoot when, almost without fail, I was told by George as I presented him with a find, that it has long been on his wish list. I know about his wish lists on Loot, Amazon and privately kept, but to keep track would mean carting a very large document w

Painting by Ivan Nikolaevich Kramskoy It is a good rule after reading a new book,  never to allow yourself another new one  till you have read an old one in between.                                                                             ~ C.S. Lewis  On the contemplative journey, we find Lewis’s advice not only interesting and helpful, but almost inevitable as well. You come across all these wise modern authors and companions on the journey, but as a rule, they constantly remind you of the deep and rich tradition from where we find guidance and nourishment. We are members of a community of believers that span over centuries. It is an adventure with many rewards to be part of this ongoing conversation where the voices of the desert fathers, Julian of Norwich, Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Brother Lawrence, Sφren Kierkegaard, Gerard Manley Hopkins, G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis himself, to name but a few, are to be heard often as well. Second hand bookshops t

Borsbeeld van Nefertiti - Berlin Neues Museum Ek weet nie veel van die oorspronklike Nefertiti nie. Net dat sy Egipties was, dink ek? Ek kan haar natuurlik gaan Google, en daar is ‘n baie mooi gedig van Hennie Aucamp, wat George vir my sommer so uit die vuis uit aanhaal, maar sy is ‘n vae begrip in my kop wat grootliks net gekoppel is aan hoe sy gelyk het volgens oorlewering: 'n Statige koningin met 'n baie hoë hooftooisel en 'n mooi Egiptiese profiel. NEFERTITI Sy dra op haar lang nek versigtig Haar kop soos ‘n kruik wat kan breek En tereg – want haar Hollywood masker Het reeds in die een oog verbleek. Dis daardie “look” wat my hierdie Nefertiti laat opmerk het. Sy staan in ‘n effense hoek wat gevorm word deur die reuse klipformasie van die kranse by Linda en Pieter se naweekplekkie naby die Wilgerivier. Dit is vir my 'n hoogtepunt om uit te stap op die dek sodra ons daar aankom en in haar rigting te kyk. Sy is altyd daar. Met een arm gemaklik op di

Cosmos flowers on the Highveld - Photograph by Willie van Zijl God possesses the heavens -  but he covets the earth….  oh, he covets the earth.                                                    W.B. Yeats

Roxy - Photograph by Matilda Clifford Yesterday I saw a 12 week old Labrador puppy. She has the same light golden colour that our Roxy has and is beginning her training as a guide dog. We ran into each other by pure chance just as I was about to leave after my spiritual direction session. So inquisitive, gentle and with that sweet puppy breath. Her trainer was just about to enter their yard after their morning stroll. A few minutes later and I would have missed them. But I didn’t and it made such a difference. A dog is soft on the touch and although it may not count for much it is the theology of love as such George

Photograph by Caryl Moll Lately the Blacksmith Plover without the right foot is often on the lawn. I stand and watch him peacefully limping. He inspires me. Facing life on such thin limbs and claiming his place under the sun without  a foot to stand on.                                                   George

Photograph by Derek Keats Earth, my dearest, oh believe me, you no longer need your springtimes to win me over....                                                                                                                   ~ Rainer Maria Rilke I could have kissed him. Really. It’s not as if he was handsome, or sent my pulse racing. It’s just that he, after I’ve delivered the rollers at the factory and he was walking me back to the bakkie, casually said: “I love winter.” I love people loving winter. The Gauteng winters. People living down in the Cape are not frowned upon when they talk in nostalgic tones about Cape winters. There it is more or less in vogue to love winter – rainy weather, the warm glow of fireplaces, a glass of wine. The mere sound of it all is cultivated. With the winters in Gauteng it is different. My brother who lives in the Cape says everything north of the Vaal River is bleak and barren. I don’t have any defence, no counter argumen

Photograph by Dennis Laidler Dawn softly touches the little shoulder of the sleeping sparrow. Wakens him. Why would a new day want to start with a small bird singing?                                          George

Glory be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.                                                               Gerard Manley Hopkins: Pied beauty Before going to sleep at night, while lying in bed, I love to read. There is usually a Manhattan skyline of books stacked high on the little table close at hand. I am not very particular in my bedtime reading – anything black on white will do. However, a tool catalogue is an absolute treat. And if it is an antique tool catalogue, I’m in heaven. To be honest, I love looking at the pictures. For some reason or the other, the pictures in all the old catalogues have the same feel to them. You can almost hear and smell an old printing press, see the engravers, while turning the pages. They c

One of the big advantages of the internet is exposure to new information. Something presents itself that might never have crossed your path but opens up a whole new world when it does. This morning I had a pleasant surprise when I opened the Google page. I had to explore it further and in doing so was introduced to someone I immediately recognized as a soul friend. It so happens that today is her 366th birthday. I quote from the Google page.                                     "Maria Sibylla Merian's 366th birthday is being marked by a Google doodle. Merian is best known for her detailed observations and documentation of the metamorphosis of the butterfly and other contributions to the field of entomology.    Maria Sibylla Merian was born on 2 April 1647 in Frankfurt. Her father died three years after her birth, and in 1651 her mother married Jacob Marrel, a still life painter. Marrel encouraged Merian to draw and paint. At the age of thirteen she painted her first images

I am fascinated by the incredible design of the passion fruit flower which epitomizes the word "exotic" for me. On the farm in White River an abundance of flowers and fruit grow in solid walls of green, their beautiful fragrance all around as I capture it on camera in the late afternoon sun. I marvel at the times we live in, which allow the fruit to be air shipped all over the world in a mere day or two after picking. To be enjoyed by someone living thousands of miles from here. But I am concerned about the many challenges farmers have to face. We should spare more than a thought for the farmers who put food on our tables. In South Africa it is becoming an uphill battle and I feel anxious for what the future holds for my son with the farmer's heart. In Great Brittain there is an initiative called "Keep Brittain farming". Maybe it should be a global one. Matilda