The Restory Retreat Centre

Painting by Ena Lund Me and the hares again. (See the post  Two hares. And more ) Roxy the Labrador killed a young one yesterday morning. By some strange coincidence at almost the exact moment men from the informal settlement in the area hunted with their dogs in the long grass bordering our farm. I heard the excitement when the dogs found the hare, saw the chase in the distance, how it was eventually killed by a blow of a stick. I shouted at them, waved my arms. They merely moved further away. People may call me weak, but it all disturbs me deeply. I feel sick to my stomach. Tonight I found Walter de la Mare’s poem, the one I was remembering in fragments during the day. Hi! Hi! Handsome hunting man,  Fire your little gun,  Bang! Now the animal Is dead and dumb and done. Never more to peep again, creep again, leap again, Eat or sleep or drink again, oh, what fun! Yes.... George

Photograph by George Angus Wakkerstroom is in the middle. Not of South Africa. That spot is usually reserved for Bloemfontein. It is in the middle for us. Matilda loves the warmer, wetter northern part of our country. Tzaneen, Magoebaskloof with its mountains and forests. I am more of a plains person. The vast expanses and far off horizons of the Karoo stir my soul. We meet each other somewhere in the middle. Wakkerstroom is not warm, but it is wet. It does not have forests but we’ve discovered klofies 1 with beautiful streams, shady spots under big Ouhout 2 trees, larger than we’ve ever expected them to grow. Mist often covers the landscape, making everything silent and soft. On clear days you can see for miles on end, across vast valleys that are held by gentle mountains and hills on the edges. During the cold winters frost turns the delicate greens into all shades of brown, yellows. I have seen the grey gr...

Free Stock photo Hilaire Belloc is especially known for his "Cautionary tales for children". He was born in 1870 to a French father and British mother and his biography is quite interesting to read, even though I secretly harbour rather negative feelings for him. The reason being that I suffered considerably in childhood because of one of his rather humorous, but truly brutal cautionary poems, called, "Matilda, little liar." One of my primary school teachers thought it fit to include this poem in our English literature curriculum and the outcome was that, children being what they are, I not only became, Waltzing Matilda, but also, Little Liar. To this day, I cannot fathom what this person was thinking when she chose that poem as I was the type of learner that every teacher wish they had classrooms full of: obedient, quiet, intelligent and extremely hardworking. I would like to add honest to this list, but that might be protesting too much. Then, one day, not...

Drawing by Shel Silverstein I asked the zebra, Are you black with white stripes? Or white with black stripes? And the zebra asked me, Are you good with bad habits? Or are you bad with good habits? Are you noisy with quiet times? Or are you quiet with noisy times? Are you happy with some sad days? Or are you sad with some happy days? Are you neat with some sloppy ways? Or are you sloppy with some neat ways? On and on and on and on and on And on and on he went. I’ll never ask a zebra About stripes Again.                                                                     Shel Silverstein

Photograph by George Angus The men were eager to get started and engage in the work.                                                                                               Exodus 36:2 (The Message) Last week I finished the Versailles planter (some call it a Versailles tub as well) I made for a prospective client through the inspiration of our friend Sonja . I used Saligna for its durability and stability. The design is a fine example of complicated simplicity. The end result exhibits these elegant clean l...

I asked the little boy who cannot see, "And what is colour like?" "Why, green," said he, "Is like the rustle when the wind blows through The forest; running water, that is blue; And red is like a trumpet sound; and pink Is like the smell of roses; and I think That purple must be like a thunderstorm; And yellow is like something soft and warm; And white is a pleasant stillness when you lie And dream." Anon

Photograph by Michael Woo d Pulling out the chair Beneath your mind And watching you fall upon God – What else is there For Hafiz to do That is any fun in this world!                                                                Hafiz

Still on the feel-good yellow theme, I baked a batch of Beskuit this morning. This is a traditional pantry favourite in South Africa: a hard, dry type of biscuit also known as Rusks which had been baked twice and gets dunked into a hot beverage such as coffee or tea before eating. If ever I compile a recipe book, it would go under the section: Comfort food.     The origin of this confectionery is uncertain, but it also strongly resembles what is known to Italians as Biscotti. The French word "biscuit" meaning "twice baked" casts some explanation as to where our Beskuit got its name.     There are as many recipes for Beskuit as there are families, it seems, and in some instances these recipes are guarded as family secrets, along with recipes for the best koeksisters and biltong and all such things proudly South African.     Some prefer it made from white, sifted cake flour, flavoured with anise or buttermilk, sometimes studded with raisins, some leaven...

I simply cannot resist running for my camera as luscious May parades her golden hues wherever I go. The potted lemon and the huge mulberry in my back yard are vying for my attention, each glorious in her own right. In a much loved fruit bowl, some ruby grapefruit (a gift from MaTshepo, the rain harvester who grows them organically and with only rain water as irrigation) glows against the warm wood of the table. At a recent drumming circle (our first) a fire dancer had me trying new settings with my camera, it being quite a challenge to capture the magical mood of the fiery movements. I seem to be soaked in yellow. Happy, sunny Yellow! Which, according to my copy of The healing powers of Chromotherapy (using colours to cure diseases) by Hari Om Gupta, "represents intelligence, wisdom and loyalty. Yellow has been associated with the divine symbols of creation since time immemorial." I'm not too sure what that implies, but it makes me feel happy and hopeful, even thou...

Photograph: Fabs Forns A reminder: Our next Quiet Days held here at Rietfontein will be this coming weekend (18 and 19 May). For more details see  http://restorynews.blogspot.com/p/about-quiet-days.html

Photo by C. du Preez "The artist is no more and no less than a contemplative who has learned to express himself,  and who tells his love in color, speech or sound:  The mystic, upon one side of his nature, is an artist of a special and exalted kind." - Evelyn Underhill

Oppad na Queenstown, Nieu Zealand. Foto deur Matilda  Ek klim bergop. Die dors roep duisend stemme sterk. ‘n Bergval skink die kranskom vol en hou dit na my uit: Hier, kom drink. In my staan die wete op dat dors murgdiep begin. Ek stroop die roukleed van my lyf en duik         uitbundig                    plotseling                            die berg se yskelk in. Ek snak. Lewe stroom by duisend kele in. Ek snak. En been word vin. Matilda 

Internet image I, God, am your playmate!  I will lead the child in you in wonderful ways  for I have chosen you.                                                               - Mechtild of Magdeburg

Photo collage by Matilda Autumn days on the Highveld of South Africa start out chilly, with frosts bleaching the grasslands, before rapidly picking up in temperature to become balmy and tranquil.     The last few days have been the epitome of what Autumn stands for, for me. Warm colours, crisp textures and a softness of light that allows for the taking of beautiful pictures.     Matthew Fox, in Original blessing , reckons that "this may be the fullest vocation of the artist, to become transparent."  The art form of photography, allows me this freedom. To simply put out what is put before me. To do it as true to life as my skill and equipment allow, without getting too involved in the semantics of what my art is supposed to be about, gives me a welcome breather.     So without further ado, please welcome: The Autumn of 2013. Matilda  

You must love the crust of the earth on which you dwell more  than the sweet crust of any bread or cake;  you must be able to extract nutriment out of a sand heap.                                          Henry David Thoreau [Journal, 25 January 1858]

Suppose a man got a 32 GB flash drive when he upgraded his cell phone contract. He backed up all his documents and many of his photos onto it. He kept it apart from his computer, in his room, because he didn’t want to lose his data should anybody steal his computer. This was a wary man, because he had a lot of trouble after all his power tools had been stolen the year before. And suppose that one day, when this man wanted to make backups, he just could not find that flash drive. He switched on the light, used his torch, looked in all likely and unlikely places, he searched very carefully. But he could not find it. He was very sad and just could not imagine where he might have placed it. Finally he stopped searching and used DVD’s for his backups. He missed his 32 GB though. The flash drive was useful when he took photos to his friend’s place as well. So, when he saw the special on 8 GB drives, he got himself one. It was very handy, but also made him realise anew what a bi...

Photograph by George Angus With the shaper running and me busy making a set of blades for a silage cutter, the rhythm of the workshop sets in. Somebody coming in from outside might think I'm running a veterinary field hospital with dogs strewn all over the floor. Jasper the Border Collie close to the small welding machine, Roxy the Labrador with her cheek against the shaper. Healthy and happy. We're just working. God’s in His heaven - All’s right with the world! George

“Good morning,” said the little prince. “Good morning,” said the merchant. This was a merchant who sold pills  that had been invented to quench thirst. You need only swallow one pill a week, and you would feel no need of anything to drink. “Why are you selling those?” asked the little prince. “Because they save a tremendous amount of time,” said the merchant. “Computations have been made by experts. With these pills, you save fifty-three minutes in every week.” “And what do I do with those fifty-three minutes?” “Anything you like. . . ” “As for me,” said the little prince to himself, “if I had fifty-three minutes to  spend as I liked, I should walk at my leisure toward a spring of fresh water.” Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Foto deur Amanda White meneer, vandag is die wind ‘n ou viool. trouens, kragtens musiek is vandag se winter méér vertroostend; die platkopdenne byvoorbeeld: uitgerafelde slae van ‘n dowwe tamboer. die punt, egter, is: op die groen tralies voor die huis wat so lank leeggestaan het, met, tereg meneer die stadsklerk, bláre op die vensterbanke, vermoedelik véél gevaarliker vlermuise in die nok – op dié groen tralies waaragter ag, waaragter géén geheime huis (met tampende staan- horlosies ‘n bont papegaai ivoorpatrone op ‘n ronde tafel) meer bouvallig mag kantel nie; op dié groen tralies, geagte meneer – hoe sal ek dit formuleer – op dié groen tralies dans vandag die blink glissando’s van die son.              Marlene van Niekerk

Photograph by Wills Angus Do I need seed capital? A strategy to ensure success? Must I apply for a loan? Must I register a partnership? Must I attend workshops and get guidance in starting a day? No. Stand in the kitchen with your cup of coffee. Draw the curtains apart. The dogs look at you from outside, as if they waited all night for you to do just that. They wag their smiling tails. Look at the sun arriving from New Zealand. How it colours the dark into light. Listen how it becomes Wednesday. The start of a day is actually no business of ours. George

Photograph by Matilda Rilke had chosen as his own epitaph this poem: Rose, oh pure contradiction, delight of being no one's sleep under so   many lids. “I confess that I consider life to be a thing of the most untouchable deliciousness, and that even the confluence of so many disasters and deprivations, the exposure of countless fates, everything that insurmountably increased for us over the past few years to become a still rising terror cannot distract me from the fullness and goodness of existence that is inclined toward us.”  ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Life: New Prose Translations I can only guess at the nature of events that caused "a still rising terror" within Rilke, having read about his life which, in many instances could have silenced, and in some, almost did silence him completely as a poet.       And yet, he wrote these words, giving me hope when I am faced with exactly something similar, "a still rising terror", at something I c...