The Restory Retreat Centre

Ek skryf in my joernaal met een van daardie vreeslik algemene kliek BiC penne. Regte ou werksesels. Wanneer ek petrol ingooi en ek betaal met my garagekaart en ek moet die strokie teken, diep die petroljoggie een van myne se broers op om die werk te doen. Gaan ek by die fabrieke of verskaffers deur die hekke waar sekuriteit diens doen, wie sal ook daar aan diens wees? Meneer BiC. Moet ek die betaalstrokie in die supermark teken na ek kruideniers gekoop het - met ‘n BiC. Dié wat swart skryf is oor die algemeen self swart. Die rooies rooi.  Dié wat blou skryf kom in ‘n hele verskeidenheid kleure voor. Kleure wat na alle waarskynlikheid snaakse name het wat ek nie ken nie. Die een van my het ‘n vreemde grys kleur, soos iets wat met die weermag of die kleredrag van jare gelede se boere te make het. (Moderne boere dra sulke spoggerige uitrustings met meegaande kleurskemas dat ek hulle nie as voorbeelde vir my pen se kleur kan gebruik nie). Dan is daar ook wit en so ‘n snaakse t

Photograph by Hideyuki Katagiri The purpose of fish traps is to catch fish. When the fish are caught, the traps are forgotten. The purpose of rabbit snares is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snares are forgotten. The purpose of words is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten. Where is the man who has forgotten All words, He is the one I would like to speak with.                                                                     Chuang Tzu

The nine sculptures depicting the Enneagram on display in Greenwood Manor, Linden, Johannesburg Sometimes my bold soul does something because she knows its the right thing to do. And I (read my ego self) go along with it because at the outset it seems such a good idea. After all, the ego loves showing off, doesn't it, even more than it wants to keep me safe from harm (read humiliation).      So when I contacted the Enneagram Institute in Johannesburg and requested whether we could display our Enneagram inspired sculptures at the all important upcoming Part 1 training by Russ Hudson and Gayle Scott, it was without hesitation. After all, what better exposure than to have it viewed by people whose life work revolves around the Enneagram?      As we prepared the plinths after having viewed the exhibition area, however, the familiar inner chatter started. My ego was running scared. What if they feel we have missed the mark? Would I be able to handle criticism or will it plunge m

Drawing by Ernest H Shephard People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing every day.                                                                                           Winnie the Pooh

The photo, taken by photographer Jack Bradley, shows the moment that Harold Whittles hears for the first time after being fitted with a hearing aid. Date unknown. Source: Able magazine, 2 June 2010

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 Whát I dó is me: for that I came. I say móre: the just man justices; Keeps grace: thát 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 Delmas, our closest town, is no different than most rural South African towns. The majority of shops situated next to the one main street. Until a few years ago no traffic light in sight. After

Photograph by Maxine Evan s I live my life in widening rings which spread out to cover everything.  I may not complete the last one,  but I’ll surely try:  I’m circling around God, around the ancient tower,  and I’ve been circling for thousands of years—  and I don’t yet know: am I a falcon, a storm,  or a vast song . . . .                                                  Rainer Maria Rilke, Prayers of a Young Poet,                                                  Translated and introduced by Mark S. Burrows 

Photograph by Hiltrud Enders The acceptance of oneself is the essence of the whole moral problem and the epitome of a whole outlook on life. That I feed the hungry, that I forgive an insult, that I love my enemy in the name of Christ -- all these are undoubtedly great virtues. What I do unto the least of my brethren, that I do unto Christ. But what if I should discover that the least among them all, the poorest of all the beggars, the most impudent of all the offenders, the very enemy himself -- that these are within me, and that I myself stand in need of the alms of my own kindness -- that I myself am the enemy who must be loved -- what then? As a rule, the Christian's attitude is then reversed; there is no longer any question of love or long-suffering; we say to the brother within us "Raca," and condemn and rage against ourselves. We hide it from the world; we refuse to admit ever having met this least among the lowly in ourselves.                              

In December 2011 we experienced snow on a visit to  Prague Today being Winter Solstice in the Southern Hemisphere and therefore the shortest day(length of daylight) of Winter as opposed to the longest day of Summer up North, I feel like concocting something special to celebrate the season. Me celebrating Winter? I must be either evolving or moving towards enlightenment! But searching through my many folders of photographs today looking for something to paint (I’ve enrolled in a watercolor course starting Monday), I discovered, to my utmost delight, how the winter palette speaks to my heart. Also, what really grabbed my attention as I scanned the internet for some interesting facts about solstices, is the incredible design of this little speck of dust in the expanse of space we call home. "The June solstice occurs when the sun is at its furthest point from the equator. It reaches its most northern point and the Earth's North Pole tilts directly towards the sun, at abou

Photo by D.M. Cobb I get frustrated and despondent when spurts of creativity are followed by the Lull. A void that opens up inside me with inspiration a far-off and unreachable destination. Our dream for Wakkerstroom is also in this same boat, aimlessly adrift an unnaturally calm sea. We seem to make no progress, although weeks go by full of busyness and work orders keep pouring in after months of fiscal drought for George.      It takes discernment to determine whether we ourselves are responsible for this unsettling stage. Should we go about it more aggressively? Market our dream more extensively? Get sponsorships? Prioritise? Leap?      Most surely we can give attention to all of these, but not everything is within our power to take us to the next stage. For that we have to be willing to wait. To trust. And to watch for the first sign of the rising wind, so we can set sail. In a time like this, it helps to read words like these:         “Above all, trust in the slo

My father with the four of us, at some beacon somewhere on one of our excursion, back in around  1969. When we were little, Pa took us to the places he discovered during the course of his working week as an electrician. It sometimes took him deep into the bushveld and later into the rain forests around Tzaneen. We even did a spell of six months down in Cape St. Francis where he worked on the electrification of a brand new 5 star hotel.       We lived in dire conditions in a little house we called "the train house" and I hated going to school in the nearby town of Humansdorp. Mainly because there were no grass playgrounds, only concrete and we traveled by bus, leaving home in the dark and wet of the Cape winter mornings. Accustomed to the dry, mild winters of the Lowveld,  we felt truly miserable.  But I rem ember best how we used to run up and down the corridors of the hotel, the smell of brand new carpets and a newly thatched roof. Looking through the windows from th

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands                                                                

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.                                                                            Pablo Neruda “Cold weather we’re having, isn’t it?” She asked me while writing out the invoice for the steel I had just purchased. The small office was crammed with boxes and pieces that awaited collection. A dirty poster against the wall showed the components of lorry suspensions. “Yes” I said “and apparently the worst is yet to come over this weekend.” Without looking up she said: “Fortunately we leave earlier on a Friday afternoon. I told my husband this morning, ‘This is ideal soup weather.’ On my way home I am going to buy soup meat, so I can make us some this evening. But first I have another appointment.” The way she mentioned it was an invitation for enquiry. “What do you have to do before buying the meat?” “I’m getting a tattoo.” Was I interested enough to follow the lead? Was she worth

Photograph by Brian Sano Somehow, amidst the filling out of forms and checking my to-do-list, I left my wallet behind in the post office yesterday, after registering a letter. By the time I realised it and rushed back, it was gone. Along with bank cards and my driver’s license. Back home we discovered that the second pair of trousers that we had bought for my dad, with all the outer tags corresponding with the tags of the pair he tried on in the store, is in actual fact two sizes smaller. The health of Matilda’s father is a matter of great concern to us. We were reminded yesterday that on different levels he struggles to cope with life’s challenges.   Buried among all of this and despite the frustrations, I believe there is harvest and material that can contribute to my growth. But the moving from believing to applying – there’s the rub. I return to an old theme that I touched on previously in This is it and God disguised . How to read our lives. How to re

Rietfontein in winter. Photo by Matilda The first real cold spell of winter is upon us. I've moved from the desk where I was sitting when I could no longer feel my fingers and am now sitting on the edge of my bed with the sun gently thawing me through the window pane.      Its a funny thing about South Africa: we have relatively short winters and in global terms they are rather temperate for most of the three month duration, with every now and again the arrival of a really cold spell that grips most of the country. It lasts for a day or three and then subsides, going back to cool at the most.      Sunny South Africa, right?! The problem however, is that our buildings, especially residential dwellings, are not built in such a way that they are energy efficient and the cost of electricity and fuel being what it is, we tend to almost freeze inside our homes.     We go outside in winter to warm up in the glorious winter sun! And our houses with their large windows (definitely

Large River Road - Skildery deur Toni Grote The duties of each moment are the shadows beneath which hides the divine operation.                                                                                           Jean-Pierre de Caussade:                                                                                            Abandonment to Divine Providence Terwyl ons vreeslik reël word dit wat besig is om vir ons gereël te word stil en stom gereël. Maar wanneer ons stil word, ons stywe greep laat los, sien ons hoe ons dryf in uitstekende reëlings wat sê dat ons geken word en dat daar liefdevol na ons belange omgesien word. Ons kan buitendien net nie so reël soos wat daar vir ons gereël word nie.                                                                                                George

Photo: 100people.org A number of years ago I came across an interesting slant on world statistics in a small newspaper clipping. By compacting the global population into a village of 100 people, one was astonished to become aware - through this manageable scale - of how privileged we are. We, meaning those who have a house and running water among other things. A very large proportion of the inhabitants in the 100 Village didn’t have that. The clipping didn’t state the source of the information. I, although being somewhat sceptical about the ways statistics can be applied in conveying over emotional messages, nevertheless suspected that overall there was a huge amount of truth in these numbers. Since my first encounter with the Village people (no, not the band!) there was the information explosion through the internet. Which is why it’s certainly no surprise that I once again met our 100 Villagers recently. But surprisingly enough they were now part of a wonderful proje