The Restory Retreat Centre

In an age where anxiety is rampant, despite all our developments and achievements, Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream almost acts as a society’s emblem. No wonder it sold for $120m at a Sotheby’s auction in New York last year.  Now I’m wondering: How did we get to the point where such a painting reflects our underlying mood? As I said, despite all our developments and achievements. What is lacking when we seem to have it all? And although I absolutely adore the painting, I find the price a bit too steep. How is it possible that somebody has so much money (In excess I might add. His/her other living expenses are apparently covered and he/she has a little something lying around to invest somewhere), while millions on the planet do not know where the next meal will come from? If ever. What is wrong with this picture? Pardon the pun! Edvard Munch was himself a troubled man. Suffering from insomnia, he would often book himself an overnight couchette to Oslo, as he found

If you would know the age of the earth, look upon the sea in a storm. The grayness of the whole immense surface, the wind furrows upon the faces of the waves, the great masses of foam, tossed about and waving, like matted white locks, give to the sea in a gale an appearance of hoary age, lustreless, dull, without gleams, as though it had been created before light itself.                                                                                                          ~ Joseph Conrad

Pastoral scene by Chinese artist Chen JuLian What delicate mood What sensitive life is this? A world I do not know yet. Matilda 

  Foto deur Lien Botha Dave Pepler skryf in sy pragtige boek Immergroen. Stories oor plante:   “My voorstoep kry die son uit die weste en dit bak soos ‘n hoogoond. Op elke trappie het ek ‘n erdepotjie met ‘n vygie daarin, die bogrond toegepak met koffiekleurige spoelklippies. Soggens, as ek koffie drink op die boonste trap, bekyk ek hulle. Byna so immobiel soos fossiele staan hulle jaarlank tot daar skielik, oornag, ‘n blomknoppie verskyn. Daardie dag probeer ek tuisbly en wag tot die son tref, want ek weet dat die blom net vir my gaan bloei. Vygies gee jou plesier op ‘n stil manier. Hoe soet klink die volksname nie – ghoena, ghôkum, steekvy, kougoed, vingerkanna, brakslaai, asbos, loogslaai, haasballetjies, kirriemoer... Het jy al suurvy-konfyt geproe? Gaan soek, want daar is nog enkeles wat dit kook. Maar, bowenal beloon vygies jou met hul dankbaarheid en uitbundigheid. Uit dorheid en grint, teen middag, breek hulle die lig.” Dit vra om saam met Marlene van Nieker

Here is a pen and here is a pencil, here's a typewriter, here's a stencil, here's a list of today's appointments, and all the flies in all the ointments, the daily woes that a man endures – take them, George, they're yours!                                                            Ogden Nash

Delmas again. (See the post Christ plays in ten thousand places ) The young receptionist and I enjoyed the silence that settled around the two of us in the waiting room. She was paging through some files and I was busy filling out the form with all my dad’s information. In one of the procedure rooms I could hear the dentist chatting with my father while working on the problem tooth.   The bell at the security gate rang. The young woman on the outside struggled to open the gate as the receptionist pressed the release button. I got up to help her. In a strange blend of confusion and determination she stepped into the room and walked towards the reception counter. Her thin dress did not provide much protection against the chilly winter morning.  Neither the receptionist nor I understood what she was saying when she started talking. By the sound of it it must have been one of the foreign languages from another part of Africa. The receptionist tried through gesture