The Restory Retreat Centre

Raphael - Sistine Madonna, Angels “D’you reckon Skipper’s got wings now?” somebody started up. “Suppose so”, came an answer. “Don’t fancy wings meself.” “Why’s that?” “How can you get yer shirt off?” “Don’t be daft, angels don’t have no shirts.” “Wot then?” “It’s a nightie.” “I ain’t gonna wear no nightie, it’s cissy.”                                                                 Fynn: Mister God, this is Anna

While Eylene was living in Nieu Zealand, we stayed in contact through the internet and many long phone calls. The distance between us being literally halfway around the globe felt immense and I often had an incredible longing to be able to just give her a hug.        What gave unexpected comfort, was sharing recipes. We both enjoy cooking and baking and she would often ask for a family recipe to counter the attacks of loneliness. There's nothing as soothing as the familiar fragrance of a leg of lamb with rosemary and garlic roasting in your foreign kitchen, she would say.        She sent me this recipe of a Chocolate mud cake. It is totally decadent and incredibly rich, so it goes a long way in small portions, but if you need a little extra loving care from yourself, this is it.          I baked it recently for my friend Ralie's birthday tea. I decorated it with fresh jasmine blossoms and tiny violets from my garden and filled the centre with luscious strawberries.  

This morning, without deciding upon it formally, Mily and I took it reaaally easy and had a snuggle-in. Outside it seemed rather overcast and gloomy: perfect cuddle weather. She curled onto my lap, covering my first and second chakras with her silken body, while I lay dozing on my back. She later moved to where the sun started trickling onto the corner of the bed while I sat writing about the richness of this simple indulgence and tried drawing her catness in R-mode like I am being taught in Art class at the moment.        Then I spent time planning a week of personal treats. Read on, this gets even more ridiculously decadent. In my defence, I have to say that I am under orders to do so. (See Tasks of Chapter 11 of Julia Cameron’s Artist’s way). I struggle with especially this: treating my inner child, the true artist in me, to the things I need to fill my creative well. The reason, always, is a feeling of guilt. Guilt because there's a furrow seemingly permanently ploughed in

I won’t say it is my favourite place on a late Saturday afternoon – a huge supermarket in one of the Johannesburg suburbs. Earlier in the day I attended The Jesuit Institute’s development day for spiritual directors and prayer guides in Auckland Park. While being there Matilda sent me a text and asked that I get a few things for the family gathering on Sunday. Now, who am I to resist the love of my life? As is often the case buying groceries, you somehow get temporary companions walking with you up and down the aisles. Total strangers in sync loading their trolleys or baskets. He did not exactly fall into the category of one of my grocery travel companions, although we were in the same store at the same time. His route was too haphazard to qualify. Using his grocery trolley as a walker, he shuffled bent over from shelf to shelf, putting everything on his list - nowhere to be seen - on the little seat of the trolley. He would cross your path at the bread stands, disappear

Foto: George Angus Die ou huis waar ons besig is om stuk-stuk in te trek het vir goed vier jaar of langer leeggestaan. Oom Koekies en tannie Joey wat lank daar gebly het, het aftree-oord toe verhuis nadat tannie Joey siek geword het. Na hulle het daar nie weer iemand daar gebly totdat ons gekom het nie. Maar ons misgis ons. Daar was ander inwoners. Vrydagaand met die aankom daar, het ons die bokkie vlugtig in die bakkie se ligte gesien. Saterdagoggend baie vroeg, terwyl ek in die oggendskemer met my koppie koffie voor die venster staan, kom hy in die kampie direk teen die huis ingehardloop, soek vir ‘n tydjie ernstig na ‘n uitgang en glip toe deur die opening in die draad, oor die oop werf die bosse in. Saterdagmiddag, toe ons teen skemer van oupa Frans in die aftree-oord op die werf terugkom, staan hy rustig en wei in die kort grassies voor die ou waenhuisdeur. Ons het die bakkie afgesit en net lank na hom sit en kyk. Dit wil soos ‘n vaalribbok lyk. Of dalk ‘n steenbo

When an archer is shooting for fun He has all his skill. If he shoots for a brass buckle He is already nervous. If he shoots for a prize of gold He goes blind Or sees two targets – He is out of his mind. His skill has not changed, But the prize divides him. He cares. He thinks more of winning Than of shooting – And the need to win Drains him of power.                                            Chuang Tzu

Photograph: Tilly Meijer Once upon a time, the animals decided they must do something heroic to meet the problems of "a new world." So they organized a school. They adopted an activity curriculum consisting of running, climbing, swimming and flying. To make it easier to administer the curriculum, all the animals took all the subjects. The duck was excellent in swimming, in fact better than his instructor, but he made only passing grades in flying and was very poor in running. Since he was slow in running, he had to stay after school and also drop swimming in order to practice running. This was kept up until his webbed feet were badly worn and he was only average in swimming. But average was acceptable in school, so nobody worried about that except the duck. The rabbit started at the top of the class in running, but had a nervous breakdown because of so much make-up work in swimming. The squirrel was excellent in climbing until he developed frustratio

Ruins of Ballroom, Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit - Photography by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre Noise of hammers once I heard, Many hammers, busy hammers,  Beating, shaping, night and day,  Shaping, beating dust and clay  To a palace; saw it reared;  Saw the hammers laid away.  And I listened, and I heard  Hammers beating, night and day,  In the palace newly reared,  Beating it to dust and clay:  Other hammers, muffled hammers, Silent hammers of decay.                                        Ralph Hodgson

My dad in his new room, listening to his favourite music on a new pair of head phones.  It all worked out much better than I anticipated. I stressed about just about everything: from getting the bulky application form completed and delivered with the attachments of medical reports, psychiatrist's evaluation, bank statements, consent forms and necessary signatures gathered and duly attached, to the painstaking marking of every single item of clothing and possession that would be moved along with my dad to his new care facility, and the actual move, taking his furniture and belongings and installing it into his room before he would set foot in it. It was a much bigger exercise than I had imagined from the start, and we had to keep our wits together and pull together as siblings and partners in a team effort to see this through. Driving him there, he and I have a couple of hours on the road to discuss the way forward and reflect on the past that led up to this drastic move. H

Foto: George Angus Ek het met elektriese turbine pompe grootgeword. Met windpompe is ek regtig nie so goed bekend nie. Daar waar ons nou op Wakkerstroom gaan bly, word die water met 'n windpomp uit die boorgat gepomp. Saterdag stel ek myself toe aan dié tegnologie bekend en luister na wat dit vir my wil wys en sê. Ek glo as mens aandagtig luister en jou volle aandag aan enigiets gee, dit met respek en eerbied behandel, dan praat dit met jou en wys jou hoe dit werk.  Ek het my sommer al vroeg-vroeg in dié kennismaking in aan die slinger met sy tandrat wat die stert van die windpomp knak en inbind sodat die wiel nie aanhoudend wind se kant toe gedraai word nie verstom. Wanneer jy hom laat skiet en die stert vou reguit oop, sien jy hoe die groot wiel wind se kant toe neig. Kompleet nes 'n groot staal sonneblom wat sy kop na die son toe draai. Hy knoop dan die wind in daardie vinne van hom vas en dwing hom om die stang onder in die boorgat as't ware op en af te waai s

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.                           Carl Sandburg

Christ is the bread, awaiting hunger. St. Augustine Matilda took her father through to the retirement village in Wakkerstroom today. Within a few weeks we’ll be moving as well, so we’ll be close by, living on the farm a little out of town. We know that the retirement facilities and care are very good, but on a personal level we really want him to be happy there. This past weekend we moved his furniture into his new room and furnished it with his favourite chairs, new curtains and linen and put up the family photos he loves. With us doing that, Matilda’s sister Marinetha looked after him and my father here on the farm at Rietfontein. A real logistical exercise to have our hands free and them taken care of. Earlier this afternoon Matilda sent me a picture of him lying on his bed in the sun in his new room, listening to his favourite music and singing along. It is still early days, but he seems to like his new surroundings. To us it is such a relief. This was the fir

Photograph by Kris Vanderveken To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.                                                                                    C.S. Lewis: The Four Loves

After reading George's post yesterday, Feeling of all ordinary human life , I was reminded of a piece I wrote around the same time, five years ago, August 2008, that is. My youngest son was still in school, but other than that nothing much has changed. And winter still gets to me just as it did then. This year's jasmine galaxy against the bluest sky                                            Sometimes, there’s not a thing in my head that seems to be worthy of putting words to it. And sometimes there are things in my head that are much too abstract to envelope them in words and post them to where my consciousness can receive them and go: “Aah! So that’s what this is all about!”        Today seems to be one of those not-worthy-of-words days where I sit around inside my head, shifting restlessly from one un-noteworthy thing to the other: Washing needs to be done, cats need to be groomed, tax form must be completed, and most urgent of all un-noteworthy things that has th

Photograph by Matilda Clifford If we had a keen vision and feeling of all  ordinary human life, it would be like  hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's  heart beat, and we should die of that roar  which lies on the other side of silence.                                   George Eliot