The Restory Retreat Centre

Walt Whitman - colouring by Dana Keller After the seas are all cross’d, (as they seem already cross’d,) After the great captains and engineers have accomplish’d their work, After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemist, the geologist, ethnologist, Finally shall come the poet worthy of that name, The true son of God shall come singing his songs.                                                                Walt Whitman: Leaves of Grass

I feel ashamed when I look at my list of packed boxes: meticulously numbered and with content and destination neatly noted. I started this out very enthusiastically, being strongly advised to do so by my friends, but the variety of handwriting on the list stands witness to the help I had, especially towards the end and only days before the movers were due to arrive. 92 boxes. I have no idea how I had managed to gather so much in the five short years I have lived in my city home! I don’t recall that the move into the house was such a big affair. We managed just fine by ourselves: using a couple of bakkies (ldv’s) and a couple of extra hired hands. But somehow, the many cupboards and lovely, roomy spaces started filling up. To boot we installed a ceramics studio in the double garage with two huge kilns and many shelves, a potter’s wheel, work bench, slab roller and an industrial sized sink with two deep basins. My ceramic work started spilling into the house as sculptures and ot

Painting by Johan Angus I can’t remember exactly how he was born. He arrived years ago like dew in the night – one day Roy was there. I do recall that it was during one of the most difficult and confusing periods of my life. Since then he stayed. He might be silent for weeks, but never do I have the feeling that he is far off. He is ever present in the wings. The origin of his name is a mystery too. It was not as if I decided to call him that. I met him as Roy. The same goes for his appearance. He is slender, with thin, flat hair. In his thirties, usually wearing a golf shirt and a pair of overall trousers. Mostly he sits. Not as if he’s lazy, more as if he is waiting and content in the knowledge that what needs to be done is being done. We meet each other in my journal. As I’ve said, he might be quiet for weeks and then, on any particular morning, he’ll be there on the page. On such an occasion my journal entry takes the form of a conversation: Roy: I s

Photograph by Suresh Gundappa It doesn’t interest me if there is one God or many gods. I want to know if you belong or feel abandoned. If you know despair or can see it in others. I want to know if you are prepared to live in the world with its harsh need to change you. If you can look back with firm eyes saying this is where I stand. I want to know if you know how to melt into that fierce heat of living falling toward the center of your longing. I want to know if you are willing to live, day by day, with the consequence of love and the bitter unwanted passion of your sure defeat. I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even the gods speak of God.                                                             David Whyte

Photograph by Alan Manson Wakkerstroom, February this year. As we were driving into town that particular morning, there were so many of these falcons sitting on the telephone lines next to the road that we had to stop and look. They were unfamiliar to us. Eastern Red-footed Falcon was the description our bird book gave us. Nice. The insert in the wildlife program on SABC 2 about a month ago had more information. The Amur Falcon, formerly called the Eastern Red-footed Falcon, is one of the very small raptors, weighing the equivalent of about four slices of bread. But ironically they also have one of the longest migration routes of any bird of prey, travelling the 25 000 km from their breeding grounds in Northern China and Southern Siberia to our summer grasslands in South Africa. In the process they have to run the gauntlet of mass killings by nets in Nagaland in India and long uninterrupted crossings over the Indian Ocean. Source: avibirds.com We thought w

On our recent outing into deepest Johannesburg (see  Tasting adventure ) George felt like trying on some hats and sunglasses at a quaint African market. Maybe it was the invigorating Afro-Jazz music in the air that prompted this impromptu shopping spree. Or maybe it was simply his incomparable ability to be amazed at just about anything that meets his gaze. It reminded me of the words of one of our favourite poets, Mary Oliver: Instruction for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. Matilda

Eylene at four years old (left) and at thirty (right). Not much that's changed. And yet. Eylene turned thirty yesterday. To celebrate the occasion, we went on an adventure, not unlike Winnie the Pooh and his friends when they went in search of the North Pole. We, a party of ten, however, went searching for the Neighbourgoods Market  in downtown Johannesburg.        We took the Gautrain, which is South Africa's only super modern express train. It runs between Pretoria and Johannesburg and we are very proud of it as the stations are kept neat and clean and one can pretend you are travelling abroad somewhere in a first world country.        Stepping off the train and following a myriad of cell phone gps's and hard copy maps, we set of to walk the 750 m to the market through an area we would normally not venture into. I felt excited by this, and sensed it in Eylene also, as we walked into the stomach of this vast African city, the sun hot and the streets crowded with p

Photograph by David Chedgy My father worked with a horse-plough,  His shoulders globed like a full sail strung Between the shafts and the furrow. The horse strained at his clicking tongue. An expert. He would set the wing And fit the bright steel-pointed sock. The sod rolled over without breaking. At the headrig, with a single pluck Of reins, the sweating team turned round And back into the land. His eye Narrowed and angled at the ground, Mapping the furrow exactly. I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake, Fell sometimes on the polished sod; Sometimes he rode me on his back Dipping and rising to his plod. I wanted to grow up and plough, To close one eye, stiffen my arm. All I ever did was follow In his broad shadow round the farm. I was a nuisance, tripping, falling, Yapping always. But today It is my father who keeps stumbling Behind me, and will not go away.                                                          Seamus Heaney

It's easier to die than to move ... at least for the Other Side you don't need trunks.                                                                                                          - Wallace Stegner Boxes, boxes, what to throw away, what to take, "oh, look at this! I made it in grade 2", returning what has long forgotten been borrowed, what must be so close that it is unpackable, and the books and books.... We're packing. George and Matilda

A senior monk and a junior monk were travelling together. At one point, they came to a river with a strong current. As the monks were preparing to cross the river, they saw a young, beautiful girl also attempting to cross. The young woman asked if they could help her to the other side. The two monks glanced at one another because they had taken vows not to touch a woman. Then, without a word, the older monk picked up the girl, carried her across the river, placed her gently on the other side, and carried on with his journey. The younger monk couldn’t believe what had just happened. After rejoining his companion, he was speechless, and an hour passed without a word between them. Two more hours passed, then three, finally the younger monk could not contain himself any longer, and blurted out “As monks, we are not permitted any contact with a woman, how could you then carry that girl on your shoulders?” The older monk looked at him and replied, “Brother, I set her down