The Restory Retreat Centre

George worries about the strangest things. He asked me this morning: Do you think the dogs have settled in allright after the move here to Barrowfield? This is what came to my mind. "Oh, I think so," I said. Matilda

On a stroll down to the river I was amazed at the change since our last walk. Autumn is blazing all around us. Matilda

My father, soon after a visit from the angels.  I have not seen him so collected and relaxed in a long time.  Not long ago a dear friend went through the worst experience a mother can ever face: the terminal illness and death of a child. It came too close for comfort and I was terrified for her sake and my own. I did not know how to help so I shied away. I felt my words would be useless as comfort and my visits inappropriate or awkward.      How to help? Going through this difficult time with my father, I find that our friends and family experience the same feelings of uselessness. I do not have a ready answer. Maybe one could ask: what is needed and see what one’s own circumstances allow you to offer.      In our close family circle we have members living very far away. They help financially and also manage my father’s finances. They keep encouraging us and try to look for a solution with us. They offer their opinions and concerns honestly and earnestly. Their calls and short c

Photograph by George Angus You know you live in the country when: - You drive for kilometres on end on the wrong side of the dirt road because for some reason or the other that side has fewer ditches and muddy patches. And of course because there are no cars coming from the opposite direction; - “At least 3 km” is one way of pronouncing “Neighbour”. “Support” is another; - They tell you in town that you can bring the empty gas bottle next time you come in. And then let you pay for the refill as if you’ve already done that; - It is pitch dark when you switch off your lights at night. And dead silent. The call of the Spotted Eagle Owl does not count as noise; - You are constantly reminded that our solar system has a Milky Way; - People understand that you have a spanner in mind when you are looking for a “bobbejaan” (Afrikaans word for “Baboon”). And that you use that, a shifting and pliers often; - You cannot phone anybody wh

All during Dad's nap Yesterday we had what can be called a "good day". Dad slept well through the night and was as close to normal as paneer is to labne. He took a rare late morning nap. I have been desperate to do something creative. Anything that doesn't involve adult nappies, cleaning up, washing or watching a dvd of Celtic women for the hundredth time. For me to be denied any creative outlet is like wearing a straight jacket. I go insane rather rapidly.      So, I jumped at the chance, tried my hand at making some fresh cheese (using a recipe for labne) and started a new batch of jogurt with the lovely fresh milk we have an abundance of. Sounds impressive? But it's ridiculously easy and utterly satisfying.      I then got into my gumboots and joined the gardener in the vegetable patch to try and remedy some of the damage caused by the recent heavy rains.We sowed new crops of lettuce and dwarf nasturtiums in large flower boxes, planted out basil, cabbage

So this then: What is this? Surely not nothing. Not a detour en route to our goal? Is it a test? A trial? What is it that I need to grasp for this struggle to end?      I ask these questions all the time while caring for my father. It takes every ounce of energy, every inch of determination I have, and most of my time. Trying to live with awareness, staying in the moment, I have to say: This is the dark side of the moon. This too is what it is about. Not only the being present to the pristine beauty and exiting newness of our new home and surroundings, the luxury of fresh air and quiet, but this: this struggle. This getting to know who I’m not. What I cannot cope with. Cannot change. Cannot handle. Have to handle. Have to face. Myself.      My shadow, in the guise of my father, sits opposite me reflecting whatever it is I am feeling at any given moment. He mirrors it all the time: when I’m irritated, he snaps back at me, when I’m sad, he hangs his head. When I shout, he does too. B

Photograph by Frans Marais In about two weeks time we are having a high school reunion. I’ve been told that  even class mates  now living  and working in the USA have indicated that they are coming. I, on this side of the Atlantic, am standing on a Sunday afternoon in the door of the bathroom. I’m about to take my dad back to the retirement village after a visit over the weekend here on Barrowfield. There is tension between us. He blames me for the farm in Gauteng being sold and him being in the retirement village. We just cannot agree on his frailty and the adjustments we have to make when we get older. As if totally oblivious to our struggles with Oupa Frans and the sleepless night we had while he visited, he is upset because we did not spend any time in the workshop. I’m tired of trying to explain and having the same conversations over and over. I am not proud of the manner  in which I often cope with his fears. I am constantly confronted with my own demons and the but

Photograph by Gordon Parks Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee; I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me. Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue, and called me, "Nigger." I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December; Of all the things that happened there That's all that I remember.                                                  Countee Cullen

Oupa Frans, December 2013 - Photograph by Matilda Within the context that Matilda sketched in her post Waiting for heaven is hell , last Wednesday was exceptionally challenging. It was a day filled to the brim with doctors’ appointments and visits to potential care facilities for Oupa Frans. Being out of his usual routine makes him even more agitated than usual. He tends to slump when sitting on a chair, to such an extent that his head is sometimes almost between his ankles. At the GP and during the interview at the retirement village, we had to help him sit up straight and then had to physically keep him in that upright position. The pit stop over lunch at friends’ house was arranged so that he could rest for a while. Nothing came of it because left alone in the bedroom he started undressing himself in an effort to get rid of the catheter. He constantly carries a harmonica, an early birthday present from Juanita, Matilda’s sister, in the upper pocket of his shirt. He

What will you do, God, when I die? I am your pitcher (when I shatter?) I am your drink (when I go bitter?) I, your garment; I, your craft. Without me what reason have you? Without me what house where intimate words await you? I, velvet sandal that falls from your foot. I, cloak dropping from your shoulder. What will you do, God? It troubles me.                                                               - Rainer Maria Rilke

My father on his 78th birthday A well kept body doesn't die easily. Even if its inhabitant wants to. My father turned 78 on the 7th of March. In all his life, he had never smoked, hardly took any alcohol, worked physically hard as an electrician and was morally a saint.      He has been suffering from a severe depression for the past ten years since my mother's death. Her fight against cancer lasted almost twelve years.In all probability, looking back, my father may have been suffering from depression since his father walked out on the family when he was only three years old. Back in 1939, divorce was the exception to the rule. My grandmother managed to raise three children by sheer will fuelled by bitterness that kept her going right up till her death at the age of 84.      All through our childhood years we suffered the consequences of my father's dysfunctional upbringing. He tried his best, I'm sure, but he wasn't equipped for fatherhood and lacked good copi