The Restory Retreat Centre

Illustration by Henck van Bilsen in The Socks of Doom We want to live consciously. That we stated right from the beginning of The Restory. We want to believe that it describes the way we are living here at Barrowfield and in essence it is also the golden thread running through our writing. It might therefore seem strange to write about conscious living at this stage. Almost like stating the obvious. True. But I’ve been carrying this beautiful phrase for so long that I only want to put it somewhere and look at it. To practice the art of stopping. Author Nguyen Anh-Huong introduced me to it in her slim book Walking Meditation . She says: “By practicing the art of stopping, we can enter the present moment and be nourished by the beauty and wonder of life in and around us: the smell of flowers, the warmth of sunshine, the color of the sky. To practice mindfulness is to begin to realize that we have a choice – to stop and rest or run, to be angry or happy. Once we

Down by the river. Photo by George Angus "At the age of 37 She realized she'd never ride Through Paris in a sports car With the warm wind in her hair" Marianne Faithfull's raw voice singing The ballad of Lucy Jordon , had me in tears on my 37th birthday. Like her, I would never make it to Paris before the day was done and a sports car was definitely out of the question. Hearing the song being played again recently, and thinking back sixteen years, I tried to remember what made me feel so wretched. Outwardly my life was not that bad, but it struck a deep chord that I myself was not yet fully aware of:  of a soul longing to be realised.  In all honesty, Paris or any city abroad and sports cars are not my criteria for happiness. It would be fun, but no reason to throw myself of a roof like poor old Lucy. Surely it is not merely about a longing to be someone special, or of experiencing the most romantic dream one could possibly have amidst the drudgery of

I have somewhat of a problem. There are no hardwood merchants in any of the local towns within a 300 km radius. For one of my projects I make bases for the ceramic lamps Eylene, Matilda’s daughter, is creating. Fortunately I have a fairly large wood pile gathered over the years that provided most of what I needed, but the one particular base asked for something more bulky. While gently mulling over a few of my plans in getting the wood, I went on a Sunday picnic with Matilda and my father down at the stream running through the farm. There I discovered this huge old tree trunk, felled by a storm years ago. The following week I strolled down with the dogs and cut myself a nice piece of wood. Then I went home and turned the base. It looks real nice. This young tortoise comes home all bruised and battered. “What happened to you?” asks his mother. “I was at the club and on my way out I bumped into this snail. “Watch where you’re going!” I told him. Two of his friends meanwh

Our Town: 1943 skildery deur L.S. Lowry “Today as I stood whipping up a new batch of cream, sunlight brightening  the kitchen, the fragrance of lavender heavy in the air, the moment felt infused by God. Every minute detail of colour, fragrance, variety, use and beauty  matters. Everything matters. Everything speaks of care. Of love. Of God.” Dit was daardie laaste paragraaf in Matilda se stuk Whipping up some love wat my weer die digbundel uit die boekrak laat trek het. My vingers ken teen dié tyd die paadjie al goed na Jan Swanepoel se Die ganse dag is ene God , een van my gunsteling gedigte. soos destyds is U ook vandag nie in die donker onweer nie, nie in die weerlig wat die hemel helblink skeur as teken van u krag; al luister ek hoe fyn vandag: selfs in die ligte ruising van die wind is U ten ene male nie, maar oral in my oë en ore: die ganse dag is ene God: ‘n swaeltjie swenk en vou die hemel blou-blou om sy rug ‘n geelvink sketter vol

Whipping up a batch of lavender hand cream in a  self made mixing bowl. Photo by Matilda I love Herbs. Nearly as much, or most likely just as much as I like Clay. They are after all, each their own person, deserving of my love and attention. For now though, with no dedicated studio space to spend time with Clay, my creative liaison is with Herbs and we enjoy many a pleasant hour together in the kitchen and garden. Even so, clay and herbs are of the same earth that speaks deeply to my soul. Both tactile, versatile, sensuous and alive with sun drenched energy, they lift my spirit in no time. I read that our sense of smell plays an important part in our emotional well being. Fragrance travels via our olfactory nerves directly to the area in our brain that deals with emotions. I just have to think of the nostalgia that surges through me when I smell pancakes with cinnamon to know this is true. I do believe that the fragrance of the rose geranium speaks directly to my creative centre