The Restory Retreat Centre

Foto deur George Angus Ons kat Patat, het ‘n handige stert. Dit is gekalibreer in tien netjies gespasieerde strepies wat “ patats ” genoem word. ‘n Patat is die eenheid waarin katirritasie gemeet word. So ‘n gekalibreerde stert staan bekend as ‘n “ Watchitometer ”. Jy begin by die punt en lees dit na sy lyf toe. Lê hy by ons op die bed en jy vat aan sy een agterpootjie, dan knak sy stert mooi op die tweede strepie. Die 2 patats sê “Watch it!” Jy vat aan elk van die toontjies aan daardie selfde poot. Die Watchitometer gaan op na 5 patats toe. Jy los die pootjie en druk-druk sy dy tussen duim en wysvinger en sê: “Jy word lekker vet, nè.” Sy hele lang stert krul en lewe daar van sy boud af. “Ek het gesê watch it!” interpreteer jy die 10 patats . Sou jy die lesings ignoreer en met jou lawwigheid aangaan, doen jy dit op eie risiko. Jy is gewaarsku. Dan gaan hy jou nie eers sy strepie-stert laat lees nie. Hy gaan net sy ore plattrek, jou hand met albei vo

Photograph by George Angus Very early morning. I’m sitting in my chair in front of our bedroom window, my journal in my lap. We’ve opened the windows during the night, but the curtains are still drawn. I’m listening to the dawn, letting the sounds bring the day into view. I can hear that it’s overcast. It is quieter than a sunny morning when the sounds are filled with energy and activity. On such days the opening notes are an octave higher, there are more and they are louder. Impatient, it has no consideration for those still in bed.  But this morning is more tolerant, subdued. It has time. It is the type of dawn that will write a note to the rest of the day, asking it to take it a little slower. It is just here, on the other side of the curtains, quietly waiting. I would have seen the daybreak filled with mist that has descended from the mountains around the house and has moved up the river to fill our yard and stand amongst the trees, by the absence of sound. On s

Photograph by George Angus For a while now I’ve been walking around with a printout of a poem by Wendell Berry in my journal. I had it in a file on my computer, totally forgot about it and while I was searching for something else I discovered it again. On face value it is a beautiful poem, but it was as if it somehow struck an even deeper chord in me. I found it difficult to describe why exactly that was the case. So I made the printout and read it every now and again, meditated on it and wrote in its margins. I wanted to get out of the way so that it could work its magic on me in every way it pleased. Words 1.    What is one to make of a life given    to putting things into words,    saying them, writing them down?    Is there a world beyond words?    There is. But don't start, don't    go on about the tree unqualified,    standing in light that shines    to time's end beyond its summoning    name. Don't praise the speechless    starlight, the un