The Restory Retreat Centre

  In the evening  I carry frogs out of the house. I strive  to put distance between them  and the front door, releasing them in the furthest flower beds. The process is repeated  every  night. Or is it every other night? I lose track of time, doing it so regularly. I often wonder if it’s the same one constantly returning. You get to know the expression  on a face, the look in the eyes. M has suggested we mark it with Tippex to test the theory. But I’ve heard from friends and neighbours  having similar experiences. One even dropped their frog about 2 km away from the house, on his way into town. It got me thinking. Are we all  putting the same frog  out every other night? The roaming one, circulating in the neighbourhood, returning to  carefully selected homes? Recently, though, in the space  of 15 minutes, I had to carry two out, with M following  with a third. An adjustment  of my theory  is therefore required. ...

We’re having a bumper Summer season. Wonderful rains cause all the rivulets to gush and gurgle like they haven’t for three consecutive seasons. It is lush and green and simply gorgeous everywhere around us. Cattle shine like polished stones where they lie ruminating in the pastures amongst wildflowers and frolicking calves. It’s the way I’ve always imagined heaven would look like. And we have swallows. Hundreds of tiny fighter pilots that descend on us every morning, swooping and diving just above the lawn. We also have flies. Hordes of them, caused by a combination of factors: a cattle feeding lot that was recently started close by, very high temperatures and all this rain. We’re doing everything we can to handle the problem without resorting to chemical means: burners with peppermint and citronella oil work well to repel the pesky things inside our home. Outside we have bags of flybait that fill up alarmingly quickly. But still, it is not enough. Walking or sitting...

When I opened the packet with the prescription medicine that I bought for my dad, I found the pen. Delmas Pharmacy inscribed on the side. “Someone will be looking for it, having no idea where they might have placed it. I must remember to take it back when I go to Delmas again.” I put it on my night stand, in plain sight. As a reminder and so that it doesn’t get lost or somehow damaged.  But to my dismay I forget to take it with on the occasions I go to town. About a month passes. It is time to get a repeat on my father’s medicine. I have to go to the pharmacy. That in itself reminds me of the pen. I take it with, relieved that I still have it, undamaged. “Here’s your pen. It was in the packet with the pills you gave me last time” I say at the counter after asking for the medicine. “I’m not sure whose is it exactly but I thought you’ll be looking for it. Sorry that I’m only bringing it back now.” The pharmacist and the assistant behind the counter laugh...

Photographer: Suzanne Beard There once was a woman who could talk to animals. She enjoyed that very much because although there are many people who can talk to animals, there are very few who can hear animals’ answers. On her journeys through the forests, on the banks of little streams and strolling through meadows she constantly talked to the animals. She asked them interesting questions: What do they want to get out of life? What do they love doing most and why? Would they change the world if they could? Sometimes the animals invited her to do things with them. “Come climb with me” the hairy worm would say. “Today you must swim” the fish invited. And then she did. One day, she was having a conversation with a cow when the cow asked the woman: “How is it” said the cow, chewing her cud, “that you can talk to us animals and understand our answers?” “Well” said the woman, “one day when I was young I came across a distorted tree. An owl was caught in its branches. ‘Pl...