The Restory Retreat Centre

My mother's tiny art work. Photo by Matilda Mother’s Day in South Africa. This morning, being a mother and all, I granted myself an extra half an hour of lying in bed. I lay thinking about my children, all three of them more than a four hours’ drive from us. I felt like thanking them for being the ones to bring me to motherhood. I left it at that, knowing that they will all call during the day and make this a special day, even though we have never gone overboard with this kind of commemoration. I then opened my journal as I do most every morning. From between the pages and into my lap fell a tiny artwork. A small cameo of lacey leaves and flowers set into a small card. The artist: my mother. How did it get there? I honestly cannot remember putting it there. Maybe during the move it had surfaced somewhere and needed to be kept safe in order to later add it to the collection I have of my mother’s art work. The synchronicity of it though made me sit up and take notice. Since she...

My mother with me back in 1961 (left) and my daughter Eylene and I in 1991 when I turned thirty (right) I'm packing for the move to Wakkerstroom. This time round, I feel a great need to sort out and discard what I no longer need . Also on a emotional level, I am more able to work through stacks of photographs and letters, cards and mementos of the times of my life and to reduce it to a manageable account without being too sentimental or precious about it..     When my mother passed away a decade ago, I was left with shelves of files and boxes containing what can be called "the hard copies of her life": journals, recipes in her own handwriting, knitting and embroidery patterns, touring guides, favourite books, accounts, photographs and correspondence. I never got round to tackling the sorting out of this tender heritage.      But now the time came to do so and I spent many a day engrossed in my mother's life. So much so that I want to some day write ...