The Restory Retreat Centre

A historical ruin at The Restory shrouded in early morning mists. Photograph by Marinetha Marais To retreat quite literally means that we step out of our normal day to day life and responsibilities and isolate ourselves for a time to restore energy and to find renewed balance in life. This may be for a few hours only or extended periods of days or weeks. In our busy lives, this may sound like a complete waste of precious time. To the contrary, new perspectives arise by reconnecting to our inner selves through practices such as gentle exercise, rest, meditation and contemplation. This leads to higher levels of energy, creativity and productivity. Being in an environment dedicated to provide the necessary support and guidance can be of immeasurable value in bringing meaning to life. The mindfulness practices introduced at a retreat center can and should be continued in normal day to day life.  It holds the key to a heightened awareness of our moments and days which is life c...

I love this ache. For too long I have felt nothing. But then, the Spark (See the post Caught in the amber ) . And now the Ache. What to do with all this beauty?! It drives me to distraction: A Rapunzel sun spinning wintry grass to gold; the textures and colourways of story book stone walls; Katryn's amber eyes; Mily's purr and silken weight on my lap; the single new purple flower on the rosemary bush; the Zaaihoek dam under a sapphire sky; salad greens on a simple white plate; the huge supermoon rising just beyond reach; the puffed and perfect fiscal shrike on the fence, the huge open roses of cabbage; the icy crispness in the air; the cattle's curly winter coats... The impossible beauty of the Zaaihoek dam in winter.  Photo by Matilda It's too much to handle. So I knit. In the colours and textures of this winter. Maybe to somehow catch it in a scarf, a cap, a pullover. I don't know. I should do more with this, but I'm not yet sure precisely what. So I kn...

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 ...

While Eylene was living in Nieu Zealand, we stayed in contact through the internet and many long phone calls. The distance between us being literally halfway around the globe felt immense and I often had an incredible longing to be able to just give her a hug.        What gave unexpected comfort, was sharing recipes. We both enjoy cooking and baking and she would often ask for a family recipe to counter the attacks of loneliness. There's nothing as soothing as the familiar fragrance of a leg of lamb with rosemary and garlic roasting in your foreign kitchen, she would say.        She sent me this recipe of a Chocolate mud cake. It is totally decadent and incredibly rich, so it goes a long way in small portions, but if you need a little extra loving care from yourself, this is it.          I baked it recently for my friend Ralie's birthday tea. I decorated it with fresh jasmine blossoms and tiny violets from my garde...

I asked the little boy who cannot see, "And what is colour like?" "Why, green," said he, "Is like the rustle when the wind blows through The forest; running water, that is blue; And red is like a trumpet sound; and pink Is like the smell of roses; and I think That purple must be like a thunderstorm; And yellow is like something soft and warm; And white is a pleasant stillness when you lie And dream." Anon

There's something magical about the Farmer's Market held on the grounds of the Pioneer's Museum every Saturday from 05:30 to 09:30, come rain or shine. And I suspect it's exactly these ungodly hours that gives it its charm! To get parking within a decent walking distance to the gates, you need to get there really early, which, during these shortening autumn days, means arriving along with scores of others and strolling through the myriad of stalls in near darkness for close on an hour before the sun leisurely shows up. Many stalls sport their own ingenious methods of lighting in the twilight zone, ranging from all manner of lamps to small generators powering electric light, but as the day dawns, the incredible abundance of all things natural and hand made and gorgeously wholesome spill into view and my senses do somersaults in my still rather sleepy body. A little boy scoops handfuls of rose petals from a bucket his father is carrying and throws it up into the ai...

I don’t LIVE enough.  Alive, but missing.  Missing in action. Missing out. Missing the point. The moment. Sunlight is wasted on me. I walk oblivious of the gold in my hair. Of the glowing in my skin I know only when the chill of nightfall replaces it. Why do we know better through loss? Why not stand and feel that one simple golden thread of breath that links the sky, birdsong, the sun, the incense of Spring flaming in purple petals? So much goes on while we draw air and dispense of it. In that small unconscious act of survival a world stands at attention to witness it. Breathing cannot be solely for this. We are made exquisitely sensuous. To go through a day and not be able to recall a scent, a colour, a touch, a feeling, a sound, a taste, is to be dead. The door to life  nailed shut. Each breath one closer to the last I’ll take. How often do I think this? When I write the date in my journal. One day closer.  I panic...