The Restory Retreat Centre

  Rest and Work The Conversation Elements From The Conversation " “The world is being destroyed by industriousness.” Dendermonde  advocates a life of "appropriate laziness and modest industriousness"  instead of destructive haste. Music Eddie Dalton sounds like an old river on its way to the sea.  As always, with our love. George & Matilda

  Our brother-in-law, William, loves the simple things in life – sunsets, a nice cup of coffee, hearty meals with family, a bowl of home made Barrowfield yoghurt, a good joke. Growing up in Douglas in the Northern Cape instilled in him this deep appreciation for the gentle beauty and value of ordinary things. For the largest part of his adult life – 31 years to be exact – he has worked as an electrical engineer at Sasol in Secunda. Not the ideal setting for someone touched by matters that feed the soul.  We weren’t surprised when he started beekeeping a number of years ago. It suits his character and acted as a very good counter-balance to his work at Sasol. He placed 2 hives behind the stone wall in our garden and it has been a wonderful journey for us too, learning through William more about these little miracle workers of nature. And we feel rich beyond belief when our bottles of “liquid gold”, tasting of Barrowfield, stand on the pantry shelf at the end of a good season. I...

So much to do, so little time.  To live the contemplative life amidst all the pressure and challenges of daily living is no mean feat. From experience I know that paradoxically, the busier my life becomes, the quieter I need to be. The moment the pace picks up is exactly the time to listen to the still, small voice. It is not so much frantic activity that provides the solution as entering into the silence. Then it is very important not to neglect my meditation practice. The latter helps especially in discerning what is important and how to go about in planning my day. It centres me and guides me in finding my place once again within the wider order of things. I constantly forget that. I become anxious and frantic and tend to follow another rule: When in darkness or in doubt Run in circles, scream and shout It does not help. It drains me and leaves me empty. Ever so gently I am returning to my breathing and the quiet and the listening. In the process I find couns...

Photograph by George Angus Matilda’s nephew Liam has a friend Stephan. Although being only 9 now, the 2 of them has been a fountain of wisdom over the years. A few years ago, on starting playing rugby for the first time, Stephan became very frustrated. As soon as he got the ball, he was tackled. Quite upset he told Matilda’s brother in law: “Oom William, I just can’t get my speed!” I can relate with Stephan’s frustration. Ever since we came to Barrowfield there have been so many practicalities that needed attention that it has been difficult to get my speed writing and meditating. My mind is filled with pipe diameters, the solenoid on tractor starters, pressure pumps, skylights, ropes and rigging, tending to our fathers’ health and adjustment in the retirement village, setting up internet modems, bookshelves and all the rest. In the spare moments that I get to sit at the computer, I am so tired that it is difficult to keep my eyes focused and open. I have to be honest ...

This morning, without deciding upon it formally, Mily and I took it reaaally easy and had a snuggle-in. Outside it seemed rather overcast and gloomy: perfect cuddle weather. She curled onto my lap, covering my first and second chakras with her silken body, while I lay dozing on my back. She later moved to where the sun started trickling onto the corner of the bed while I sat writing about the richness of this simple indulgence and tried drawing her catness in R-mode like I am being taught in Art class at the moment.        Then I spent time planning a week of personal treats. Read on, this gets even more ridiculously decadent. In my defence, I have to say that I am under orders to do so. (See Tasks of Chapter 11 of Julia Cameron’s Artist’s way). I struggle with especially this: treating my inner child, the true artist in me, to the things I need to fill my creative well. The reason, always, is a feeling of guilt. Guilt because there's a furrow seemingly per...

Ek skryf in my joernaal met een van daardie vreeslik algemene kliek BiC penne. Regte ou werksesels. Wanneer ek petrol ingooi en ek betaal met my garagekaart en ek moet die strokie teken, diep die petroljoggie een van myne se broers op om die werk te doen. Gaan ek by die fabrieke of verskaffers deur die hekke waar sekuriteit diens doen, wie sal ook daar aan diens wees? Meneer BiC. Moet ek die betaalstrokie in die supermark teken na ek kruideniers gekoop het - met ‘n BiC. Dié wat swart skryf is oor die algemeen self swart. Die rooies rooi.  Dié wat blou skryf kom in ‘n hele verskeidenheid kleure voor. Kleure wat na alle waarskynlikheid snaakse name het wat ek nie ken nie. Die een van my het ‘n vreemde grys kleur, soos iets wat met die weermag of die kleredrag van jare gelede se boere te make het. (Moderne boere dra sulke spoggerige uitrustings met meegaande kleurskemas dat ek hulle nie as voorbeelde vir my pen se kleur kan gebruik nie). Dan is daar ook wit en so ‘n snaak...

Photograph by Matilda Rilke had chosen as his own epitaph this poem: Rose, oh pure contradiction, delight of being no one's sleep under so   many lids. “I confess that I consider life to be a thing of the most untouchable deliciousness, and that even the confluence of so many disasters and deprivations, the exposure of countless fates, everything that insurmountably increased for us over the past few years to become a still rising terror cannot distract me from the fullness and goodness of existence that is inclined toward us.”  ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Life: New Prose Translations I can only guess at the nature of events that caused "a still rising terror" within Rilke, having read about his life which, in many instances could have silenced, and in some, almost did silence him completely as a poet.       And yet, he wrote these words, giving me hope when I am faced with exactly something similar, "a still rising terror", at something I c...

Photograph by George Angus The following usually serves one, but more can be nourished by it as well. Ingredients: * A workshop * A lathe (other machinery will do as well, but I find the rhythm and sound of the lathe to be soothing) * A job (not job as in “At least I have a job”. In the workshop we use it more in the sense of “Can you do this job for me, or do you have another one in the lathe?”). What works well is something repetitive, without being too complicated. Otherwise you have to concentrate too hard. A fairly big diameter or reasonable length is also an advantage. It ensures a nice long travel for the tool. *All the paraphernalia that goes with working on the lathe: enough soluble oil in the sump to keep the job lubricated, the necessary drills and tooltips, the wire hook that you use to remove the shavings from the bed, the splash plate to prevent the soluble oil from being flung in a fine spray all over the floor by the fast turning chuck, the peg spanner to fasten t...

“I saw God the other day. He was a builder. I saw him plastering a wall at the coffee shop Nino’s in Rosebank, Johannesburg, at about eight thirty at night. I stopped for a good five minutes and watched him plaster. For that length of time, nothing mattered in the world. Not the conflict in the Congo. Not HIV/AIDS. Put it this way, if a truck came shuttling down on me at that very moment I would hardly have looked up, even if the driver were hooting. God was busy, you see?  And I was watching him. It occurred to me there and then, as that white man’s image reminded me of my late black father, that there is no better way to make colour acceptable than to do what you do extremely well. There is no quicker way to shut down prejudice than to be an expert at what you do. There’s no quicker way to bring out the God in you than to do what you do with intense honesty, love, focus, passion, concentration and total spiritual commitment. You see, Mandingo, God exists i...

In May 2010, George and I attended a workshop led by Richard Rohr in Cape Town at the Schoenstatt Retreat and Training Centre . One afternoon, in our free time, we decided to visit the historic wine estate of Groot Constantia, which is within walking distance of the retreat centre. It was rather chilly with heavy clouds hanging low, but we donned our rain jackets and ignored the faint drizzle that had started to come down. I am so glad we did: We were due for a very special perfomance that we knew nothing of in advance, but wouldn't have missed for all the world if we did.  In the comments following George's post,   Whistle while you work ,   he reminded me of an Afrikaans piece I had written shortly after this very special encounter. It touches on what seems to be a golden rule: To whistle or sing heartily while working is not depended on the circumstances. But it greatly enhances the lives of all and sunder. I can only agree with my friend Elmi's comment: " Durin...

Drawing by Ron Leishman When last did you whistle while working? When last did you hear someone else whistle while working? Somehow it bothers me that whistling has become an almost absent element in our work. The sound of a person whistling a tune while busy somewhere in the house or out in the workshop conveys something of an underlying happiness, satisfaction and contentment. An enjoyment of the work itself. The tune need not be flawless. Applying more air than sound won’t lead to disqualification, as long as the intention is there. Whistling can even be replaced by singing in all that I’ve said up to now. The same principles apply. The absence of any of these two activities bothers me because it says something about us doing the work and the type of work that we do. Can it be that our type of labour in this 21 st century is not conducive to either whistling or singing? What type of work is that then – draining, stressful, pressured? Or are our conclusions ...