Posted in Writing



“And so, it begins-the transformation of my once broken soul, into a strong, confident, happy, and balanced person…” -Avesha

These idealistic words are the title of an article I recently read in The Elephant Journal. Have you ever felt so helpless in your situation that you have sought help from someone else’s words? You know, you do the ghastly thing and google how to fix yourself? I do this with a frequency more regular than I’d like to admit-on track and balanced for a period of time and then in spectacular fashion I manage to throw myself off balance again-it’s quite a talent.

I have often wondered whether this is because I’ve never fully developed the tools I need to sustain balance in my life, or whether it is just the process-the natural ebbs and flows we have no control over.

Very recently I came to a shock realisation (after struggling mentally for the umpteenth time with my perceived ebbs) that perhaps I had more control over my outcomes than I thought. My entire life I have lived by the philosophies ‘what will be, will be’…and ‘everything happens for a reason’-but I am pondering the possibility for the first time that maybe, with some work, I can create outcomes that are more positive, and more in line with what makes me feel happy and even inspired.

I have never actively practised this philosophy-but nothing changes if nothing changes…right?

Fate will not intervene and save us when self sabotage is our plan.

Now, one thing I have learned over the years is that nobody ever intentionally (pathological causes aside) sabotages their outcomes in life. Rather, we do it unknowingly because of a failure to recognise a disruption in our balance.

Why? Because we are well equipped to deal with the subtle changes. We have many built in reserves as humans and thus continue to put pressure on our balance for two reasons:

  1. Because we believe we can cope, and
  2. We are too distracted by our first world timetables and high demands on our time to notice

What happens next?

We regress a little more and begin to implement unhealthy behaviours in order to make ourselves feel better- ignoring our feelings, denying we are not happy, cutting back on the activities that resonate with us to please others, working longer hours to earn more money, just to name a few.

What happens next?

We use these bad behaviours as a crutch which seems to help for a period of time, until it doesn’t, and our lives start to fall apart in whatever form the Gods choose to use- addiction, resentment, anger, guilt, anxiety and depression, substance abuse, relationship challenges.

But what if we could restore the balance to our lives before the destruction set in?

What if we could break the cycle of self sabotage and actually ensure positive outcomes?

What if we simply made the decision to be happy for a day despite what was going on in our heads and what was happening around us?

It’s food for thought.


On Sharing…What do you post?

Writing is all for me.

I find no benefit in sharing with those who have a different heart; …and those who read and misinterpret the origin of my prose.
There are those who will judge my position through no fault of their own, and no evil intent- a perfectly natural and acceptable thing to do. That is how the human mind works now isn’t it? We judge everything through our own eyes- the only way we can. Despite this, I focus on the purpose of my writing.
I write in an attempt to discover the truth in me.
I write so I can sit with myself in solace.
I write in an attempt to make sense of the stories in my head.
So I can travel toward acceptance.
So write for yourself, post for yourself-someone, if only one, will hear you and those who are on a different track may choose to adore you regardless.
“This is all a load of bull” -you say, but it’s only my voice; and if you like it, you may listen, and if you don’t- you won’t, and if you’re of the same heart, you’ll get it.
Sharing personal thoughts is a choice some make and others shudder at. That’s ok. It’s fine to do whatever it is you’re comfortable with.
Now, I get this a lot; “Nicole, are you going to jump off a cliff?”-and I smile.
My answer to that?
“Oh no, I much prefer to take in the beautiful view and run around it”
Posted in Life, Poem, Writing

Far Away

When it is far away

I am trapped inside an empty space

Where life demands I function

And pretend all is connected

And for a million days and a million dark nights

I wait

With sealed lips and a heart half full

Until it returns



Posted in blogging, Daily muse, Inspiration, mindfullness, Writing


Having a broken arm has given me a new perspective.

It’s like anything that is forced upon us-we have no choice but to adapt. When catapulted head first into a rotten situation for which we had no warning, we learn. We learn how to cope when we find ourselves in unexplored territory. We learn about the words insecure and vulnerable and fearful and lost.

However in my reflection over the past weeks, I believe the lesson we learn that is of most value to the human spirit, is the incredible ability of ‘us’ to find strength. It comes. It may take a while, but it comes. Sure, we may never be the same person again, but we’re not supposed to be. We are destined to experience life in its fullest form and that involves forced change.

Now, a broken arm is by no stretch of the imagination a life changing experience. For me however,  it has forced me to consider the other side of the coin. Forced me to understand I am more than a bunch of arms and legs. Forced me to realise falling into complacency is a natural tendency, but it is completely temporary. Life will never remain the same for us, it simply can’t, but it is absolutely inevitable strength will find us, and we will grow through change, and flourish as we revel in the realisation that there is so much more to ‘us’ than we ever imagined.

I had my cast taken off yesterday. This was a revelation. I never contemplated  it could be worse than loafing around with an extra accessory for 5 weeks unable to use my dominant arm, drive, work, or exercise as I used to-It was. I now have no cast, but staring me in the face is an arm that looks roughly like it used to, with limited function. Why won’t it move? Why can’t I touch my face? Why does it feel so stiff it reminds me of rigor mortis and lying in a coffin?  It is not the same arm as before-just like that, in one awkward, unfortunate, accidental moment.

It is temporary, and this conversation is purely a euphemism for moments more life impacting, but it’s a lesson all the same. I am finding a new me. I am understanding that life is hard sometimes, and we are dished out stuff we didn’t ask for that perhaps we’d quite happily hand back, and it is full of resentment, and guilt and anger and questions and we are physically fragile, but oh, the human spirit is strong.

-And it becomes all the more powerful when we let go of the fight and accept that the only way around, is through.


Posted in Writing

On the wings of a Dragonfly

As I am forced to travel by foot, I notice the ducks are still swimming. They kick around in blissful oblivion despite the grumpy man down the road and the fact that I couldn’t cut the carrots this afternoon.

The world does not end when things change.

The little rock pathway lined with thriving greenery-a stones throw from my front door-is a magical road that takes me to the fountain. A peaceful space that ignores my presence entirely, and glistens and sparkles and dances and prances on its merry little way irrespective of the stories that exist in the air that it breathes.

I want to be that dragonfly. She simply floats on pockets of breeze and lands wherever she feels like it. She moves on and moves on and moves on. My presence is no business of hers yet my extreme fascination with her behaviour in contrast is a gift.

(Incubate- Incubating a peaceful mind via a deeper understanding)




Posted in Writing

Watching them walk away

WATCHING THEM WALK AWAY-A story for all the mums and dads

I remember as a young girl, the beginning of a new school year was like Christmas. Living in a rural area meant I didn’t see a lot of my friends over the school holidays and the thought of catching up with everyone was a source of positive energy, a feeling of rejuvenation.

The journey to school just prior to the commencement of first term was a memory I’ll never forget. New books, new pencil case, new uniforms, and a chance to sneak a peak of anyone I knew. Who were the new teachers and what were they going to be like? Were there any new kids in my class? Where was my best friend hiding? Had my feet grown?

When I returned home I’d busily arrange my books, writing my name neatly everywhere I could. I’d set up my Student Diary with all of my personal information writing a new year level inside the front cover, and I’d scribble a few of my best friends names and addresses exactly where they were supposed to go in the allocated addresses section. I’d then cover my text books with clear contact, trying desperately not to make bubbles, and place them all together in a nice even line inside my cupboard in my bedroom. I was so ready.

Looking back, it was truly great. It is an excitement that perhaps I haven’t been able to match as an adult. The complexities of life stifling my ability to live in awe and wonder-as a child does.

And as I observe my own boys heading off to commence a new schooling year, I am reminded of this feeling once again, and I ponder-

I ponder the magic of witnessing their innocent souls bursting to participate in all things new and exciting-as I did.

And my mind drifts… and I ponder how they will handle the rejection.

I ponder how they will deal with failure.

I ponder whether I am doing a good enough job to ensure they prosper.

I ponder whether they will still love me in 10 years and whether they will work hard enough to realise their potential.

I hope an amazing career spontaneously chooses them and not the other way around.

I hope they draw on sound judgement in times of trouble.

I dig into the deepest depths of me with my hand on the steering wheel still watching them skedaddle away, and pray they are happy.

And I find myself concerned- because I know. I know what it’s like to pass from innocence and fun to aware and responsible.

But then it suddenly occurs to me that I am simply balancing on the opposite side of my circle-My circle of life. The wheel has turned, and I am staring back at myself- and not my sons.

They are kind of smiling, they are barely excited, and they couldn’t give two hoots about their books, their uniforms or their lack of haircuts. They’re not fussed about the English teacher, they are wondering why they couldn’t have six months a year off, and not a single item of food will be consumed in their lunch box. The diary is a diary in name only and they’ve been playing on-line computer games with their friends for the entire duration of the holiday. They are messy, disorganised and they prefer grunt to English- But they are as happy that way as pigs in mud.

The miracle and truth that I so often forget, is that they are living in their own circle-and not mine.

Sure, we can worry about anything and everything that may happen to them, but their experiences will always be unique.

They will go their own way, they will do what they do and they will be who they are regardless of their mother sitting in the car pondering their existence and happiness. Regardless of our desire to steer them toward or away from our own experiences. Regardless of our warnings, our teachings, our back lashings or our perceived failures as parents.

So what do we do?

We keep doing what we are doing because it’s ok;

…and we watch them walk away with their school bags on, and ponder their growth and their happiness and their futures, and we sit back and have a cup of tea with a smile, when one day, they find themselves balancing on the other side of their circle of life, and they ponder how they got there.

Posted in Writing

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful.”

Perhaps one of our failings as a human race is our perception of beauty.

Our perception that character, and the insuppressible beauty of uniqueness is imperfection.

To me, the most alluring quality in a face is its natural form.


It’s honesty

It’s invisible reflection of the soul

It’s unquantifiable energy

It’s stunning uniqueness

It’s story.


I see the character in a face as the epitome of human perfection.

Beauty beyond definition, for it cannot be measured.

Each line represents not one, but many stories. Don’t for one second be frightened of their presence. They are simply our reward for all of those times we’ve put one foot in front of the other, and  made it to the other side.

Age is a blessing. Some of the most beautiful people in the world, are those older than us, who have lived, and are no longer afraid to show themselves. They find no comfort in being in any other skin other than the one they’re in.
Faces blooming with emotion, life and character have endless depth and come with infinite interpretations and possibilities, unlike the finite form of perceived physical beauty.

In the words of Amy Bloom-

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed.
And you are beautiful.”

Posted in Writing


Through my Window

My life is rather like driving a car. I’m flying down the highway in an auto when I should be taking the back road with my window open, sniffin’ the fresh air, coasting in third.

In my formative years, I always had a tendency to sit and stare out the window-my mind drifted very easily into rest mode.

However as a grown up person, with grown up stuff to accomplish, I am void of this free time as a direct result of the poor recognition that I actually need it.

It’s a repetitive behaviour I knowingly engage in because I am convinced I can handle life without ‘space’-a terrible fallacy.

My husband always says I only have two speeds. Fast and stop-and when I stop, I stop. But there does exist in me a third speed-I know it. If I close my eyes, I can almost touch it. A speed I’d call my

‘staring out of the window speed’

It’s not stop, it’s not fast, it’s my kind of ‘catch my breath’ and chill kind of gear. I used to cruise in this ‘fun’ gear all the time, but then someone traded me in for an auto model, and I’m now stuck with two speeds.

My plan for next week is to sell the automatic car in my head, buy a manual, chug along a wonky dirt road for a few hours IN THIRD GEAR, open the windows, let my dog slobber all over them with his ridiculous toothy smile, play a few tunes, sip some juice, have some home made ham, cheese and tomato sambos-with a little salt, suck the perfect blue sky into my starving lungs, laugh at all the funnies cracked on the cheesy radio breakfast shows, and find my lost smile.



Maintain your focus



Chalk board by Nicole Bragg Real Estate-Forest Gardens Cairns




I reckon I’m about as focused AND as ‘Out Of Focus’ as a person can be.

I spend much of my spare time these days attempting to perfect and refine my images.

As a budding amateur photographer, the learning curve has been steep yet exhilarating,  and my drive to improve and understand the discipline continues to intensify.

-It has however been coupled with disappointment.

My ‘focus’ you could say, is absolute. That’s not unusual for me of course. To pour all my attentions into something new and challenging with an all or nothing type attitude.

The mental energy I invest into something I enjoy can be enormous, and often I head down the despondency road-to my detriment- or is it?

We all know what happens when we try and pile too many rocks on top of each other. The masterpiece of a rock tower gets taller, and taller, and taller and it reaches for the stars in a beautiful newly created formation of ART…and then it falls with an almighty earth shattering bang-BOOM-all is now dust.

-This is the story of my life.

I have recognised in me, that in times of intense focus, I have a tendency to pile up the rocks like there’s no tomorrow, creating not a masterpiece, but a vulnerable, unbalanced structure, which could topple over with the tiny little push of a pinky finger.

This somewhat ‘out of focus’ short-sighted behavioural pattern has ironically been my greatest teacher.

“Those stupid rocks” I would say as I stared at them strewn on the ground resenting my efforts. Or I would run away and hide never wanting to face them again.  Or I would swear to myself that not a single rock would ever again be piled. And then what? Nothing, that’s what. It’s the end. The end of something I loved. Because of why? Because of my own inability to accept one thing-that they WILL fall down.

-My focus became very much out-of-focus when I failed to achieve success in an instant.

Decades of trips and falls has blessed me with a bit of an I don’t really care what happens now attitude, and as a result I have started to throw myself in with no regrets, and accidentally stumbled upon the answer-of course this doesn’t always happen!

If you love something, but your efforts seem to be futile- maintain your focus.

Do it with NO less enthusiasm. Do it with equal intent to extend your limits, do it with your whole self, do it blindly with no ears for the knockers, and do it with the knowledge that the rocks are going to fall down. They WILL. They will and they always have. But what is consistent-what I always forget, is that in order to achieve something, we need to accept a bit of imbalance, a fair bit of disappointment, a bit of pain, many, many, steps backward, and we need to take comfort in the re-building.

Maintain the focus, re-build the rocks one at a time, and you will gain knowledge, and power, and strength, and the ability to learn how to balance, and eventually success. Be patient-and Do Not be Afraid to fail.

Posted in Writing

To My Boy

I wrote this some years ago, yet it is still relevant to me today…

All Of Me


Nicole Martin

There are so many things that mums and dads should say

But sometimes, we fail to say them in the way you need us to.

When your little heart broke today, I felt it too-like breaking glass, I shattered, helpless, as the pieces fell.

It hit me in spectacular fashion, that sometimes, I don’t have all the answers, and sometimes, I can’t fix it.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I lay with you.

I lay down with you on your little bed, and welcomed silence as I stroked your tear sodden cheek.

So soft it was, I didn’t realise how so,  you, my little man, are but a babe in arms, your virgin soul, newly challenged by the devastation of disappointment.

There were no words- they felt weightless and empty in comparison to the energy that transpired in this moment.

The clock…

View original post 880 more words

Posted in Writing

“He screamed, watch out..it’s over there, in the bushes”

It makes it really difficult to keep still when the Mosquitos are biting into every ounce of flesh that is exposed-and that’s a fair bit because I live in Far North Queensland, where shorts and T-shirts are a staple commodity.

They were severe this evening- a mismatch with the serenity. No breeze. Perfect temperature, a view to die for, and a world of quiet, bar the occasional bird song.

What was I doing?

Not really sure. Your guess is as good as mine. I think if I was on a game show and I had to attempt an answer, I would say that I was freezing the world around me with my camera, in aim of reminding myself that it did indeed, in a wonderous capacity, still exist-a stark contrast to  societies political thorns that continue to bite my butt.

Mozzies and politics-both very irritating.

At first glance, it was boring. Nothing much to see, nothing eye catching that hadn’t already caught me a million times before. I snapped regardless. Because that’s what I came here to do- Unwind, clear the head and recharge. Opening and closing the shutter was secondary.

It is amazing what can unfold around you when you don’t give two hoots why or where you are. When you have no solid reason to be wherever you are.  When expectations are low, the little things become much, much more interesting.

I found myself just off the beach, playing in the mudflats with the mudcrabs (burried in their little mudcrab holes) and spying on the seagulls-so what, I hear you say.

The tide was out. Way out. I noticed a man looking in my direction, kind of tallish, 50’s, wearing glasses and a thick head of grey. He had a strong European accent.

“Are you local?” He asked

I hesitated, wondering how he could possibly be lost on the edge of a mudflat. If he was looking for the ocean, he was in the right place.

“Can I help?”

“Well it’s just that I am very concerned you will be eaten by a crocodile any minute now”

It amused me.

“You know, I am local, and I thank you for your concern…but I’m not worried about that”

I immediately jumped as he shrieked,

“It’s behind you, over there in the bushes”

His audible shriek stopped my heart on the spot more than his words of warning, and I turned around and quickly scanned the area.

No croc. Nothing. Not even a mudcrab. Not even a bird, or a dead fish, or a microscopic amoeba. Not surprising.

…what was surprising though, was that the man, who was there right in front of me, only seconds ago, had vanished completely. No sign of him, at all.

…and I’m not joking.











Posted in Writing

Masterpieces are never mess free

‘I write with a pen and paper in one of those hard cover diary books you can buy in the supermarket, and I move from room to room chasing the feelings in my chest that are  killing me, until I have a scrawl that’s so messed up it’s made my flipping day-masterpieces are never mess free.’

‘I need a nice pen, a smooth one that enables me to feel grand when I splash my grievances for all to see and judge’

‘I like scribbling diagonally across a blank page taking my thoughts outside the angle of the lines. It’s dramatic, it’s naughty, and who cares…’

‘Honestly, don’t use the words of others. Don’t write someone else’s story-write yours. Separate yourself from the do’s and don’ts of the English language because that will distract you from what you really want to say, what is real, what is raw. Allow a chaotic flood of wicked messed up thoughts guide you to the brilliance of sharing an honest piece of yourself with those who care to listen-those reading by the way, should consider it a privilege to be given the secret key into your world and kindly respect your vulnerable position. Do not be phased by the haters. There will always be those…oh yes there will, and the literary genius’s of the world…fear not, intimidation is a waste of valuable energy, for you have the benefit of a gift they will never own-Your story’

‘Pardon? What is freedom? …Freedom to me is breathing out and feeling comfortable to stay there for a while.

Freedom is feeling confident enough to share your raw and then indulge in a cuppa with no spiders on your back.


Posted in Writing

A sense of ponder…

I heard this morning that she passed away.

And although she was not known to me-a story owned by others, I found myself staring aimlessly at the floor. A floor strewn with dirty clothes and a families clutter, yet a floor so desperately insignificant.

The chill in the air iced my bare feet and darkened the room. It was quiet. With absolute deliberateness I grabbed a bean bag and a cup of hot tea and headed outside. I wanted to see the world in a different light. I wanted to shake my ponder-Why are some spared when others are drowning in tragedy?

There will never be an answer to that.

I threw the beanbag down on the tiles and collapsed into it. The warmth of the sun ran right through me. It was a comfort not felt for some time, as we are usually escaping the heat in the tropics. The sky was the bluest of blue. The birds were carrying on, and everything was perfect. So spectacularly perfect-and yet not so-you know?

The impossibility of righting the wrongs in this world can be overwhelming yet acceptance and gratitude help us navigate our way through.

Posted in blogging, Dogs, My wordpress, Story, Writing

Me and My Dog


For as long as I can remember, you’ve been my best friend.

You’re the only one that I always like.

When I’m angry or sad, you appear from nowhere, plonking yourself next to me with a sigh. You talk to me, telling me where your secret hiding places are, and where you buried your bone last week. You tell me all about the awesome stinky frog you found on your walk with Dad, and you tell me all about the great new friend you’ve made-“Archie”, but how he’s sometimes a bit annoying because he keeps steeling your ball.

You make me feel better. You understand me, and what it is I need.

We’re buddies, you and me.

You let me wet your head with my tears, and you help me hide the crumbs when I pinch another biscuit, but don’t tell mum, because she doesn’t know-It’s our secret.

You know all my secrets, and you never tell.

You don’t mind if I leave my yoghurt container on the floor every single morning. I get in trouble by the way, but it’s ok I’ll do it for you because I know how much you like to lick it clean. I know, because I can read your mind.

I know that you are sad when you are left by yourself in an empty house. I know you love to sleep in mum and dad’s bed when you are cold, I know that you secretly hate dog food and would prefer lasagne every night, but you’re grateful you get something, so you don’t complain-but I can tell.

I know that at the end of the day, when all the humans in the world bug me, you are the only one that knows.

I am glad you are my dog.



Posted in Wordpress photo challenge, Writing

You see it this way, I see it that way.


By day, this tree is just a tree.

When night fills the sky though, it’s arms stretch out like a tree doing Pilates in the grandest of fashions and they reach into the blue for as far and as long as they can possibly go.

Passers by turn their heads and stare, as if waiting for the show to begin. Their eyes widen and remain fixed on this Graceful living, breathing botanical beauty that is art.

This tree is as much a part of this scene as a cold hand seeking the warmth of a perfect fitting glove.

Harmonious, peaceful, proud and content in its skin-it’s a perfect fit.

Yet in the daylight, it goes unnoticed. It blends, preferring to remain anonymous.

I asked a man the other day what he thought of ‘the tree’.

And he said this:

“Which tree? Oh, yes. You mean the one with a body full of the largest green leaves I’ve ever seen. The one with all it’s branches, hidden behind it’s leafy coat. I know the one. I love the way the sunlight brings it alive. It’s rays reflecting off its leafy surfaces like a heavenly glow. I’ve never much noticed it a night though. At night, it is simply a tree to me”

Same tree. Different eyes.


Posted in blogging, Life, Stories, Writing

Unseen and Unheard

Why have I not been writing? Good question. I have been wondering that myself for some time, and I’ve come up with nothing solid. No simple lightbulb moment that’s hit me in the head and said “oh that’s why”.

Writing is like breathing to me. Essentially, mandatory stuff to keep me alive and well. However, for some reason, the urge I once had to express myself was replaced with a preference for silence. A silence within me that smothered the words and the stories and the desire to share.

Was I sick of the sound of my own voice and inflicting  my repetitive personal thoughts onto all of you?

Was I concerned about judgement, disapproval, or the misinterpretation of my message?

Perhaps it was a combination of all of the above with a bit of fear and a bit of “what is really  the point?” thrown in.

Those who know me have born the brunt of my writing inactivity with a bombardment of new hobbies, adopted by my restless self to fill the creative gap. However like a dog begging to be taken for a walk, the words in my head would tug at my fingertips in desperation.

The fear of exposing my personal thoughts to the world was repeatedly superimposed on me by more than one source.

“Don’t air your dirty laundry in public”

“What is wrong with you?”

However that fact that I listened, is what stopped me writing in the first place. Ironic? Terribly. However as soon as I began hesitating before putting pen to paper, and as soon as I ceased being myself as a result of others opinions, judgements or expectations, I realised I needed to re-examine my sense of self and my reason for writing in the first place.

It is all over, when you change yourself to suit others-bottom line. FORGET IT! It just doesn’t work and pretending, is incompatible with happiness.

All that is uniquely YOU is lost. All that is SPECIAL is buried deep underneath sensitivities and self doubt and all of that ridiculous rot that has absolutely no place in the real, honest, raw world. The world that adores us for who we truly are. A world that pains for less plastic and more of the real deal.

What is writing anyway? It is simply connection.

Sometimes words connect, and sometimes they don’t…

What I have learned, is that when they do, it’s not only magical, it’s important. Connection is what keeps us alive. It’s what helps us  feel understood, and validated and loved and valued. Cliché cliché cliché , bla bla bla…but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if I ever, ever, forget that again.

For any part of you that you willingly share, be it only a part, will resonate with those that it is designed to reach, and that is all that matters…

So why did I stop writing?

…because I lost sight of what was important to me.

Are you unsettled?

Re-align your vision, listen to your own voice and allow yourself to re-discover who you are, what you need, who you want to be with, and what is truly important;



Posted in blogging, Daily muse, Photography, Writing


This photo was taken in a small park in the centre of Cairns, Australia. Recently redeveloped, it now houses a spectacular outdoor amphitheatre, home to many concerts and theatrical productions.

Whenever I lay eyes on this space, I am instantly drawn to the lighting. This wonderland of spooky trees and fairy lights has me searching for witches on broomsticks, knights on horses and swarms of little people running around raking leaves manicuring its landscape.




Posted in blogging, Deep, Life, Writing

Winning the battle



~Nicole Martin

I am sitting here in silence and darkness and strangely I am still alert.
It’s very rare that this happens at this time of night without me instantly fighting sleep-life is never predictable.
It’s like the hammer has ceased banging my head into the ground, and I am able to reflect without distraction.

The boys are all asleep-it’s been a long day for them. I ran around earlier and put clean sheets on the beds, closed all the windows and turned on the air conditioning. There is something about making the environment nice for my boys, that is quietly satisfying as a wife and mother. Not sure what that is, or where it comes from. Instinct?

Perhaps it’s the feeling of tucking them in, and knowing they are safe and resting comfortably under my modest little tin roof, that draws out the deepest, most raw sense of security and relief within my subconscious me.

Relief that we’ve all been blessed to get through another day.

Relief that I’ve managed to drag my way through work and school lunches and dishes and school bags and dirty clothes just well enough for all to be content, whilst they rest under warm doona’s in the crispest of sheets in the coolest of aircon, in a blissfully unconscious and unbothered state of sleep.

I stare at them.

Look at how tightly closed their eyes are. Look at their little heads soaking up the softness of their pillow below. Look at their hair, all young and thick and all over the place, falling as it pleases, and resting exactly where it lands.

They breathe softly whilst their now big boy bodies concentrate on growing into men. I bought them that bed, and those pyjamas, and that pillow. I am proud that we as parents have managed to do that, when we had no idea what we were doing-at first. I am relieved, that despite the challenges we have faced as parents, and all of the problems we never managed to solve, they have grown up anyway, and they’re ok.

And now I will join my boys and share in their journey of subconscious bliss until tomorrow. When it all starts over, and the wheel once again groans and then quickly gains momentum, turning in time with life. All are forced to jump aboard and fend for themselves dodging obstacles, passing through fields of yellow daffodils, collecting money as they pass go, and heading to jail in times of bad luck.

But the wheel will always stop. Giving us time to reflect on the chaos, and allowing us to realise that the peace that happens every now and then, is the result, of winning the battle.

Posted in blogging, Life, Writing

The Love Of A Fisherman



I caught sight of his hat, but only fleetingly as he was on the move to find the perfect spot. I followed patiently, hoping this ‘perfect spot’ was somewhere close by as the hike over the ocean washed rocks was beginning to wear thin…for me-but the journey no matter how rough, was clearly, not a bother for my fisherman.

I stop, and re-evaluate my position.

There he is, standing one hundred metres away, bare foot, holding the brand new rod he’s been so excited to try out, appearing to be content with his carefully chosen fishing spot…or not? He moved on, once again.

It’s funny, we can’t converse, yet he’s in my sight, so I feel like things are ok.

I followed him here, to this new place we hadn’t explored before. The idea, was that I could take photos and he could fish, but he took off in the excitement and yelled back at me-

“I’ll be on the rocks somewhere”

I simply replied


…but I followed him.

I struggled to keep up. He was a good 5 minutes ahead of me, it was hot, and the rocks were sharp, their edges poking into my rubber thongs. Gosh if I hadv’e known, I would have worn decent shoes-on second thoughts, how boring. I have much more fun when I don’t plan. When I just end up somewhere and attempt to negotiate my way through whatever presents itself.

The sand was course and scratched the delicate suburban skin in between my toes. A few little white waves dumped sand on me as they washed over my feet in an attempt to make it to shore, just as they had done, over and over for a million or more years. They did not care about my precious feet.

My mind drifted back to the sign on the beach.

‘Achtung!’ -Beware of the crocodiles, stay well away from the waters edge.’

Well I clearly read THAT sign, as I was currently IN the water, but only for a moment. I read somewhere crocs have to watch you for a while first, make sure you’re not going to move, and then plan their attack. Right? The water was nice, and somehow didn’t seem the place for a crocodile.

Quickly, I leapt onto the next rock ledge escaping the breaking waves and apparent reptilian danger, and once again scanned the foreshore for my fisherman.

He was over thereeeeeeeeeeeee.

I caught him peering in my direction, and immediately took the opportunity to send a message. Unfortunately, my little human self kicked in and I threw my hands in the air as if to say-

“Well are you ever going to stop so I can catch up or are we walking to Tasmania?”

He gestured back-

“Well I’m fine, what’s YOUR problem?”

My heart smiled for a second, one hundred and fifty percent subconsciously, but I caught the thought mid-flight and realised-He was being him, and I was being me, how blissfully normal.

The unrelenting wind was not my friend. I had a new hat on which was determined to fly away, hence one hand was occupied dealing with IT, and the other was flat out just trying to balance on the cliff face. I was also beginning to wonder how long my rubber thongs would hold out on the rocky surface, fully expecting to feel a knife like jab into the underside of my foot at any second, but sometimes our $5-00 little gems never die. An expensive pair wouldv’e snapped instantly, guaranteed.

Content my fisherman wasn’t going anywhere for a while, I decided to stay put and focused on finding shelter from the elements.

Two large rocks a little climb away, filled that job description nicely. They provided a little patch of shade and a small wind break. I threw my towel down as floor covering and sat, and took in the sea air whilst waiting for him.

Not a bad spot, if it were’nt for the ants who rapidly invaded my territory, the heat, the wind, the danger of reptilian attack, and the inability to reach my fisherman, that stood on the rocks, bare foot, with his fishing shirt and his hat, only 100 metres away, thinking of nothing other than whether or not the fish were biting.

Posted in Landscape Photography, Slideshow, Stories, Video, Writing

Behana Gorge-Tropical North Queensland

I compiled this slideshow from my recent trip to Behana Gorge outside of Gordonvale. My strongest recollection is of the temperature of the water, something out of character for the waters to be this cold, this far north. It took me almost 20 minutes to get in, but when I did, it was invigorating. Why I do not do things like this more often, I don’t know.




Posted in blogging, Landscape Photography, Life, Photography, Writing

The Challenge of Storytelling

Do artists-musicians, writers, painters, designers, intend simply to portray an accurate version of their own personal interpretation?
Or do they create to inspire? To evoke a whole rainbow of new visions and emotions.
It is difficult to portray the feeling of a place through a photograph.  I have attempted here to capture a small dimension of the wondrous natural beauty of the Australian bushland surrounding Lake Tinaroo, and the luscious farmland set within a bed of fertile soil, abound by rolling hills.
A two dimensional image however, fails in many ways to do a scene justice,  for it relies on only one of our senses-sight.
The scent of the rich earth after the rainfall we had overnight, made me want to taste the ground and when I wound down the window of my car, the cool breeze felt instantly vibrant, something my habitual utilisation of air conditioning disguises. How nice to smell the country air, and to feel the breeze on my skin.
The sounds, everywhere and nowhere, were what really relaxed me. A combination of deathly silence, and then the beautiful musicality in the trees above. Birds sang and flipped and flapped around doing their thing, completely oblivious to the fact Donald Trump is all over the news-what a pleasure-I soaked up all that surrounded me, like it was medicine…yet a photograph does not tell this story, now does it?
It simply gives you a starting point. It’s akin to the front cover of a novel. It leaves you with an impression, which either triggers interest or indifference-the potential to lose the true meaning-originating in the mind of the photographer is high
as it’s quickly lost in the viewers individual interpretation.
But does it really matter?
Do artists-musicians, writers, painters, designers, intend simply to portray an accurate version of their own personal interpretation?
Or do they create to inspire? To evoke a whole rainbow of new visions and emotions.
When I took these shots on the banks of Tinaroo, it was about 6:00 pm. There was a cold breeze, yet I chose to wear a flimsy shirt and allow myself to feel the wind run through me.
It was darkening quickly. There were clouds threatening to drop rain, settling above the Lake. The usual music of the bird life was playing in the background, but my focus was on the howling wind, and the associated loneliness that came with that. There was not a sole around. Just me, and the rippling waves of what water was left in the parched Lake.
I hope you enjoy the photos I have prepared, if only the cover page of a story untold, yet a story that lives in the mind of a solitary soul.

For Photos Click Here

Posted in blogging, Writing

The so-called imperfections you see in your face are some of your most alluring features-because they are you.


‘I love its vulnerability, it’s impossibly human position. I love how it reaches out, willingly or not, sucks the breath out of your lungs and pulls you in…’


They carry on their surface, the angles, shapes and colours that collectively unify to create an outward appearance;

yet the story

The unique, impossibly raw and beautiful story

is embedded within it’s character.

Faces cannot lie.

Can you see who is the person that lies behind the face when they meet your eyes?

Can you see their powerful individualism that is their reality?

I love a happy face

One that has warmth and sunshine pinned to its smile. One that smothers you with its bright yellow rays and wraps itself around your every breathing cell

Every happy face, is a beautiful face.

I love a sad face

I love its vulnerability, it’s impossibly human position. I love how it reaches out, willingly or not, sucks the breath out of your lungs and pulls you in

Every sad face, is a beautiful face

Perhaps one of our failings as a human race is our perception of beauty

Our perception that character, and the insuppressible beauty of uniqueness is imperfection

Overwhelmingly, the most alluring quality in a face is its powerful mystique

It’s honesty, it’s visible reflection of the soul, it’s unquantifiable energy, it’s stunning uniqueness, it’s story

The character in a face is the epitome of human perfection-beauty beyond definition,

for it cannot be measured.

Faces blooming with emotion, life and character have endless depth and come with infinite interpretations and possibilities, unlike the finite form of perceived physical beauty.

In the words of Amy Bloom-

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed.

And you are beautiful.”


Posted in blogging, Poem, Wordpress photo challenge, Writing


As the mountain darkens with the dimming light of day the skeletons of the past emerge from behind the trees that cover it’s surface as black as night it hides yet it’s eyes are wide op…

Source: Opposites

Posted in Life, Story, Writing

I am John

Have you ever walked past the same person a thousand times and never noticed them, until one day, you do…?

Source: I am John

Posted in Photography, Wordpress photo challenge, Writing




This was my morning yesterday.

It was not my usual introduction to the day-coffee, toast, shower, work.

Bravo, something different from the daily routine-a little rock climbing, a lot of mosquito swatting, an accumulation of sweat on my brow, and an elevated heart rate as a result of balancing my camera equipment, my car keys and my phone whilst positioned literally a millimetre from the edge of this stream.

All in order to

Get the shot”

The images captured this morning are by no means new to the world, or a unique activity to anyone else’s morning, but in my own words…


There is nothing in this world that hasn’t already been done, or photographed, or thought of, yet there are many, many, brilliant new perspectives. A myriad of unique pairs of eyes and differently configured neurons, that ensure we are stunningly different from every other soul on this earth.

And that is the secret to an increasingly colouful world, with light and shade and fascination and sustained interest in outdated tricks-


New perspectives,

New eyes…


More photos from this morning’s shoot here



Posted in Photography, Writing

Through your eyes…


Through your eyes…

I don’t remember being informed at any stage in my life that to achieve optimal results as a photographer, one must not only be a contortionist, but several other things as well.

One must be spiderman.

I mean today for example, it was necessary to be in a partucular place that required me to literally stick to the rocks and balance with no hands as I attempted to haul my camera equipment down a tortuous path. I can see how easily an expensive camera could be smashed into smitherines in one miniscule lapse of concentration.

One needs to have the patience of a Tibetan monk.

Let’s face it, there are so many variables. Light, co-operation, the perfect f-stop, iso, shutter speed and shooting mode for the scene…and when shooting wildlife, lots and lots and lots of luck.

One needs to be mozzie proof.

When out in the bush near a river, the bitey things love to sink their teeth into one’s skin whilst one is trying to remain still-this is a no brainer for me-I’m out of there like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Today I decided to shoot a little waterfall by the name of Crystal Cascades in Cairns.

Yawn, I hear you say. Who hasn’t seen a million, zillion photographs of a waterfall? I know I have, and generally I am totally bored by them.

Yet the flip side, is that nobody has seen a photograph of a waterfall with my eyes behind the lens.

There is nothing in this world that hasn’t already been done, or photographed, or thought of, yet there are many, many, brilliant new perspectives. A myriad of unique pairs of eyes and differently configured neurons, that ensure we are stunningly different from every other soul on this earth.

And that is the secret to an increasingly colouful world, with light and shade and fascination and sustained interest in outdated tricks.


New perspectives,

New eyes…

So when you yawn, and view these two dimensional images of an over photographed waterfall, remember, I had to wear a spiderman suit, to capture them…

Posted in blogging, fitness, Writing




The Triathlon I did on the weekend…

Every step of the run felt like sandpaper slowly scraping the skin off my toes. I thought seriously about stopping, taking my shoes off and wiping away the grains that were responsible, but wasn’t keen on losing time, and then there was the risk of losing all motivation to continue…

I competed in an Olympic distance triathlon today (1.5km/40km/10km) ‘Twas a bit of a rash decision to say the least, no training for 7 weeks post the Cairns 70.3 Swim and Cycle legs (1.9km/90km), but I was interested to see just how much fitness I had lost in this time, and of course I was adding in a run.

The shower was hot. Nice, but the sting inside my blistered, nicely sandpapered toes was something comparable to childbirth-That may be a slight over exaggeration, but I think you get the point. My sun tinged shoulders and face screamed the moment the drops of water cascaded across their surface-and then I exhaled.

It was a spectacular Far North Winters day. Sun, blue skies despite some patchy rain, and warmth that was conducive to casual dress-but it was the water temperature that was worrying me. I despise swimming in cold water. Makes me feel like I’m in Antarctica imitating a seal or something-I am NOT a seal. Or a penguin for that matter, but the water was ok…in fact it was the least of my problems.

“Mum. Let’s go for a cycle” Xavier piped

Now let me just say, he never says that.

It’s like ripping out his appendix with no anaesthetic to get him to ride, but today, he chooses to ask when I am a shattered woman.

“Are you serious Xav?”

“Hmm. No not really, but can you take me to the Esplanade because I need to catch some pokemon’s.

It is very windy on the Nade today. Windy August I call it, so I’m hiding in a nice little sheltered spot, writing this, whilst the ‘lighty’-translation for non Zimbabweans-young child-runs around with a small square object in his hands, dodging all the other Pokemon hunters, trying to avoid collisions with trees and dangerous moving objects, pressing random buttons and apparently catching little teddy bear things that give him points and the uttermost satisfaction with life-I’ll never understand how this game has become globally viral with millions of people across cultures, nationalities, and races, transfixed. It makes international political warfare a total joke-just give them Pokemon.

…whoever knew the secret to happiness was that simple-well kids of course, that’s who…and dogs, who do similar things with tennis balls-run after them and don a smile so big you’d swear their tongue was going to fall out.

The swim was lovely, a few waves, a bit of nausea, but I hadn’t lost that much, and I was grateful. The cycle was another story.

Me and my $500 buck second hand Aluminium bicycle had arguments with the headwind, although having said this, I thought I was fairing quite well, considering. I did notice that there were less and less cyclists on the course and I began to feel suspicious that I wasn’t as fast as I thought I was.

I approached the last turnaround and the marshall lady person, was standing in the middle of the road…

“Are you in the race?”

I was flabbergasted.

“Yes?” I yelled

“Oh. Well then are you in a team love?”

“No?” I yelled again.

What is with this lady? I mean it wasn’t as if I was the only competitor left on the course. There was one man, he didn’t quite fit on his seat properly, but he was there, and there was a bloke having a little rest while he replied his tyre, then there was the lady. Plenty of people left, I thought. I have no idea who she was, as I couldn’t see her face. It was covered. With her hair. Her visibility must have been appalling.

It’s a massive reality check when all one wants to do is go home, lick ones wounds, feel sorry for oneself for a while, beg for sympathy, shower and curl up in bed, but instead, the ball of life keeps rolling and one ends up enduring gale force winds, in the sun, buying cinnamon donuts and milkshakes for the love of a little Pokemon hunter and his happiness.

I only have one word for the run leg;


No, I can think of a few more- I am not a one word person, except when I’m extremely tired (sometimes not even then) or extremely grumpy;

Snail pace, hot (Cairns residents are lying when they tell you it’s winter. We never have winter, just less of a summer), strangely satisfying-in a kind of painful sadistic kind of way, and complete.

Yes. I completed it, which is what I was aiming to do.

The time is largely irrelevant to me, but humans generally don’t understand words…what they want is numbers.

Final time?

2:43 Hours.

Thank goodness it wasn’t over 3, and thank goodness I trusted myself enough to enter, regardless of my fitness status quo; for the experience, the camaraderie, the fresh ocean air, and the sympathy I am hoping to receive for the blisters…they really are quite big…huge, no they’re huge.

Thanks to all my friends who supported me.



Posted in Writing

What I learned about what’s ‘Normal’, and what’s not…

What I learned about what’s ‘Normal’ and what’s not…


I was thinking to myself the other day-Now this could’ve been a couple of days ago, or it quite possibly could’ve been a couple of years ago…’the other day’…usually refers to a day in the ‘recent past’, but to me, it’s just

〰some other day other than today〰 🤓

So I was thinking…the other day, that I was a little different. A little different from the happy days socially desirable housewife who cooks and cleans and irons and smiles her way through a perfect welcome when everyone comes home from work and school.

I reflect upon this often and ask myself regularly why I don’t seem to have the emotional energy for the vacuum cleaner, or the ceiling fans or the window sills. Sure, I give them attention from time to time, but they’re about as important to me as those little dust collectors I’ve accumulated over the years that stare at me everyday from my mantle piece, begging to either be noticed, or put out of their misery and thrown to the bottom of a deep pit.

I ask you, does it make you a shmuck if your hobby is to stare out the window, rather than clean it?

I don’t know the answer to this question, however I suspect it’s subjective nature would welcome a myriad of colourful replies.

I found myself living ‘the day after’ ‘the other day’…and I was enlightened by the wisdom of a great man.

He said-💬

“You know there is actually no such thing as normal or average. Those things only exist in books. There is only YOU and Me and Fred and Mary…and normal is total bollocks, and thank God this is so, or we’d all die of commoners disease”

So I’m not going to box myself in as ‘normal’ or ‘abnormal’ or “bent” or “misbehaved” or anything else that has a dreaded name or label that perpetuates expectation or lack thereof, and I’m simply going to call myself Nicole.

It is what it is…



Posted in blogging, Writing

Don’t tell me I can’t


She writes,

yet her writing does not appeal to her year 12 English teacher.

“English is not your subject”

…and so, she follows the path of Science

“because you’re better at that”

and yet, 20 years later, when she no longer listens,

she writes anyway.

Because that is what is inside of her

because she has ‘stuff’ to say

because she has ‘stuff’ to share

and because she has a heart for it.

Literary brilliance, literary magnetism, literary success,

is about passion, and truth, and reality.

It’s about perseverance

and  belief

and sharing

and  risk

It’s about throwing away the rule book

…and daring to be free

It’s about blocking your ears to the entire universe

in order to unlock the gates to yours.

It’s rebelling against the world with prose

It’s making peace with one’s thoughts

It’s about you

and no-one else,

and having the strength to expose yourself to vulnerability, and failure, and fear and judgement.

It’s about believing, that if your year 12 English teacher says you can’t, it’s not the end.

Because it’s never over, until YOU say so

and if you truly, truly, want it…

you absolutely can. 

…and so she writes. 


Posted in blogging, Writing

A pen and paper is all I have…

The power has gone out
a pen and paper is all I have.
My phone is dead, so that’s out.
I am hungry, yet the toaster doesn’t work-no power
I feel like a coffee, yet the kettle has no charge.

So I kick start the gas-to boil some water
…for coffee
But the ignitor is not working.


I run for the matches.

One, two, three strikes and I’m out.

The matches won’t light, they must be wet, from the rain.
Darn it.
I try another box, and another, and another, and another…


The rain pours down outside.
I snap a shot or two, but the camera gets wet.

Steam rattles the pot lid,

Tink, tink, tink…

My coffee is hot, I add condensed milk-smooth and sweet.

It’s dark today, and it feels lifeless without the usual subtle sounds that electricity brings.

Now. To cook toast on my gas stove.


Posted in blogging, Writing

Facebook or not?


It’s a question that’s crossed my mind on several occasions over the years, and even more so recently.

Many of my friends have let go of the Facebook fad, in favour of either a social media free lifestyle, or the more refined versions such as Instagram, which tend to contain less ‘shared’ media streaming and adverts.

I guess people have had a gut full of sharing into others lives and in the meantime, not really living theirs.

Is that it?

A quiet, more private life, like it used to be, certainly has its appeal, however I’d miss the interaction with those that know me.

…and I’d never, ever, know how my dear old friends were, or even, where they were. I’d never know my extended family who live abroad, yet now, I can hear of their adventures.

So what keeps me IN then if almost everybody has left the table whilst some of us are still dining?


I guess, it’s important to find one’s personal balance that suits one’s personality and lifestyle, and it’s important to recognise, when it’s suffocating our opportunity to get out and live.

One thing’s for sure, we are all different on that front!

So until next time,

Cheers fellow diners…who’s for dessert?

Posted in Photography, Poem, Stories, Writing


Photo 1-07-2016, 21 12 37

As the mountain darkens with the dimming light of day

the skeletons of the past emerge from behind the trees that cover it’s surface

as black as night it hides

yet it’s eyes are wide open.

 The fluffy crimson sky that floats freely above it’s apex however,

provides comfort inside fiercely beating hearts

by lifting ones eyes from the solidified deadened black,  up into the endless scarlet wonderland and beyond into the infinite blue.

~Nicole Martin



WordPress Photo Challenge


Posted in Daily muse, Photography, Writing

Why I Don’t Write Anymore

File 3-07-2016, 12 41 43

WHY I DON’T WRITE ANYMORE-The rise and fall of the flame

-Nicole Martin

It’s been a very long time since I’ve put pen to paper-or to be truthful, keys to iPad screen.

I used to love to tell a story. I still do, I guess…yet I’ve discovered over the years, that if the words are not there, they are not meant to be written. Forced writing is bloody aweful. Reading it, is not dissimilar to enduring a boring speech written by someone other than the speaker, and delivered by a less than willing participant who’s connection with the topic is zip. There’s no resonance, it’s unauthentic, and it’s dishonest.

If I believe my writing is not honest, if it’s not truly me, then it’s not storytelling and it’s not truth. It’s just worthless words that mean nothing, and a serious waste of the reader’s time.

So if I have nothing to say-It is what it is.

In the interim, I am delighted to adorn my canvas with the images of a Tropical Paradise-a peacefully silent method of storytelling. A potentially powerful means by which to connect the viewer to their heartstrings and memories in their own unique way. This relatively new journey of imagery has highlighted the need for me to refine the art, and challenge myself further in order to achieve the outcome I so passionately desire-connection.

For the real magic in life is all about connection is it not?

That raging passion, that unconscionable excitement, that unwavering drive to attack the previously believed unattainable, is all about connection.

Ultimately, if there is no connection, there is nothing but an empty space that lingers, and the impossibly human need to fill it with something more meaningful, subconsciously gnaws.

I have decided, that despite my wavering interests, I will go with whatever my heart tells me to do at that particular moment in time. Life is not a prison. We are free to change our minds, lose interest in what we previously enjoyed, adopt a new challenge, connect with new friends, and birth new goals, with no need for justification, but simply an acceptance and a fresh appreciation for the new.

On the flip side, I have been known to fumble around vaguely for decades, continuously searching for what drives me, continuously searching for a magic connection, or whatever the phrase is…only to discover I have unknowingly circumnavigated my universe and ended up right back where it all began-My unique connection to the outside world-and yours-has always been within me-yet in disguise. Disguised by the freedom of youth, disguised by not having suffered yet, disguised by family values and beliefs, disguised by societal expectation, disguised by limited understanding of self.

So where does that leave me today?

Well, who would’ve thought. I’m writing again…and as I continue to dream and tackle the world, in peace with my dog, all is good and all is exciting, and scary and new and old and uncertain and connected.

Here’s to a pushing the next boundary!



Posted in Photography, Writing

The Aussi Wallaby


Paradise Palms Golf Course, Cairns


This little guy has no idea why I am photographing him.

“What are you doing lady?”

Don’t worry little guy, I’m simply admiring you.

Posted in Daily muse, Deep, mindfullness, Photography, Writing

Creativity-The Pathway to Peace


The Spectacular Cairns Esplanade, Australia

‘Living creatively is to burn the demons that plague us’


WordPress Photo Challenge

-Nicole Martin

In my spare time, which is rare these days, I throw myself into creating imagery. Whether through reflective prose or photography, creating resonance between image and reader in a way that is special to them, is paramount to the success of my work.

It’s a hobby-I guess you could say, although it’s how I would love to spend the rest of my days, drowning in my creative mind, and enriching my life experience.

Living creatively is to burn the demons that plague us

-the direct result of living in an impossibly insane world.


Posted in Writing

You Can




-Nicole Martin

It was a long, slow walk to the soccer oval tonight.

‘Twas dusk, easily my favourite time of day. Birds skydiving from tree to earth, to earth to tree-nattering happily-pleasant colours in the sky, a drop in temperature, and a plethora of happy people playing sport, socialising, walking their dogs, or simply taking in the fresh air before they settle in for the upcoming evenings agenda.

Dragging my feet, I had to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other, if I was to make it to where I wanted to go. My legs, it seemed, were on strike.

Usually, I strut down the footpath, in view of making it home as quickly as possible.

Not today.

I noticed a park bench and turned in its direction, with the immediate thought of taking a seat. Now that’s unusual-I caught myself thinking-as I rarely sit down anywhere, let alone on a piece of uncomfortable wooden furniture in the bushes-but today I considered it.

Exhaustion was overwhelming me.

Sometimes I wonder why we do it to ourselves. Why we push our bodies to train and train and train.

Often, I find myself thinking-never again…but there always seems to be another ‘again’.

I’ve come to the conclusion, that it’s the challenge.

The challenge, to get back on the bike, or get back in the water, or run a few more kilometres when one is totally broken.

When one curses the headwind over and over with absolute resignation, and the potholes, and the long, windy road that never ends.

When one feels they can’t possibly make one more arm revolution-but then they do.

When the sweat pours off one’s face and falls to the bitumen below, only to be left behind as we move forward,

When we struggle to consume enough water to quench our dying thirst.

When the shortness of breath under the water, convinces us we’re obnoxiously unfit and will never make a swimmer-and we’re a complete idiot for even thinking so, but we talk to our mind and our rhythm returns, and we leave the cursing self doubt in our wake.

It’s about kicking the butt’s of our doubtful minds, and traveling beyond our limits.

It’s about being proud of ourselves for not allowing the best of us to be over.

It’s about convincing ourselves, we’re not dead yet.

It’s about ignoring the critics, the downers, the history books, the self doubt or whatever is stopping us and tapping into our deepest pocket of self belief and will and extracting the enormous desire within us, to finally win.

To win the battle of ‘I can’t’… When really…

‘We can’

WordPress Daily Prompt


Posted in Photography, Writing

The Best Of You



File 3-06-2016, 13 37 59.png


“She felt she was nothing more than a consumer, nothing more than the sum of her daily obligations and duties”

-Elizabeth Gilbert

-yet it didn’t have to be that way.

After a lengthy period of internal struggle and desperation, she snuck one toe across the invisible line. The line separating fear and courage. The line separating conformist and individual.

Here, she discovered she was so much more than she believed she was.

She gave herself permission to nurture her passions despite her fear of judgement. To do what she needed to do to despite her guilt or her perceived lack of ability.

-and the flood gates opened.

The flood gates that were cleverly concealing a universe of possibilities that were alive inside her, yet not realised.

She crossed the line. She went to the other side that society said was only for the talented, the gifted, the wealthy and the beautiful-but she crossed it with her eyes open, carrying fear on her back, yet shielded by a steadfast armour of determination and courage.

At times, she catches herself peering over her shoulder, looking back at the comfort that was-but she remembers.

She remembers this comfort was the devil that was stifling her ability to truly live and to grow, and to be free, and to love herself and to feel like a human being that’s unique and worthy of a contribution.

So try.

Give yourself permission to uncover the gems that already lie within.

Run across the line, and take what you truly deserve to have.

The best of you.

Inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt


Posted in Photography, Writing

Under a Cairns Sky



The red almost burns my eyes but I can’t look away. I stare at it, excited…square to sitting quietly in the dark admiring Christmas tree lights when I should be sleeping.


Flabbergasted at how quickly the colour collapses below the horizon.

It’s on show stopping hearts, bringing souls together, inspiring young dreamers, in all it’s heavenly glory-and then it’s not.

Just like that.

‘Please stay’ my inner child pleads…

-but as much as I long for its extended presence, I know it has to go.

But life’s like that though isn’t it?

My shoulders sink, unknowingly, as the red world before me, is replaced with the familiar grey of night, and I automatically turn to continue the routine of life. It’s just an involuntary reflex-the sunken shoulder thing-in response to the anti-climax of a disappearing sunset.

Perhaps tomorrow, It’ll be my turn again, to sit in the front row and watch.

Watch the colours change, from yellows to pinks to reds to greys to blues and then, to the black of night.

Perhaps not.

If not, I’m ok with that-because I can always say

I’ve been privileged enough, to see this one.


Posted in blogging, Humour, Stories, Writing

Bedtime Stories


Honestly, I know I’m tired when I jump into bed at night, teeth brushed, earrings out, pyjamas on, mouth guard in, perfume applied…pardon? Perfume applied? Did I imagine I was on my way to work? Did I imagine I was going out on the town? Did I think anything at all? -I think not. I simply splashed a couple of pumps on my neck of the old ‘little black dress’ , dilly daddled for a bit, organised myself nicely, complimented myself on how sweet I Was smelling tonight and then the cogs turned. Are you serious Nicole? What the heck? Why in goodness’s name did you just put perfume on?

It scares me that I can zone out so easily. Autopilot kicks in on my way to work some days also. I’ll walk in the doors and it will suddenly occur to me my concentration had been on planet boonga
for the last half an hour, and I had little recollection of the journey to work. I always feel I’ve forgotten to do something vital at this point…like brush my hair, or put on a bra-you know that kind of rush into work thing and then discover your phone is at home, or you left the dog in the house….or the kids :))

Posted in Photography, Writing

Beyond 40-Honestly, the best is yet to come.

I’ve been spending some relaxing yet remarkably challenging hours on my photography of late. 

A new lens has inspired me to tackle portrait, yet I’m not certain it’s my forte. It’s funny how things change. Twenty years ago, I never would have imagined I’d be heading in a creative direction. I studied Science at University, and then Intensive Care Nursing. I had no interest whatsoever in writing or story telling through imagery-yet now, creativity is the air that I breathe. It came to me,  I did NOT go to it. I often wonder how and why an interest that was previously so foreign and uninteresting to me, became what it is today-A lifeline. 

As I’ve matured, my increasing awareness of the world around me and the deeper relationship I have developed with myself, has greatly altered my perception of self contentment and satisfaction. 

The innocence of youth relies on grandiose dreams, great achievement, the hope of financial success and stability and engagement in self interests in order to bring about contentment, self satisfaction and pride. Those whose youthful years are approaching water under the bridge, place less emphasis on the big and more and more on the small. Call it reading between the lines if you will or  a slightly broader minded perception on what’s important to them.  

So do we change as we mature?

In my experience, absolutely yes. 

As do our specific tastes and interests. 

I guess the take home message here, is to live your life as it is TODAY, by sucking out every last bit of energy and pleasure it fruits. Every experience is valuable, and every age must be lived, in order to one day discover…where you really desire to be. 

Here are some images I created last week.

Thanks must go to the subjects:

Staff of the Tobruk Memorial Swimmimg Pool- Belgravia Pty Ltd.

Olympic swimmers Chris Wright and Melanie Schlanger, and a select group of elite age-group swimmers from FNQ regional Swimmimg association.





File 20-05-2016, 10 29 48File 20-05-2016, 10 34 11File 20-05-2016, 10 39 28Photo 15-05-2016, 21 23 10Photo 17-05-2016, 21 39 23
Inspired by the Daily WordPress prompt


Posted in Writing

My Words are Lost






Inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt Survival-

My words are caught in a net, this month. The net of life-and it’s stifling my ability to create.

I love to write, the urge to splash stories and thoughts onto the blank screen remains annoyingly-this is how I would describe it-in tact. Why annoying? Because they are like a yawn that desperately wants to come out, but just won’t. So I bide my time, enduring the discomfort, hoping, they will eventually flow forth, and not disappear for an eternity.

Perhaps I am not sad enough? Or perhaps I am too distracted, or too tired, or my bucket is full, with no room to ponder and dream.

The solution?

I will sit in this little chair of mine whilst sipping sweet coffee and listening to the shhhh of the breeze in my trees, outback.

I will listen to the sweet song of the bird that’s saturating the air- it is dancing elegantly with it’s words and thoughts in this moment. It’s words are not stuck in the same binding net as mine, so I will keep quiet, for a little longer, and simply listen.

See you on the flip side, my dear writing friends.

May you fill in the gaps…on my behalf.



Posted in Photography, Writing

When The Tide Is Out


Mudflats, Cairns Foreshore


Inspired by the Weekly Photo Challenge- Earth


We view the sea everyday, and don’t think twice-but when the tide is out, there uncovers a vast ecosystem, invisible, when hidden by water.

Photo by

Nicole Martin

Posted in blogging, Deep, My wordpress, Wordpress prompts, Writing

Your arms

 Your arms



You are here with me, and yet

you are not

you are somewhere else- and I am here

and I am lost

You know, If I could,

I would run to you and fall

fall rapidly out of myself-and into you

for a moment

and you would throw your arms around me

and I would whisper your name

Can you hear me?

Please tell me you hear me

I want to be embedded in your senses

I want to whisper your name


come over here and let me lose myself in you

Let me embellish you with my tenderness

 let me take away your pain

Should we go somewhere babe?

Let’s go,

 I want to steal you away

if only for a sweet moment

so you can throw your arms around me

and I can whisper your name

let’s evaporate into conjoined nothingness

for a second

and entwine our tragic hearts 

To a place with no voice

and a place void of walls


come over here to me and  lock your hand in mine

let us run

 Let us be free of concrete minds

and of the societal locks that asphyxiate us

and let us inhale the virgin scent of our truth

for a moment-

let me embellish you with my tenderness

let me take away your pain

Entice me to come to you and I’ll engulf your space and replace it with me

I will be  your overwhelming distraction

you will be my every thought

You know, if I could, I would run to you and fall-fall rapidly out of myself

-and into you

and you would throw your arms around me

and I would whisper your name

let me lose myself in you

for just one selfish moment

let me ignite you with my touch

 Let me give you

All of me




but I am here

and you are there…