The Strangeness that is Our Lives!

Thai Amulet

“Not only is the Universe stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think.”
~ Werner Heisenberg, Across the Frontiers


Things often go missing in our household. We might not see them for days, months or even years. Then all of a sudden they reappear.

The picture above of is of a Thai Buddhist amulet that Ben usually wears on a leather thong around his neck. Ben has worn several Buddhist icons or amulets over the years and sometimes he will take that necklace off and hang it on the bedroom or bathroom door handle if he is going for a surf at the beach, or if it might not suit an outfit or an occasion. Within a day it is always back around his neck again.

Until it goes missing.

While I was in the city recovering from surgery recently Ben went to our farm to do chores and check on the animals. He was gone for a few days, and then came home, the amulet fast around his neck. It was on his neck when I hugged him goodnight. The next morning it was gone.

‘I must have taken it off’, Ben said when we noticed it missing. But it had been on his neck when he went to bed. He hadn’t been outside the house. He’d barely been up for five minutes.

Ben pulled the bedroom apart looking for it. And then proceeded to pull apart the house.


It was the first time something had gone missing while he was wearing it.


A week later the leather thong for the amulet turned up on the road outside our city house, directly in front of Ben’s feet one morning. There was no mistaking it. I’d tied the sliding knots on the thong myself, and the knots were still there, strong and proud. We’d walked past that spot so many times in the preceding days and there had been no leather thong. There had also been torrential rain the night before which should have washed it away. But there it was. Bone dry.

At first we were thrilled that it had turned up again, then on closer inspection we realised that the amulet was gone. The thong (strong thick leather!) had come apart like it had torn. The edges were soft and frayed as opposed to the sharp lines of a cut. We had no idea how it happened. It didn’t make sense.

This is not an irregular occurrence. Weird stuff like this happens on a semi-regular basis in our house. This time though, the amulet was still missing. Ben felt really sad about that, and we were sure it was lost for good.

‘Oh well,’ said Ben. “I guess that means we’ll have to go back to Thailand.’


A few days ago while we were at the farm I heard Ben cry out. He came in from outside with something in his hand. The amulet. It was dirty and tarnished but completely intact. Ben had just happened to look down as he had gone outside to put some scraps in the compost, and there it was in the dirt at his feet.

What are the chances of that?

As usual, we have no explanation.

Life’s like that around here sometimes.


Sometimes The Best Way to Honour The Dead is to Celebrate

The last photo I have of Nana, taken with my Dad on my birthday, 6 September, 2012

The last photo I have of Nana, taken with my Dad on my birthday, 6 September, 2012

“We’re all ghosts. We all carry, inside us, people who came before us.”
~ Liam Callanan, The Cloud Atlas

My beloved Nana would have turned one hundred yesterday.

She passed three years ago, and I find myself missing her more as time goes on. We had a very special connection, and I still talk with her and feel her guiding presence in my life.

Yesterday I held a little celebration of her life, in a way that Nana would have appreciated. A cup of tea and a toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwich (her favourite) followed by a pink cupcake. It wasn’t Nana, but it was the next best thing. The kind of ritual we had followed in life. Her traditional choice of meal if we went out shopping together.

Homemade toasties, just like Nana used to make!

Homemade toasties, just like Nana used to make!

As I age I seem to be gathering so many ghosts to me. It’s like that for all of us, I think. Friends die. Relatives too. Young and old and in-between. So many holes in our hearts, empty places at our tables.

The dead no longer occupy physical space in our lives, but they live on in our hearts. It only takes a song, the smell of cooking on the breeze, a certain place or particular company and they are right here with me. Sometimes, they visit me as ghosts. The veil between me and that other place can be nearly transparent at times.

People have told me that time heals and that memory fades,that eventually I will forget and move on, but I have to disagree. When you truly love someone, that love doesn’t fade if they are no longer here. Hearts are big enough to love many, and keep loving. The nature of the relationship changes, but the heart remembers. I’m glad it does. Why would you want to forget someone so precious?

Yesterday was also a time of reflection for me. Only three years ago I was dying from heart failure. I was on holidays in Thailand when Nana passed in November 2012. I’d had chest pain all day. I was struggling to walk. To breathe. Everything was hard, and I felt so ill and low. I wondered if it was the last holiday I might ever have with my husband.

When I found out about my grandmother’s death I walked down to the beach, and stood in the dark with my feet lapped by the warm caress of the ocean. The sky was lit with stars and as tears rolled down my face I looked up to the heavens and asked my Nana to help me. I told her that I couldn’t keep doing this – living with so much suffering and ill health. I wanted to live, or be done with it. Not this in-between place I’d been in for so long.

Only a few days later, back in Bangkok, a friend suggested that I get my thyroid checked again when I got home to Australia. A bizarre out-of-the-blue comment that led to my lyme diagnosis and subsequent treatment that turned my health around. I truly believe that Nana heard me that night, and helped in a way she’d never been able to while she was alive.

I’ll keep celebrating Nana’s birthday each year. It brings me comfort. It helps me to hold her close. Or maybe she’s holding me. All I know is that acknowledging her birthday seems as natural and right as it did when she was still here to eat that cake with me!

Sometimes the best way to honour our dead is to celebrate their living.

Thinking of you and sending much love, Nicole <3 xx

That's me on my Dad's lap and my little sister on Nana's lap

That’s me on my Dad’s lap and my little sister on Nana’s lap

A Snapshot of My Psychic Life

Image from

Image from

“Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what.”
~ Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses


As a psychic, I can never truly plan what happens in my life. I’m in the city just now. Working.

I didn’t blog yesterday because it was one of those days .

After one of those nights.

A young girl died.

I took the call a little before ten at night, while she was still alive – but precariously, and caught a taxi to the hospital.

I was there to hold her hand until her mother came.

I held her mother in my arms after her daughter passed away.

I came home as dawn was breaking, and climbed into bed, bereft and emotionally drained.

A short time later the young girl, recently dead, began whispering in my ear. She came back again and again until she’d told me everything she felt I needed to know. I didn’t end up getting much sleep yesterday, or again last night.

Some of what the girl revealed was deeply troubling. All of it needs to be passed on to her parents.

I don’t focus on mediumship as part of my work, usually. It’s just something that happens sometimes. (You can read more here and here)

Yesterday I blew up nine lightbulbs, tripping the safety switch and plunging the house into blackness nine times. All I had to do was reach my hand out to a light switch and BANG. A bulb would blow. Sometimes my hand didn’t even make it to the switch.

After a while I left what lights were on, on. I didn’t touch any more switches. I stayed away from my computer. I stood barefoot on the earth for the longest time.

It happens like this sometimes. It’s as if all the energy builds up in me and needs somewhere to discharge.

Finally, when I was almost on my knees from being psychically available and in that heightened energy for so long, I spoke to upstairs (You know what I mean – I spoke to God, Guides, Ancestors – whoever was listening). “Enough for now, okay? I could use some time out. A break would be good.”

My husband rang five minutes later. He’d gone home to our farm to move our cattle to higher ground before the predicted heavy rain and floods later this week.

“You’ll never believe this,” he said. “I found my glasses.”

Ben lost his reading glasses a fortnight ago. He only uses them for computer work, and he usually keeps them in his computer bag in a little case. He’d had them in the bedroom at the farm, staying up one night working on his laptop. The next day when he was packing up to come back to Brisbane he couldn’t find his glasses. He searched everywhere.

Over the past two weeks we have torn both houses and the car apart, looking for them. Nothing. Finally, Ben asked me to ask my fairy friend, Sokli, who is sometimes helpful with lost things. “Oh no,” she said. “They’re not there, silly. They’re in the other place. The sometimes place.”

In other words, they were gone, so stop looking.

It has happened to us so many times before. Things disappear. Days, weeks or months later they turn up again, in plain view.

Ben’s glasses were suddenly on top of a bunch of papers in a drawer he has checked at least seven times.

Today I’ll be spending time with my friend who has just lost her daughter. I’ll be helping her navigate this terrible next part of the journey. I’ll be passing on the last of her daughter’s messages. I’ve not had much sleep this past forty-eight hours. It gets like that sometimes.

I’m still in that heightened place, psychically. It’s as if my skin holds an electrical charge. Everything looks enhanced. Brighter. More defined. My heart beats a little faster. I feel deeply in my body, and not. All at the same time.

My husband rushed back to Brisbane to be with me, so he’s in charge of turning lights on and off until things settle down again for me, energetically speaking.

He knows, and I know, that when this is all over I shall crash in a heap for a while. That’s just how it is.

This is what it is to be psychic. This is my life…

orbs-15 (1)

Ghosts, Bones, Love and Forgiveness

Image from Jagero

Image from Jagero

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” 
~ Mahatma Gandhi


Many years ago a woman came to me for a psychic consultation. She was probably about the age I am now, and she had travelled a great distance to see me in person.

She wasn’t my usual kind of client. She was an angry woman. Angry at the world. Angry at me. So angry, and so rude and dismissive of my abilities, so defensive and antagonistic that I wondered why she had come at all.

Of course she didn’t tell me. When I explained what I normally do in a consultation she stayed silent and grim mouthed. I could feel resentment ripple off her in waves. I also knew she was deeply tormented.

Towards the end of our session I asked if she had specific questions or photos of anyone she wanted to ask about. Until that moment she had not acknowledged her torment. She had blocked me at every turn. The woman took out an envelope and removed a picture which she passed across to me. It was a photo of three young children. Her children, taken when they were much younger. Two girls and one boy.

‘That’s me,’ a voice said in my mind. Not my voice, a male’s voice. ‘That’s me’. And I then felt rather than heard the name ‘Andrew’. I glanced briefly at the girls, both bright and intelligent. The older one was cowed now, although you couldn’t see that from the picture. I just knew. She was cowed and broken-hearted and downtrodden by life. How do you tell that to a mother?

The second daughter was now gone. Not dead. I mean gone as in emotionally absent, and by the feel of things, a long way away. I knew she had cut herself off from her family in order to survive better in the world.

The smiling young boy, Andrew, was the one I got the clearest connection from. I couldn’t feel him in the same way that I felt his sisters. But Andrew had a heart full of love, and I could feel how close he still was to home, emotionally and physically. He was clever too, and had loved to dance when he was little. Shy with strangers. I also knew he was gay.

What do you want to know, I asked.

The boy… She stopped herself from saying ‘my son’. He’s twenty. He left home. We haven’t had any contact with him for over a year.

It filled the space between us. So, it came across as anger, what this woman exuded, but as soon as she said ‘the boy…’ her heart opened up and I felt into her river of shame and guilt and love and hurt and loss. Her anger was the repressed expression of unbearable pain.

Are you asking if he’s okay, I said, swallowing, because I knew that he wasn’t.

No, she spat out. I want to know if he is queer. A homosexual, she added. It’s not normal. He can’t come home if he is queer. We won’t allow it.

But you already know the answer to that, I said. He is also your son, he loves you very much, and this is not a choice. He did not choose this. This is how he was born. This is how God made him.

She held my gaze, her face mottled red. No! That is a sin against God. That is not how we brought him up. How can we fix this? What do I have to do to fix this illness so that he can come home again? He’s our only son. He’s disgracing our family name. His father will never forgive him unless he renounces that sinful lifestyle. I need to know where he is so I can get him help and bring him home.

Andrew, I said softly. His name is Andrew. I was shaken by her anger, her rage at her son. Her hate.

How do you know that? she yelled.

Because he’s telling me, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.  And anyway, I knew, and I think she did too. He was dead.

Before I could answer she stood up so suddenly her chair fell over behind her. It was a mistake to come, she shouted. You too are an abomination before the eyes of God. I won’t pay. I won’t listen to your rubbish.

She left my office, slamming the door behind her. I was so shaken that I cancelled my next appointments and went home.

About a year later Andrew appeared to me while I was meditating. He was worried about his mother. He showed me that he had taken his own life because he knew that he was gay, and he couldn’t stop being gay. His mother had taken him to a psychologist, the church had made him do a program, but still this thing in him was there, needing to be expressed. He didn’t want to lose his family. So how could he live, when they hated everything that was this thing deep inside him?

He’d barely finished school when he decided what he must do. He packed up a few of his things so it would look like he’d run away. When he next left the house he took those things and put them in an industrial bin at the local shopping mall. Then he went home and into the woods near his family home, where he took his own life. It gave him comfort as he was dying, to have his home so close.

His father was sure he’d run away, and from that moment Andrew had ceased to exist for that man. But his mother had been frantic. Deep inside she’d known, even though there was no proof. Even though his parents had never even reported him missing. After all, Andrew was an adult now. He’d finished school. These were his choices.

Andrew wanted me to tell his mother where he was, and what had happened so that she would stop looking for him. He showed me the national park near his home. He asked me to tell his mother he was sorry. Not for being gay, but for having put the family through trauma. He was sorry too for not having the strength to live. He loved them all so much. And he wasn’t lonely. He was with Boo.

I found the woman’s details in my file. It took two days to muster the courage, but I called her and I passed on the information, including that Andrew was with Boo, whoever Boo might be. The woman listened to what I said and then hurled abuse at me and told me never to contact her again.

So, nearly ten years later, Andrew came to visit me again. He kept me awake most of the night. He told me that he wanted me to let his mum know that he loves his family and watches over them, that he hears their prayers, and that he forgives them. That his mum can still find happiness in this life. Also, that his oldest sister is pregnant, although she does not know it yet, and that the baby will be a girl. Comfort my mother, he tells me. Make her understand it’s all okay.

I am at my farm and my client files are in my office in Brisbane. It will be days before I am back there. Anyway, I cannot remember his mother’s name and I had promised to never contact her again. What can I do? I get no sleep for the worry of it. For wanting to do the right thing and for being sick to the stomach at needing to contact this woman again. Because, of course, I will.

The next morning I am in the car, thready with lack of sleep, my husband driving me home from breakfast at a favourite cafe, when my mobile phone rings. A woman asks if I am Nicole Cody. When I say yes, she tells me she has flown a long way to see me. She is standing outside my old address but the people there told her I moved years ago.

It is Andrew’s mother.

Can she get a cab to where I live now, she asks.

No, I tell her. I’m interstate. I live on a farm now. I felt bad that she had impulsively travelled so far, that I cannot tell her what I need to face to face.

Before I can say anything Andrew’s mother apologises to me for her behaviour. She tells me that she is no longer with her husband, who is a minister of a particular church. Her oldest daughter is still involved with the church, but married to someone outside the church. Her daughter is conflicted because she has been unable to conceive and finally she and her husband have resorted to IVF which is outside the teachings of that faith and considered a sin. Her other daughter went to Europe over ten years ago, and only came home last month. But she is going back. The daughter will not stay. She has a new life now.

She is talking and talking, Andrew’s mother, but I know these are not the things she wants to tell me. It is not why she travelled so far to try and see me.

Still she talks. I know you were telling the truth, that day you rang me, all those years ago, she said. Boo was my grandmother, who died before Andrew was born. I had never told the children her name. To them she was always known as Granny Parsons. But Boo was what I called her, my special name for her from when I was a little girl.

Here it comes, I think to myself. Here it comes. My arms are covered in gooseflesh.

Two years ago, she says, a hiker found human remains in the park that shares a boundary with our house. I thought of what you’d said and I went to the police. I told them Andrew had been missing all this time. I told them the whole truth. They used DNA to match the bones to my son. I hear the catch in her voice as she says the word bones, and feel my heart breaking for her.

You were right, she continues. He was there all along, and his body has lain in direct line of sight with my kitchen window all that time. Every morning, every night, I was looking out over him, and I never knew. I am so sorry that I was rude to you. Please forgive me. We buried Andrew a month ago. I knew that he was gay from when he was a tiny child. He killed himself because we did not act with love in our hearts about accepting his truth. We put him in a terrible position.

My husband still will not say his name. He did not go to the memorial. He cannot acknowledge Andrew and now he will not acknowledge me. I am cast out of our church, and I am okay with that. A God that cannot love their own creation is not a God I can believe in. She starts crying. Sobbing over and over, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.

I pass on the messages from her son. She is sobbing so hard that her breath is coming in hiccups. Will you be okay, I ask as her breathing settles. Yes, she tells me. Yes, I will. I know that she is telling me the truth. In her not-being-okay, she will still be okay. She will live with this Andrew-shaped hole in her heart but she has two living children she can be there for now, and a granddaughter on the way. I feel a shift in her; a sense of relief and a clearing of heaviness. I am crying too as I hang up the phone.

Later I pray that Andrew’s mother can find peace.

Love, acceptance, forgiveness, compassion. In the end it is these things that matter. It is these things that endure.

I am grateful that I was able to help. But I am shaken, and fragile and exhausted. I keep my family close all day. I spend the evening in the company of my husband and dear friends. There is a deep need in me to affirm my life and what matters.

Sometimes what I do is hard, and it takes everything I have.

But it is worth it.

Up all night, talking to Ghosts

Image from Soul Service

Image from Soul Service

“Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what.” 
Salman RushdieThe Satanic Verses


I’m late blogging today, but I have an excuse. I was up all night, talking to ghosts. Well, one ghost actually.

This morning I was shaken, fragile and exhausted.

And then his mother rang me…

I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.  Right now I need to ground myself in this world, and in the comfort of hugs, mugs of tea, and playtime with my dogs. I need a quiet moment to let this all settle.

Much love to you, Nicole xx

Excuse me, are you the Witch?

Image from Mattsko

Image from Mattsko

“Perhaps I am the only person who, asked whether she were a witch or not, could truthfully say, “I do not know. I do know some very strange things have happened to me, or through me. – Lady Alice Rowhedge” 
Norah LoftsBless This House


Last year the little girl from down the road at our city house knocked on my front door. The family had not lived in the street long, and I hadn’t met her or her siblings, although I had waved to them on occasion.

I could tell she was nervous.

“Excuse me,” she asked very shyly, “are you the Witch?”

Before I could say anything she pulled a fifty cent coin out of her pocket which she placed on the doormat at my feet.

“Can you turn my brother into a toad or a rat or something? Not forever, but just enough so he’ll stop pulling the heads off my dolls?”

We never got to finish the conversation because her brother and his friends turned up out the front on their scooters and she took off down the road, giggling like anything.

Image from TiaraKim

Image from TiaraKim

A few weeks ago she again made the nerve-wracking journey to my front door.

She’s taller this year, and gap-toothed. On that particular day her toenails were the most shocking shade of orange, with bright pink glitter. But her eyes were sad.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, not quite able to look at my face. “I know you’re probably very busy…”

“It’s no problem. I have time right now. Can I help you?” I tried to use my kindest smile.

“I don’t have much money.” Her words came out in a rush and she thrust a ziplocked bag at me with a five dollar note and some coins in it.

When I didn’t take it, she looked up, her face screwed up in something between desperation and defiance. “I can get more!”

“Why would you need to give me money?” I asked her gently.

“My granny is dying. I thought you could do a spell for me.”

Oh my. Her words just stole my breath away.

As she stared at me her eyes filled with tears and her bottom lip began to tremble.

“You love her very much, don’t you?” I said.

The little girl nodded, tears spilling down her face.

“And I know that she loves you…”

As we spoke the little girl’s mother pulled her car up in front of our driveway. “Hurry up, Veronica. We need to get going!”

“Just a moment,” I called to the mother. “You’re going up to the hospital?” I said to Veronica, quietly so that her mum couldn’t hear. She nodded, yes. I stepped closer. “Honey, it’s your granny’s time to go. You make sure you get to hold her hand and whisper in her ear. Don’t be afraid. Tell her how much you love her and tell her it’s okay for her leave now. Ask her to watch over you and come visit you sometime. I know she will. Okay?”

“Okay,” she sniffed. “Thank you.”

And she scooted off to the car, leaving me wishing that I did have some kind of magical spell to take away the pain of little girls.

This afternoon I saw her again. She waved, and left her brother and his friends to come and stand at my fence.

Veronica’s face grew pinched, and she looked around to see if anyone was listening before she blurted out, “She smells like soap. That’s how I know she’s there. Granny, I mean.”

She ran over to the other children, not looking back, and I went inside to make a cup of tea. Maybe I gave her the right magic after all.


Who do you tell?

“That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.” 
~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

It’s taken me a long time to begin to share my story…

For the longest while I never even thought I would.

But then I remembered what it was like. To be a small girl whom no-one believed. To be the girl who never fitted in, although she so desperately wanted to be like everyone else.

I remember how lonely I felt at school.

I remember how it felt as I tried to deny this great big part of me that seemed to only exist in fairytales and fantasies for other people.

I mean, really, who can you tell? Who will believe you?

Who do you tell when ladies in old-fashioned dresses appear in your bedroom in the dark of night, comforting your ill baby sister and speaking with her in French?

Who do you tell, when at any minute you expect someone will come for you and you’ll return back to the house you’re supposed to be living in – a big old house made of smartly cut stone, with fireplaces and a round driveway for the carriages?

Who do you tell when you find that you know things about people, but you can’t say how you know?

Who do you tell when you feel like someone watches you as you sleep?

Who do you tell when your dreams are filled with places and people you are sure are from your ‘other life’?

What happens when these things don’t fade away as you get older, and that sense of ‘strangeness’ lingers?

Who do you tell?

Who do you tell when you ‘dream’ you see a college friend suicide, and you know the thoughts in his head before, during and after he has died?  And then you get the phone call from hundreds of miles away later that week, and find your dream was real?

Who do you tell when an old Aboriginal woman you’ve never met takes you flying in your dreams and then turns up in person the next afternoon?

What does it mean when owls follow you as you go for moonlit walks?

What happens when you see one owl sitting in the tree behind the lights of the campfire on a remote Outback property?

What happens when there are five owls?

What happens when there are seven?

Who do you tell when the trees whisper to you?

Who do you tell when you see strange lights in the sky at night?

Who do you tell when your life is turning upside down, and everything you thought you understood about the world, and about yourself, is suddenly not quite right anymore?

Who do you tell? Who will believe you?

What happens when you scarcely can believe it yourself?

Image from

Image from

That’s been my battle. And it’s why I’m finally writing now.

Because what if you are like me, and you thought you were the only person going through this? I’ve been in that place where you question your sanity, and you feel that there is no-one you can confide in. It’s the loneliest, most isolating feeling in the world….

I couldn’t do that to you. And anyway, it’s the strangeness and the difficult lonely road that has made my life worthwhile – that has made me who I am.

And now I understand – writing what is real for me also makes it real for you.

Bless ♥ Nicole xx