A little note from us…


“Three things in life – your health, your mission, and the people you love. That’s it.”
~ Naval Ravikant

Hi Lovelies!

It is with great sadness that Nicole and her team have made the decision to cancel the Fairy Solstice High Tea Party on 22nd June.

With Nicole’s health being precarious at this time, the amount of energy she would need to expend for this event may just tip her over the edge and back into hospital…. Which is something we wish to avoid.

And so – as much as it pains us to cancel, please know that Nicole (and Sokli) SOOOOO value your support and understanding.

The online course and resources Nicole had mentioned in her Facebook Live events will still go ahead, so the juicy contents of this event will be made available to all in due course.

Should you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to contact me (Trish Nicole Cody PA) at nicolecodyinfo@gmail.com. I’m disappointed to not have the opportunity to connect with those of you coming to the event personally on this occasion but look forward to doing so in the future.

Much love and gratitude, from Nicole and her Team xx

PS: Check out our store for Membership and courses, Mala, support packs and other goodies. Click the button below for more information.


An ordinary night of magic!

“The purpose of life, after all, is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.” ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

We’re in the city right now, and last night something quite wonderful happened. Our neighbour joined Ben and I and we walked a few blocks down the road in the mild winter air to our local Japanese restaurant.

After a casual and delicious dinner we strolled home again.

That’s it. That’s all that happened.

No biggy, right?

Except that it was. When you live with chronic illness it’s amazing how small your world can become. For the first time in a long while I went out at night. I walked to a destination and home again. And had the energy to do all of that and still feel good about it.

I hardly ever go out at night, and so to combine dinner, friends and walking feels like some small kind of very tasty miracle.

Hooray for feeling better, and for life!
Hugs and love to you, Nicole  xoxo

Holidays – in less than two weeks!

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
~ Jack Kerouac, On the Road


If you’re working with my Year of ME Planner you’ll know that one of the tools I use for life planning is Magical Carrots.

A Magical Carrot is both a reward for work completed, and an incentive to work towards. You can choose a Magical Carrot every month, or allow several smaller carrots to be replaced by one really big one.

My really big Magical Carrot for 2016 is a holiday.

Ben and I haven’t been on one since our trip to Thailand in 2012. Which was just before I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease.

On our last holiday I was in heart failure and my health was terrible. I truly thought it might be my last-ever trip. Each day was a struggle, and then in the middle of my holiday my precious Nana died, back home in Australia, and the rest of our trip became a blur of sadness and regret.

Now, four years later, I’m cleared to travel again and I am more than ready for the next adventure.

We’re leaving on the 29th of this month, and will be gone for just over five weeks.

Five weeks of downtime. Five weeks of rest. Five weeks of new horizons and curiosities. And five weeks to hold my beloved’s hand and give him my undivided attention.

I’m starting to get excited!

I’ll have written lots of blog posts and activities to be uploaded while I’m gone, and I’ll check in in person once or twice to update you and share a few pictures and stories. But mostly, I’ll be in holiday mode. As much as this psychic ever can be in holiday mode. (Look what happened on my last cruise!)

I’m counting down the sleeps. I’ve dragged my suitcase out and I’m googling the weather in Bangkok and Rome and Venice and Split and Corfu. Soon I might even start packing.

How about you? Do you have a Magical Carrot on the near (or far) or horizon?

I’d love to hear about it!

Lots of love,

Nicole <3 xx

My First Morning at Home Again!

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“There is a kind of magic-ness about going far away and then coming back all changed.
~ Kate Douglas Wiggin


Hello, beautiful friends!

So, here I am, back in Australia once more. Can I admit to being a little misty-eyed when my husband Ben pulled up outside Brisbane International Airport to pick me up last night, and I spied two madly grinning dogs hanging out the car windows waiting to greet me?

I am so tired. To look from the outside, all I have to show for my time away is a mountain of dirty washing, a serious supply of tasty Philippines dried Mango and notebooks crammed full with ideas, plans and action-steps for the months ahead. But so much more than that has transpired. I’ve been able to reach a place of clarity about what matters to me, and where I want to place my attention. I have met some amazing people and made new friends. While I am exhausted from all of this living, I am also thrilled to have been able to adventure at all!

It has been an emotional few weeks. As I took a boat ride in Cebu on Thursday, the cool salt water peeling off the sides of the outrigger in plumes, I had just as much salt streaming down my face in the form of tears of gratitude. Honestly, there have been so many times in the past few years when I wondered if a trip like this would ever be possible again, let alone solo. There is nothing like the prospect of death to make life taste sweet and to make you hyper-aware of what really matters.

Thanks to the care and efforts of others I have coped fabulously on this trip. I’ve also managed myself and my illness mindfully. I parented myself to do things such as miss the welcome drinks and opt for an early night instead so that I would be fresh for the next morning’s work. There were adjustments and accommodations to be made in order that I coped. That’s okay. I do that anyway in my life here in Australia.

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Meanwhile here at home I have 3247 unread emails to attend to (I should NOT have turned on my work computer in a post-midnight bout of jetlag-induced insomnia), and innumerable phone messages and mail to sort. I have blog posts to write and students to attend to, and calls to return.

And I will get to all of it. Eventually. If you are one of the 3247 emails, or the 271 facebook messages, please be patient. I have triaged you all in the middle of the night, and will contact you in order of urgency.

But first I am going to focus on what matters most.

This morning my attention is on my little family, whom I missed with all my heart. After endless yes-I-am-really-here-now cuddles with Nurse Bert who can’t quite believe that I am home and who keeps checking in with his nose or paw on some part of my body every few minutes, I am heading out with Ben and Cafe Dog for some breakfast and a proper Australian coffee, made with fresh milk and espresso and a whole lot of barista magic.

After which we’ll do a few city-based errands and I’ll make one important visit before packing the ute to head home to the farm.

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Do you remember me telling you about Liz, who was recently diagnosed with end-stage ovarian cancer? My friend Liz arrived home to Australia on Sunday, and was admitted to hospital early last night after collapsing at home.

Luckily I was up and awake at 1.30am when her husband rang to let me know. Liz and her family had a wonderful holiday in Hawaii – the most magical holiday they have ever experienced – and everything went incredibly well. But Liz used up the last of her good days making those special memories. Scans have revealed that the cancer in Liz’s brain is causing problems that can’t be fixed, so it looks like she will now remain in palliative care as her doctors think she may only have days left to live, based on her rapid downhill progress in the past 24 hours.

No regrets, she told her husband as they were taking her off in the ambulance.

No regrets, he told me, when we talked for hours last night about life and death and getting your priorities straight.

Today I need to see my friend, and say goodbye.

So, you see, everything else can wait just a little bit longer.

I’m feeling just a little teary and heart-sore this morning.

And something else…

I am so filled up on life. I am so grateful for every single breath, every single moment, every single connection.

It’s precious and fragile, this crazy journey we are on. Dig deep, my darlings. Find your own heart-path and live a life that matters to you. No regrets. <3

Planning For A Wonderful (and Ordinary) Life

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“Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.”
~ William Martin


A few weeks before my friend Angela died from cancer, we were texting. Angela was in a hospital palliative care ward, and I had only just been released from hospital two hours earlier after experiencing heart problems. When I received her text I was sitting at a local cafe with Ben, eating a late breakfast and reading the morning paper – my first non-cardiac ward meal in days. Finally I could eat salt and fat and sugar again! I still had my hospital ID bracelets on, and I was covered in the sticky plasters that had held the wires for my heart monitor in place.

Gee girl, she texted me, you have such a wonderful life.

Many people would not have agreed. I sure have my own problems, as most of us do. My life (except for the psychic bits) is very ordinary. My health, at times, is perfectly rotten. But Angela understood the value in my everyday world, as she stared at death and thought about all of those ordinary things that she would never do again.

Then my friend Nicole wrote this on my facebook page, in response to another recent blog post:

“I have a request for a blog post. I constantly marvel at your ability to manage your time well, even when dealing with Lyme’s. You plan your time at the beginning of the year, you have clear containers and plans for your days, and yet somehow you still manage to find the time to go to cafes and spend time with sick friends. AND you can change plans mid-stream. Meanwhile, I feel like I struggle to do everything I want to do . . . I flip-flop between being disciplined about it, and then totally wasting time because I “owe” it to myself to take a rest.”

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Mine’s not a glamorous life. I live in a tiny farmhouse, and my days are measured slowly. I often spend whole days in my pyjamas. I don’t own a flash car, or lots of bling. Those things aren’t important to me, although I’m fine with them being important to you. Each to their own. My health (thanks to Lyme disease) still limits many of my choices, even though I am moving back to wellness. My friend Nicole is right too – I change my schedule, often out of necessity, when illness flairs or if I am needed to deal with some kind of emergency, as sometimes happens in my line of work.

But my life is also beautiful. And meaningful. In the midst of too often having a flat battery and lots of major health hiccups I still manage to get things done.

Having been ill with undiagnosed Lyme disease for thirty years has taught me a few things. I can’t plan the way I once tried to in the corporate world, or the way that most success coaches and strategists advise. I need to honour my intuition, to listen to my body and to the greater guidance of the universe, and to work with strong goals metered by a massive dose of flexibility.

I have crafted a life that honours my limitations and my loves. I have found ways  to run a thriving business which takes into account the fact that I have been a semi-invalid most of my adult life, and which makes more money with me working part-time than when I worked  80 hours weeks in the corporate sector. It’s been a necessity for me to live like this. To be goal-oriented but also broken. To actually own the broken bits, as well as my continued ambition and desires in the face of all of that limitation.

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What does my life look like? I live on a farm at the back of Byron Bay. This weekend we have attended a low-key local art exhibition. No big names. No photos in the social pages. We mingled with friends, enjoyed a drink, and then sat in inviting chairs on the lawn in the late afternoon sunshine and talked about all kinds of things.

We’ve walked on the beach, drunk good coffee and eaten tasty breakfast at our favourite cafe. (Why so many breakfasts out? It’s my best time of day, I like getting out of the house and I have no stamina for most evening activities.)

I’ve napped after lunch, and gone to bed early each night.

During the day I’ve worked on my special project, messaged with loved ones and dear clients going through hard times, made vats of chai tea once the weather turned rainy, and baked more Christmas Cakes as gifts for friends.

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How did I get such a wonderful and ordinary life? I have made conscious choices based on my values and abilities (including my disabilities), and I long ago decided to be grateful for the gift of living by celebrating the small details – even as many larger things have been denied me. I plan my life, and I think about what I want and what is important to me. I work my plan, but I build flexibility, support and kindness to myself into that plan. I live mindfully as much as possible.

There’s a lot I haven’t done too, in this mindful life. I haven’t driven a car lately, because my health still isn’t good enough for that. I haven’t watched much television. (We don’t even have one at the farm!) I haven’t stayed up late much or enjoyed a wild social life. I haven’t spent hours glued to facebook or to social media. I haven’t spent time on things I don’t want to do, low value activities that don’t support my goals, or activities that make others happy at my expense.

2016 is almost here, and it’s shaping up to be an extraordinary year for shift and change. The energies of 2016 support mindful living, and consciously co-creating a richly satisfying life. It’s the best alignment of energies I’ve ever seen for launching a new aspect of yourself, a new business idea, for getting a project completed, or revitalising and re-purposing your existence. And I really want to help you make the most of that.

So that’s the secret project I’ve been working on. It’s a tool and associated support to help you to shape a life for yourself that is more meaningful and which helps you take control of the direction of your days. I’m almost finished and I can’t wait to share the details with you. If it has worked for me all of this time, I know it’s going to work for you too.

Sending much love to you! <3 Nicole xx


Saturday Night Lights

Image from chestersre.com

Image from chestersre.com

“There is no night life in Spain. They stay up late but they get up late. That is not night life. That is delaying the day. Night life is when you get up with a hangover in the morning. Night life is when everybody says what the hell and you do not remember who paid the bill. Night life goes round and round and you look at the wall to make it stop. Night life comes out of a bottle and goes into a jar. If you think how much are the drinks it is not night life.”

~ Ernest Hemingway, 88 Poems


I had a small adventure last night.

I drove ten minutes to a girlfriend’s apartment in town and then we took a short stroll to a charming Lebanese restaurant around the corner for an early dinner.

Do you know how many years it has been since I have ventured out at night on my own?

I forget sometimes how much Lyme disease has diminished my life. I’ve learned to live happily within a very small box. So small in fact, that I have become quite distanced and disconnected from things I once took for granted. I counted it. Twelve years. Twelve years since I have been out at night like this on my own to meet a friend for dinner.

Mind you, I didn’t think about that as I drove to my friend’s place. I was too busy concentrating on getting driving right. On listening to the twangy voice on my iPhone navigating me through the streets I once knew by heart. On hoping that parking would be easy and that my brain would work well enough to position the car without disgracing myself. Ben usually drives unless I’m having a very good day. I have not driven a car alone at night for some time. It makes me anxious as a learner.

When I socialise it is usually over breakfast, while I am fresh and have some energy. It’s coffee outings at early-morning cafes, if I am going out at all. By day’s end I am in my pyjamas, I eat early, meditate and retire.

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So last night?

It was still an early night by most people’s standards. I met my friend at six. By nine-thirty my night was over, and I drove homewards through Brisbane’s city streets and Fortitude Valley. I was a time-traveller sitting in the safe bubble of my car, my hands clenched tight to the steering wheel. Outside, my usual daytime vista was rendered unrecognisable. Bright lights obscured familiar landmarks. It was as if the world was on a strange tilt.

The restaurants I know only by early morning passings had been transformed from upturned chairs and empty windows to cosy places full of animated people. Queues of rowdy folk milled at traffic lights and outside bars and nightclubs.

Even my own suburban street was unrecognisable in the dark. I never knew one of the neighbours had fairy lights wound through the trees of their front yard just a few houses down from my own. Everything took on a shimmer of unreality.

It stirred memories in me of my younger days, and I was unexpectedly sideswiped by an intense grief. Where had my life gone? All those years between youth and now?

I already knew the answer. I have been at home in my pyjamas, while the world dined, strolled, drank, laughed, partied, romanced.

In my head I’ve been planning holidays for when I am well again. I am finally moving in that direction, so I have given myself permission not to just dream but to plan.

Helpful people keep offering me their kind and well-meaning suggestions. Most of them revolve around meditation retreats, detox places, quiet and solitude and nature.

Screw that.

Don’t get me wrong. I love meditation, my farm, tranquility, nature. But that’s been my life for over twenty years. And sometimes it has felt more like a prison than an oasis.

When I can rouse just a little more energy in these bones, then give me life. Give me people and culture and music and wine. Give me galleries and parties and cocktails. Give me noise and crowds and the thrill of the night.

Let me grab my husband by the hand, dive right in and immerse myself in those bright city lights.

Give me some night life.

I never knew until last night, just how much I’ve missed the throbbing heart of a city, and the part of myself that was once at home there.


On Overcoming Obstacles

“Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not: nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not: the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.” ~ Calvin Coolidge

I have always wanted to be a writer.

I wrote my first full book when I was four, complete with illustrations.

Writing was what I did. It was who I was.

But contracting Lyme Disease at sixteen changed all that. I began to lose words.

By the time I moved to the Kimberley, when I was in my mid-twenties, things were significantly worse.

I write about it here, in the draft of my memoir, based on that period in the Kimberley with my Aboriginal Aunties. At the time, my diagnosis (I’ve had many before Lyme) was relapsing and remitting multiple sclerosis.

“I stepped out of the laundry block and looked up at the sky. It was filled with beautiful streaky…

It was filled with beautiful…

You know.

Those white things.

What were they called?

For the life of me I couldn’t find the word. White was all I could come up with. I knew they weren’t called white. I knew they had a name. But that word, whatever it was, remained dangerously elusive.


Bear? No, that wasn’t the right word. I sighed with exasperation. Now I couldn’t remember what bear was. But it was brown. Like a tree trunk?

A quiet horror awakened in me. As I ticked off the possible causes – lack of sleep, dehydration, low blood sugar – I knew it would be none of them. I dreaded to think that it could actually be multiple sclerosis. This dull worry exploded inside me, and a moment later my inner warning lights came on. My vocabulary had shrunk dramatically over the past several years, but I’d never lost a word before. I’d always been able to find another word that worked. If I couldn’t say beer I’d say ale or tinny or cold drink. I had good coping strategies. Even when my cognitive function hit a major low I’d managed. Point in case: I had been coping with my new lack of ability with numbers. After all I could still read words, I could still read numbers. I found a way around the problems.

This was the first time I had looked at something familiar and gone completely blank. Words, knowing how to string them together, writing them, speaking them, crafting them, had always been the one thing I could do well. Writing was my fall-back plan. My secret love. What if I lost my words? I couldn’t bear to think about what my life would look like if that happened.

All week it worsened. I never did remember that word for the white things in the sky, and couldn’t even cheat a little by looking them up in my dictionary because I didn’t have a starting point. I also noticed that things didn’t stick in my brain. After reading and re-reading a fax and still struggling to make sense of it I resorted to a list of short bullet points, summarising as I read each paragraph. The bullet points kept my thoughts in order, and jogged my memory. I was reluctant to ring my doctor back in Brisbane, worried that he’d tell me to leave the Kimberley and come home immediately, from which I’d eventually end up in an aged-care facility with all of the old people who had also lost the ability to think and do for themselves.

I became suddenly, stupidly, enormously insecure. Carefully I observed myself, keeping notes in my journal each day. My cognitive dysfunction became worse when I was tired or stressed, and my best time was from when I woke up until lunch. There was a black hole each afternoon where my brain function was massively retarded, and it picked up a little again after four in the afternoon. I rearranged my day so that my mornings were all about problem solving, writing and math. My afternoons were filing, tidying and simple tasks that didn’t need much brain power. No-one else noticed that anything was wrong. I still managed to work each day and complete my duties. However, no matter what I did, the sudden decline in my mental ability was terrifying.”


That terror, that dumb incapacity, that lack of ability to find the right words, to remember the plot or the characters, to hold a train of thought? Those things have plagued me my whole adult life. The last paragraph from my memoir extract? That sums up living with Lyme. That sums up three decades of my life.

Sure, I’ve still written. I’ve compensated. I’ve found ways to get words on the page. But they haven’t always flowed, and as the number of pages increased so did my confusion.

Now, after two years of hard-core drug treatment, and a host of other helpful modalities and herbs, my brain is healing. I am healing. My function is coming back.

At my writers’ boot camp this weekend, words have been pouring out of me. Good ones. Words, that when I read over them later, make me weep.

Because I have found that place again. The one that has been lost to me for thirty years. I can remember plots and characters, I can see where something needs to be edited, and I can reach into that wellspring of ideas and still find my way back from the catacombs.

That’s a handy thing.

After thirty years I have so much to say!

Your take-home on all of this?

Don’t ever give up.


Be resilient. Be determined. Trust that you will find a way.

Holding you, and those intentions for you, in my meditations and prayers,

Nicole xx

Image from danhilbert.wordpress.com

Image from danhilbert.wordpress.com

Unexpected Blessings

Original image source unknown

Original image source unknown

“Women are never so strong as after their defeat.” 
~ Alexandre Dumas

I admit it. Yesterday, for a moment (or perhaps a little longer) I wondered how I would pick myself up and keep going.

I cried.

A lot.

My doctor wants me to continue with another full course of the horror drugs which had me counting the days and hours til I was done with them.

Six more weeks.

And this shall then be followed by more drugs which I’d previously not got on well with, in different combination.

Oh. My. Goodness.

So – drugs. I needed to buy more drugs. Yesterday, after my doctor’s appointment, Ben dropped me out the front of a shopping mall because it was crowded and he needed to park the car a great distance away. I am not up to walking far right now, and my progress is a snail’s pace. I wasn’t even half way to my destination – the pharmacy – when he had caught me up. I cried a little when he did. He had already been to the pharmacy and was doubling back to look for me. “God, you worry me,” he said, his face so sad and filled with compassion. He took my arm and steered me on my way.

After we’d dropped in my fistful of scripts and bought some supplies for our few days in Brisbane we headed back outside, where Ben left me in the shade of the front entrance while he went to fetch the car.

I felt fragile; so tired and weak, as I wondered how I was going to do this thing.

And then, out of nowhere I was enveloped in the biggest of hugs. A client, who is also a dear friend, had spied me as she sat in a cafe. Behind her other friends and her partner followed, all of them with hugs and kind words.

Their love lifted me up.

Image from Travelling Yogi

Image from Travelling Yogi

At home I changed into my pyjamas, ready to lie down and rest. As I took off a bracelet and placed it in a bag, something fell out at my feet. A little medallion.

I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. And began to laugh.

A few days ago I was talking to my sister about our family tree. ‘Did you know we have a Saint in the family?’ she asked. Of course, I didn’t. As we talked I googled her: Saint Margaret, the Patron Saint of Scotland. ‘You can get her prayer card,’ Simone said. ‘But I don’t know if she has a medal…’

Not being Catholic neither of us knew much about this whole Saint thing at all.

We both then agreed that it would be handy to have a Patron Saint. I googled Patron Saints for the rest of that afternoon, quickly becoming overwhelmed, and finding no-one that really jumped out at me.

The medallion that fell out at my feet?

My Saint Peregine medal

My Saint Peregrine medal

I found it on the ground outside a pie shop in a little town called Childers about four years ago. It was worn and grubby, and I had no idea what it was, but I slipped it in my pocket and brought it home, where it’s lain forgotten ever since.

It’s actually a Saint Peregrine Medal. Saint Peregrine is the Patron Saint of serious illness, cancer, AIDS and so on.

I said a little prayer, and I’ve placed that battered medal on a chain around my neck. It seemed like the right thing to do. It makes me feel that somehow, everything will turn out just fine.

So, out of a difficult day I received more Blessings than I’d ever expected. Isn’t life the most wonderful adventure?

Image from Hatke Quotes

Image from Hatke Quotes

Reminders from my Younger Self


“Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit.” 
~ Neil Gaiman, M is for Magic


One of the most disorienting things about chronic illness and long bouts of treatment is that it’s easy to become overwhelmed. Living in this half-alive place for so long you can begin to forget bits of who you are, and what was once important to you.

Luckily my sister recently sent me some images from our childhood. Last night I looked through them to see if my younger self could shed any light on this life I am living now. I’m so glad I did!

Here I am on board my maternal grandfather’s yacht, as part of the flotilla that went out to meet the Queen’s yacht HMY Brittania as she sailed through Morteton Bay and then up the Brisbane River to Newstead House. I’m sitting on my dad’s lap with the binoculars, trying to get a better view. I need to know what’s going on. I have never wanted to miss out on ANYTHING! That’s my little sister in front with my beloved Nana (Dad’s mum), ready to wave her flag. I remember: I adore the ocean, boats and adventures. I love the act of charting a course and navigating, and the smell of salt air, well… that’s heaven for me.

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And here we are, my sister and I, playing dress-ups at Nana’s house. We spent so many happy hours dressing up in her box of old clothes, necklaces and jewels, funny hats and handbags. I always made up stories of who we were and what we were doing and then we would act them out all over the house. The stories were the thing, and the clothes were the vehicle to take us there in our imaginations.

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Here’s me, wiping sauce off my face after a particularly satisfying meal. If Mum, Nana or Marga (my maternal grandmother) was in the kitchen, that was where I wanted to be. Cooking,eating and anything to do with food, including growing it – they are some of my fondest early memories. (We shall not speak of my baby brother whose biggest childhood crime was pulling the carrots I was so carefully nurturing out of their pot, eating their little orange bodies and then sticking the tops back into the dirt again!)


Whenever I sat on the swing-set in our backyard I would think about the books I was reading and I would escape into my imagination, inventing the most fanciful stories. I was especially fond of fairies, pirates, knights, Kings and Queens, dreadful enemies, trees that could talk and horses that could fly. Of course there were also lots of castles, witches and scary forests too. Sometimes I would gather the children of the neighbourhood together and we would act them out, or put on a performance for our parents. Swinging was very conducive to thinking. Many of my best ideas were hatched there.

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As I was looking over these old pictures, remembering my essence – sailing, the ocean, food, magical stories, family, adventure – I came upon this precious photo of my three grandparents.

Here they are: Marga the Regal Queen who is also a Pirate Fancier, grand Mystic Visioner and Magical Charmer, Ceddie the handsome ship’s Captain and bold Commander who always gets his crew home safely, and my little Nana who was the closest thing to a living Fairy that I ever met.

Darling Pa had already passed when that picture was taken. Pa was a returned Soldier, a Global Explorer, an Artist and a Tour Guide. He opened up strange new lands to me.


How could I ever doubt who I am or what’s important to me? Every cell of my body has been singing this song since I was born.

I like to think of my beautiful grandparents on a luxury ship up in heaven, leaning over the side amid the clouds and whispering encouragements and rememberings that drift down from above and into my ear to be retold as stories.

I shall lie here in bed today and think of my Pirates and Fairies and invent more impossible adventures for them. How lovely!!!

Sailing the Lyme Green Sea

“To reach a port we must set sail –
Sail, not tie at anchor
Sail, not drift.” 
~ Franklin D. Roosevelt


Hello, Lovelies! This morning I am reminded that I am still out on a wide green sea in my tiny boat, and that occasionally the weather shall be rough. That is the nature of treating late-stage Lyme disease, and I knew when I set sail that the journey would be a long one.

This time, hopefully, it’s only a little hiccup of a storm. It seems I have already travelled through the worst of it in the past twenty-four hours.

I have my map, my compass, and some wonderful travelling companions. I shall be just fine. All I need to do is hang on tight and weather this out.

Safe sailing for you too today, not matter what your journey.

Big hugs and love, Nicole xx