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 Wordpress photo challenge, Writing

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

Graceful

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.

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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;

TO YOU.

Unseen

Posted in blogging, Daily muse, Photography, Writing

Ambience

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.

Ambience

 

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Posted in blogging, Deep, Life, Writing

Winning the battle

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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, 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?
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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