Imediate relaxation (wonder why a camp fire relaxes you)

 Light can have a powerful effect on your mind and body — it can calm your nervous system, shift your mood, and even guide your brain into relaxation states. Here are a few practical ways to use light to relax and gently stimulate your mind:

---

🌅 1. Use Warm, Dim Light in the Evenings

• Why it works: Soft amber or red hues mimic sunset and help your brain release melatonin, the sleep hormone.

• How to do it:

  • Use smart bulbs or salt lamps and set them to warm tones (2000–3000K).

  • Turn off overhead lights and use smaller lamps or candles.

  • Avoid blue light (phones, computers, LEDs) 1 hour before bed — or use “night mode.”

---

🌞 2. Morning Light for Mental Energy

• Why it works: Natural sunlight early in the day resets your circadian rhythm and boosts serotonin (the feel-good chemical).

• How to do it:

  • Step outside within 30 minutes of waking — even for 5–10 minutes.

  • If you can’t get sunlight, use a light therapy lamp (10,000 lux white light) for 10–15 minutes.

---

🌈 3. Colored Light Meditation

• Why it works: Different light colors affect your mood and focus through subconscious associations.

• Try this:

  • Blue or green light: calming, good for stress or anxiety.

  • Purple or violet: meditative, introspective.

  • Soft orange or pink: comforting, emotionally warm.

  • Dim the room, put on a gentle soundscape (like ambient or nature sounds), and breathe slowly while gazing softly at the light.

---

💡 4. Light Rhythm Breathing

You can sync your breathing with changing light:

• Use an app or lamp that brightens as you inhale and dims as you exhale.

• It naturally trains your mind into a parasympathetic (calm) state.

• Even a candle works — just watch the flame rise and flicker as you breathe.

---

🪞 5. Mind Reflection Exercise

Sit in a softly lit space and reflect light gently (like off water, crystal, or a mirror). Focus on how the light moves — it helps quiet mental chatter while engaging your visual mind.

Margrets shoulder shimmy

Margret’s got a creaky joint

Her right side’s out of point—

But play a tune, she’s up to prance,

Half in pain, half in dance!

She twirls, she spins—oh what a sight,

Left side groovin’, right side tight!

The shoulder groans, but Margret grins—

That’s how every party begins!

She twirls, she spins—oh what a sight,

Left side groovin’, right side tight!

The shoulder groans, but Margret grins—

That’s how every party begins!

When the L Is Taken from Love

When the L is taken from Love,
It falls from high above.
A single letter lost in flight,
And all that’s left is ove — not right.

The warmth turns faint, the glow turns cold,
The story ends that once was told.
For love without its leading line,
Is just a word that lost its spine.

So guard that L — it stands for light,
For life, for lifting through the night.
Without it, hearts can’t stay in clover —
When the L is gone, love is over.

The Last Breath the medical paradime shift!

 

---

In the quiet hour before dawn, when the wind still holds the scent of night and the earth waits between one heartbeat and the next, the old monk sat by the river. His breath rose and fell like the tide — slow, deliberate, knowing.

A boy came to him, eyes bright with questions too large for his small frame.
“Master,” he said, “why do people die?”

The old monk smiled, gazing at the mist curling above the water. “Because they must return their breath.”

The boy frowned. “Return it? To whom?”

“To where it came from,” said the monk. “Everything that breathes borrows the same wind. The deer in the forest, the fish beneath the river, the king in his palace, the beggar by the gate — all draw from the same invisible sea.”

He scooped a handful of water, then let it slip through his fingers. “When your time comes, you give it back. That is all death is — the moment your breath returns home.”

The boy thought about this as the years unfurled like a long road. He grew, loved, fought, built, and aged. Each breath carried laughter and sorrow alike, each exhale a whisper to the universe. He watched others take their last breaths — a dying bird, a fading friend, his mother — and he began to notice something: the air never grew thinner.

It was as if every breath ever taken still lingered — mingled, shared, alive.

When his own final hour came, he remembered the monk’s words. The air around him shimmered with the faint warmth of every creature that had ever lived. He smiled.

He exhaled once more, and this time, he didn’t draw another in. His last breath drifted away, unseen, to join the great current — the same one that would fill a newborn’s lungs, stir the wings of a sparrow, and ripple the surface of the sleeping river.

And so it went, as it always had.
All living things die of the same thing — their last breath — yet in dying, they return it to life itself.

MR POTATO

 The Lament of Mr. Potato 🥔

I’m Mr. Potato, with feelings quite deep,
My roots run in sorrow, not soil so steep.
My kin were once tubers, so plump and so round,
Now they’re salted and crisped — nowhere to be found.

They called themselves kind, those humans who chew,
Saying, “No meat for me — I’m vegetarian too!”
But mercy, it seems, stops short of my skin,
For they peel, slice, and fry every one of my kin.

Uncles in packets, cousins in fries,
Auntie in mash form — oh how she cries!
My brother was roasted, my sister puréed,
My family reunion was served on a tray.

So next time you munch on a chip in delight,
Remember our faces, our earthy plight.
For though we are spuds, with humble appeal,
We too have hearts — just not ones you can peel.

“I’m Not Crazy — Just Telling How It Is”

You ever notice how when you tell the truth, people start giving you that look? The one doctors use when they think your brain’s leaking out your ears. I swear, I could tell them the sky’s blue and they’d still check my pupils with a torch.

It started simple. A bit of stomach pain. Then burps that could strip paint off a wall — sulphur, pure volcano. I told the doc, “Mate, something’s brewing in there. Could be the end of days.” He says constipation. CONSTIPATION. After three days of diarrhoea that could fuel a hydro plant. That’s when I knew something was off — not just in my gut, but in the whole system.

Then came the finger. You know the one. The prostate check. I tried to be brave, but when he went in, I swear I saw stars and heard the national anthem. Blood after that. He said, “Oh, that’s normal.” I said, “Not in my book, mate!”

A week later, I get told it’s prostate and bowel cancer. Just like that. No warning, no soft music, no “take a seat.” Just facts — flat and cold as the table I was sitting on. My red blood cells were low, my energy lower, and still they said, “You’re looking well.” I thought, I must have missed the part where I joined the circus.

Then there was the mental health guy — my “case manager.” I thought he was a mate at first. He’d drop by, have a yarn, nod a lot. I thought, Finally, someone who listens! Then one day, he says, “You’re not mentally ill.” I said, “I could’ve told you that for free.” But guess what? Never saw him again. Maybe I passed the test. Maybe I failed it too well.

And the worst part? The doctors keep talking around you. Like you’re a wall with ears.
“He’s presenting well.”
“He’s coherent.”
“He’s resistant to intervention.”

Resistant? I’m not a car part! I just asked why they can’t decide whether I’m dying or dehydrated.

But here’s the thing: I’m not crazy. I’m just telling it how it is. If that makes people uncomfortable, maybe that’s their problem. Maybe the truth sounds mad when everyone’s busy pretending things make sense.

I still go about my day. Sit in my chair, have a cuppa, think about the puppet I left on that club table that night — no legs, bloodshot eyes, angry as hell. A symbol, maybe, for everything that’s been done to me. Forgotten, poked, prodded, left behind while strangers ask, “Is he all right?” And me, just nodding, saying, “Yeah, she’s fine,” because what else can you say when no one really listens?

But here’s my truth:
I’ve seen the inside of hospitals, the inside of my own body, and the inside of my mind. And I’m still standing. Maybe bent a bit, maybe stitched up funny, but standing all the same.

So no, I’m not crazy. I’m alive. And in this world, that’s the biggest miracle of all.

My dance puppet is a full size puppet

 I left her on the table at the club again—my dance partner, the puppet. No legs, naturally, but one hell of a personality—or at least, one hell of a stare. Her eyes were bloodshot, her stitched eyebrows furrowed in what could only be described as “permanent pissed-off chic.” She’s the kind of woman who never speaks, never argues—honestly, she’s one good woman. Really, she’s all backbone… figuratively speaking. Well, minus the legs, obviously.

A bloke came over and asked, “Is she all right?”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, she’s fine. Just a bit string-tangled.”

He raised an eyebrow. “String…tangled?”

“Oh, you know,” I said, “she just gets wound up sometimes.”

He nodded slowly, clearly buying it. “Right… Uh… does she, like… get drunk?”

I shrugged. “Nope, she’s always sober… but she does hang around my neck a lot.”

He laughed nervously. “So, she’s your…?”

“She’s my type,” I said. “Always supportive, never talks back, and literally keeps her head on straight. I mean, look at her—head perfectly attached. No loose screws here.”

I set her back upright, and she glared at me. Bloodshot eyes never lie, but she’s fair—no arguments. Some say she’s high-maintenance. I say she’s high-satisfaction. She’s the only woman I know who can sit on a table all night and still be the life of the party… by not saying a single word.

“Does she… dance?” the bloke asked.

“Only when I pull her strings,” I said. “She’s a real mover… even if she can’t move her own legs.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like you’re quite attached.”

I nodded. “I am. She never nags, never complains, and honestly? She always puts her best foot forward… well, if she had feet.”

The bloke laughed awkwardly and walked away. My puppet? She just stared, eyes blazing. She didn’t need words. She had presence, charisma, and the uncanny ability to make me look like a smooth operator while sitting silently on a table.

I leaned in and whispered, “You’re one good woman, you know that?”

She didn’t respond. She never does. But I know she heard me. After all, she’s got ears… somewhere under that yarn hair.

And that’s the thing about her: no legs, no voice, no complaints… but somehow, she’s the only woman who really knows how to stand her ground. Yes I put a bag over her head to keep the dust out of her blood shot eyes.