Out of Step, In Tune

June 18, 2025

I’ve never moved easily with the crowd. Even as a child, I sensed things others didn’t notice. I saw patterns. I felt tension where others felt calm. That difference set the course for much of my life. I later came to understand it as neurodivergence.

This way of thinking made me restless in the face of injustice. When politicians tried to divide people, I helped create Cultural Stomp. When Australia locked up refugees on remote islands, I helped send boats toward Nauru. These actions didn’t come from strategy. They came from something more basic: I couldn’t stay silent.

It also shaped how I look after my health. At 73, I walk every day, track my progress, and keep my habits sharp. My VO₂ Max sits around 41.5—on par with men much younger. I didn’t plan to achieve that. I just kept going, step by step.

Writing followed the same pattern. I never set out to write for an audience. I wrote to make sense of what I saw and felt. My work comes from moments that stood out—dreams, memories, odd encounters, sharp turns in the road. Most of it came quietly, over many years.

I’ve lived most of my life outside the usual path. I rarely feel part of things. But that distance gave me something else: the space to see clearly, and the will to act when it mattered.

The posts here on this blog comes from that place. No polish. No performance. Just what felt real, when it mattered most.

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No One Would Believe It — Not Even Me

June 18, 2025


By Stavros, age 73

I stopped smoking in 2007. I had been a pack-a-day smoker since my youth. I never played sports. I didn’t train. I had no interest in fitness.

In 2021, I weighed 88 kilograms. That’s when I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. My doctor offered me medication or the option to change my diet and exercise. I chose the second option. It didn’t feel like a brave choice. It just seemed like common sense.

I had no idea how unusual that was.

I started walking every day. I changed what I ate. I didn’t go to the gym. I didn’t follow any program. I just kept walking.

Over time, I added structure. Brisk walks. Hills. Intervals. I watched my blood sugar. I stayed consistent. I lost weight.

Three and a half years later, I weigh 70 kilograms. My diabetes is in remission. I’ve never taken medication.

Then something happened I didn’t expect.

Based on heart rate data and walking performance, my estimated VO₂ max is over 41. That puts me in the top 5% of fitness for men over 70. I’m 73. I never trained as an athlete. I smoked for decades. I started late.

But the numbers don’t lie. My heart rate is low. My walk times are strong. My recovery is fast. My doctor is amazed.

Most people wouldn’t believe it. But it happened. And it happened without drama. No gyms. No apps. No slogans.

Just me, walking. Every day.

I never set out to become fit. I only wanted to avoid medication. What happened instead was quiet, slow, and real.

You don’t need to be young to begin. You don’t need to be special to keep going.

You just need to start. And keep starting.

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Why Don’t People Choose to Heal?

May 16, 2025

At 73, I’ve kept Type 2 diabetes in remission for over three years—through walking, simple food, and resistance exercises at home.

Sometimes I wonder why more people don’t walk the way I do. Not just physically — but deliberately, with purpose, with rhythm. Not for medals, not for watches or metrics, but to come home to themselves. To turn toward health, rather than away from it. To heal.

You’d think the instinct to live would be enough. You’d think the desire to feel good, move well, and age gracefully would drive people to act. But often, it doesn’t.

I think I know part of the reason why.

We live in a time where wellness has been commercialised — sold back to us by fitness influencers, gym chains, and self-styled “health gurus.”

There’s always a hack, a supplement, a challenge, a subscription. And behind it all, almost always, is the same tired motive: money.

The industry promises shortcuts, biohacks, six-packs, detoxes. But very little of it teaches people how to truly listen to their own body. Very little of it says: Walk the same path every day, in silence, and see what grows.

I didn’t pay for a program.

I didn’t join a gym.

I didn’t buy expensive equipment.

I walked. I changed how I ate — simplified my meals, removed the refined sugar and processed foods, honoured the basics.

And I began doing resistance exercises at home using my own bodyweight: push-ups, squats, step-ups, planks, curls with light dumbbells.

No machines. No mirrors. Just daily practice, spread across the hours of an ordinary day.

Over time, my blood glucose dropped, my weight settled, and my resting heart rate sank—to the level of an endurance athlete’s.

Not because I’m extraordinary. But because I showed up for my own life, one quiet effort at a time.

What astounds me is that this happened to me.

That at 73, after a lifetime of ordinary habits and imperfections — after years of smoking, struggle, and neglect — my body responded with such grace. That it could still heal. Still strengthen. Still find its rhythm.

I never expected this.

Discipline isn’t punishment.

Routine isn’t boring. And consistency isn’t obsession. They’re the quiet architecture of a life well lived.

I wish I could bottle what I’ve found and pass it around like water. But the truth is, you have to taste it yourself.

You have to take the first step — not for likes, not for a fitness tracker, not for anyone else — but because something in you remembers: you are still alive.

And you are still free to begin.

A note from the heart:
I share this not to suggest that my path is a cure-all. I know that remission isn’t possible for everyone, even with great effort. Our bodies are different. Our lives are different. What worked for me may not work for someone else — or not in the same way, or not at the same time. I honour those who are doing their best, every day, under circumstances we can’t always see. This is just my story — and I share it in case it offers hope, not judgment.

Postscript

What still astounds me is how far the body can come back when you listen to it.

At 73, my VO₂ max is estimated at 46–50, and my resting heart rate stays between 48–52 bpm — on par with fit men in their 30s to early 40s.

No gym. No guru. No plan.

Just walking.
Simple food.
Daily resistance.

That’s what worked.

📷 For images from my daily walks—the place where this journey unfolded:
https://dodona777.com/photos-from-a-river-bank-a-flood-plain/

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The Shirt That Waited

May 10, 2025

A quiet moment in a thrift shop became a luminous sign—folded in cotton, stitched with meaning. A forgotten shirt reminded me that even in doubt, the path whispers back: keep going.

Today, a whisper found its way to me in cotton.

I took a turn I hadn’t planned. Missed another I thought I meant to take. My car drifted like a leaf on invisible currents, nudging me gently toward a thrift shop I’d never noticed before. I wasn’t looking for anything. Just drifting.

Inside, beneath the soft hum of fluorescent light and the faint scent of other people’s lives, I browsed without seeing—until I did.

A shirt.

Ordinary, almost.

Except for the words:

Found in a $10 bin. Delivered like a prophecy.

Never underestimate an old man who graduated from the Univeristy of Sydney.

I stood still.

The sentence blinked softly, like an old friend in disguise.

I’m an old man.

I’m a Sydney Uni graduate.

And lately… I’ve been adrift. Writing, yes—but shadowed by that quiet ache of doubt, that question: Who do you think you are?

The shirt didn’t answer. It just waited. As if it had been waiting a long time.

I’ve never seen such a message on any piece of clothing. Not in a shop. Not in a dream. Not in a life filled with signs and silences.

And where did I find it? Among a rack of forgotten clothes, a sale bin really—three garments for ten dollars. Almost thrown away, as if its worth were negligible. But value has its own strange gravity.

So I listened.

I bought the shirt, not to wear, but to honour the moment. Folded it like a relic. A thread in the quiet tapestry that tells me: Keep going. Your words matter. You are not to be underestimated—even by yourself.

Sometimes the universe speaks in lightning.

Sometimes, in shirts.

And no, this wasn’t random.

Not this precise. Not this poetic. Not on a day when I needed it most. There is a language beneath the visible, and sometimes it breaks the surface. This message wasn’t waiting in the shop. It was waiting for me. A quiet benediction disguised as cloth, gently reminding me that my path still holds light—and voice—and that even the doubting steps are part of the dance.

I didn’t expect to write this. I just followed a feeling, like I did that day in the shop. If it resonated with you, I’m glad. Sometimes the smallest signs are the ones we carry the longest.

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Why I Walk the Way I Do

May 5, 2025

I don’t walk to train. I don’t walk for records, medals, or to impress anyone. I walk because it steadies me. It carries my thoughts, my breath, my prayers. It opens the body and quiets the mind. It’s the simplest thing I can do every day to remember who I am.

In September 2021, I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. The numbers were clear, the warnings louder. I was offered medication—but something in me wanted to try another path first. I chose to walk. To eat differently. To live more deliberately.

Since then, I’ve walked almost every day—briskly, with intention, usually around 5 kilometres. I changed what I ate. I simplified. I gave my body a rhythm it could rely on. Over time, without medication, my blood glucose stabilised. I lost 18 kilograms, dropping from 88kg to 70kg, and I’ve now been in constant remission for over three years.

Alongside walking, I began doing simple resistance exercises — bodyweight movements like push-ups, squats, step-ups, planks, and curls with light dumbbells. I spread them throughout the day. No gym, no machines, no memberships. Just consistent effort in my own time and space. It’s nothing fancy — but it’s steady, and it works.

Recently, I discovered something else: my resting heart rate is 47 beats per minute — a number typically found in elite endurance athletes. For comparison, the average resting heart rate for a man in his 70s is around 70–75 bpm. Mine has averaged between 47 and 50 over the past year.

I’m 73. I’ve never run a marathon. I smoked in my youth. I’ve lived an ordinary, frugal, imperfect life. And yet, my heart beats like someone who trained for gold.

I don’t share this to boast. I share it because I find it mysterious. Beautiful. A quiet reward I never aimed for.

Most afternoons, I walk along the riverbank near where I live. Over the years, I’ve taken hundreds of photos — of the sky, the water, the shifting moods of light, and the quiet animals I encounter along the way: water dragons, ibises, ducks, and others. I share some of these images on my Bluesky account, and many are gathered here:

Photos from a River Bank & a Flood Plain:
https://dodona777.com/photos-from-a-river-bank-a-flood-plain/

It’s become a kind of visual journal of stillness in motion.

I walk because walking helps me listen. I walk with purpose, with rhythm, sometimes with prayer. I walk west in the afternoons, as the sun leans into shadow. There is a place along the path where I stop to breathe and pray. Then I return east—to the place of beginning, where the sun rises. It’s not exercise. It’s something older than that.

I believe the body remembers truth. And perhaps, over time, it reshapes itself around that truth. My heart doesn’t beat slower because I’m extraordinary. It beats slower because I made space for stillness every day, for years.

That’s why I walk the way I do.

This reflection came to me not while walking, but while lying still, listening—on a day I chose to rest.

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Living Simply, Moving Freely

May 3, 2025

— A Reflection on Ritual, Movement, and Simplicity —

They say routine is for the dull. That repetition kills joy.

But I walk the same path most days.
I eat the same breakfast. The same lunch.
Not because I lack imagination—
But because I’ve discovered something deeper than novelty: peace.

Like a monk, I’ve shaped my days into a rhythm that nourishes me—body, mind, and soul.

My walk is not just exercise. It is prayer, presence, breath.
The push-ups, the step-ups, the planks—
I do them not to sculpt a body, but to stay strong enough
to meet each day with dignity.

No gym. No trainer. No expensive programs.
Just the floor beneath me, the open sky, a quiet will.
Fitness, it turns out, doesn’t have to cost anything—
Except a little care, a little attention, and a promise to keep showing up.

My meals are humble, yet full of life:
Bergen bread, peanut butter, olives, sardines, fruit.
No clutter. No indulgence.
Just what the body needs, offered with quiet thanks.

This way of living is not mechanical. It is devotional.

Each repeated action becomes a mudra—
A gesture of intention.
Each brisk step a heartbeat in the liturgy of the day.

In a world chasing noise, I walk in silence.
In a culture addicted to more, I live with less—
And find that less is more than enough.

Call it monk-like if you must.
To me, it is simply freedom.

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Exiled by Devotion

May 1, 2025

Sydney, 1974 – Sai Baba at East Sydney Technical College

I went to see the holy man who pulled things from thin air.
Sai Baba, they said—materializing ash, rings, trinkets.
Curious, not convinced, I brought two kids with me—one mine, one a friend’s.
We sat toward the back. The room was full. The mood hushed.
He sat on a tiger skin, legs folded, saffron robe flowing, a man guarding him like he was royalty.

The kids made a bit of noise—nothing wild, just fidgeting, whispers, a child’s need to breathe aloud.

The crowd started turning—finger to lips, stern faces, the kind of anger only silence demands.
Then Sai Baba himself, voice sharp across the auditorium:
“Silence at the back.”

I looked around. Everyone was staring now. One man I recognized—a local artist, normally cool—his face hard with rage.

The kids tried to settle.
Then again, from the stage:
“I want silence.”

I couldn’t help it. Something in me snapped—not in anger, but in clarity.
I stood and said:
“What would Jesus do? Didn’t he say, ‘Suffer the little children’?”

That was it.

Sai Baba’s eyes burned. His hand flicked like a dismissal.
“Go. You are not welcome.”

And the room—every face on the floor, cross-legged in collective piety—turned toward me and said:
“Get out of here.”

So I did.
I shook my head. I walked.

I was shocked at first—he had told me to leave. But what stung more: not one person defended me.
No one said, “He has a point.”
No one said, “Let the children stay.”

But I wasn’t ashamed.
If anything, I felt stronger.

Because silence, when it costs your soul, isn’t holiness.
It’s theatre.

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The Unbranded Way: How I Reclaimed Strength and Clarity at 73

April 25, 2025

I didn’t set out to become fit, or to impress anyone. I just wanted to keep walking without falling, stay sharp enough to finish the books I’d started to write, and live each day without the fog that sometimes creeps in with age.

At 73, I’m not chasing youth – I’m cultivating presence.

Now, six days a week, I walk. I breathe with awareness. I chant silently at sacred spots on my path. And nine months ago, I added resistance training-push-ups, planks, step-ups, squats, rows-interspersed through the day. Just two months, I added short bursts of High-Intensity Interval Training (HIIT). I do them twice a week, guided by the terrain of my walk: downhill, uphill, then level. On Mondays I just do the downhill burst. Wednesdays, I do the full trio. It’s a ritual now. It makes me feel alive.

My balance has improved. My mind feels clearer. This is no longer ‘exercise’-it’s my ritual of self-respect.

My Weekly Flow

Monday: Full Resistance x 2 + Brisk Walk + Short HIIT (Downhill only)

Tuesday: Moderate Walk only

Wednesday: Brisk Walk with Full HIIT (Downhill > Uphill > Level)

Thursday: Resistance x 1 + Gentle Walk or Mobility

Friday: Full Resistance x 2 + Brisk Walk

Saturday: Moderate Walk + Spiritual Walk or Breathwork

Sunday: Full Rest – regeneration, stillness

Exercises I Do

  • Push-ups (standard & inclined) – upper body & core strength
  • Plank (1-minute) – core, posture, breath control
  • Step-ups – leg strength, joint health, mobility
  • Squats – total lower body strength
  • Toe-ups – calf & balance strength
  • Dumbbell Curls/Rows – arms and back
  • One-leg Balance – fall prevention
  • Farmers Carry – grip, core, posture
  • Ankle/Reaction Drills – agility and coordination
  • Spiritual walking – silent prayer or chanting during walks

Why Weekly Rhythm, Not Daily Routine?

“I train by the week, not by the day – each step a note in the symphony of staying.”

  • Recovery is sacred – Effort and stillness must dance together.
  • It builds sustainability – A weekly rhythm avoids burnout.
  • It respects cycles – Like moon phases or seasons.
  • It fosters joy, not guilt – Each day plays a role, even rest.

For Anyone Wondering If It’s Too Late

  • Start with walking.
  • Add one strength move.
  • Rest often.
  • Make it yours.
  • Make it sacred

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Echoes from the Discount Nirvana Aisle

April 14, 2025

“Third eye’s open, but I’m still blind—must’ve bought the knockoff.”
—Whispers from the Algorithm

The Third Eye Is Pointed at the Sky When I Bend Over

This is soul-searching—but not the soft-focus, candlelit kind they sell you in Instagram ads.

It’s the kind of soul-searching that starts when you wake up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat, realizing your entire personality might be a subscription service. When the thoughts hit so hard you can’t scroll them away.

It’s a tuning of the inner dial—not for good vibes, but to find whatever truth is still leaking through the static. Because let’s be clear: this isn’t about finding peace. It’s about noticing you’ve been sold a leash with a smile.

The revolution?

It’s wearing eyeliner now and dancing on TikTok for likes.

Your rebellion has been repackaged into a hoodie with a brand logo and a mission statement. Every radical thought you’ve had is now available in four easy payments, with free shipping and a 10% discount if you sell your friends out too.

We used to throw rocks at kings. Now we rate their content. Welcome to the age of the black magician. No wands. No robes. Just copywriters, influencers, and people who learned to spell authenticity in Helvetica. And here’s the kicker: they don’t just sell you soap anymore.

They sell you your own face, reflected in a polished screen, whispering:
“You’re almost enough. Just one more upgrade.” It’s not just advertising. It’s sorcery.

And the real spell?

Convincing you that the answers were never inside you—but conveniently waiting in someone’s cart. Let’s talk about the new high priests of this digital cathedral:

Influencers.

They used to be your neighbors.
Now they’re lifestyle oracles.

Curated messiahs with ring lights and discount codes.

Their job isn’t to be real—it’s to look real enough that you’ll follow them straight into the abyss of comparison and consumption. They call it “sharing.”

It’s selling.

They call it “vulnerability.”

It’s emotional clickbait.

And they don’t even know they’re doing it—because the spell caught them first.
They are the product and the packaging, wrapped in digital incense and filtered light.

Their third eye?

Trademarked. Verified. Brand-aligned.

But me?

I’ll take the third eye that ancient Greek playwright joked about—the one that points to the heavens when you bend over. Yeah, that one.

Crude, sure. But it had better aim than the polished, bullshit eye they’re selling me now. That third eye at least had the decency to laugh at the gods, not pretend to be one.

Because the new spirituality isn’t about waking up. It’s about signing up. Log in. Add to cart. Manifest your dream life with our 7-step program and don’t forget to leave a review.

And if you’re not ready to pay for it? Well, then you’re not “aligned” yet. Your resistance is your poverty speaking. They’ll shame you in pastel colors and smiling fonts. This is soul robbery in broad daylight.

And we’re clapping along to the rhythm because the beat’s got a good hook.

The psychic supermarket is open 24/7.

Insight™

Power™

Your Best Self™

All available now, pre-packaged and promise-wrapped.

But here’s the sick twist: no matter how much you buy, you’ll always feel behind. Because the product isn’t transformation—it’s lack. Permanent, bottomless, sponsored lack.

And if you ever wake up—if you ever really see it—someone’s there, waiting, ready to sell you the antidote to the thing they sold you in the first place.

“You’ve always been just one more product away from peace.”
—Echoes from the Discount Nirvana Aisle

Maybe that’s what I’m doing now.

Maybe this whole rant is a spell of its own—an exorcism, or maybe just me screaming into the neon-stained void, hoping someone still knows what it feels like to be human underneath all the branding.

There’s a war happening.

Not with tanks.

With images.

The battle isn’t good vs. evil—it’s what kind of image will sit on the throne of your psyche.

One builds an altar to ego, likes, and carefully measured virtue signals.

The other might actually save the goddamn planet.

Because what’s killing us isn’t evil—it’s performance.

The performance of care.
The performance of identity.
The performance of being real.

We’re drowning in simulations of sincerity, while the real thing starves in a basement somewhere, forgotten.

And so the question is this:

Are you buying a product?

Or selling a piece of your soul?

Are you seeing with your own eyes?

Or watching through the lens of a third eye™ brought to you by the latest mindfulness app?

Because the spell only works if you don’t know it’s being cast.

But once you see it—really see it—there’s no going back.

And maybe that’s what they’re really afraid of.

“Enlightenment now comes with a promo code.”
—Found scrawled in the margins of a mindfulness app

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A Belated New Year’s Message: May the Rose of the Heart Bloom

April 12, 2025

The calendar may have turned months ago, but the true moment to plant seeds of intention can arrive at any time. This short reflection came to me on New Year’s Day, though I didn’t share it then. Perhaps I wasn’t ready—or perhaps the Rose within needed time to unfurl.

As the seasons shift and the year continues its unfolding, I offer this now—not as a resolution but as a quiet invocation. May it speak to your own rhythm, your own turning.

==================================================================

Today, the first day of a new year, is a perfect time to plant seeds of hope in the furrows of one’s life line. What will these seeds become? Which will flourish, and which will be consumed by the worm of impatience? Which will endure, drawing strength to be eternally regenerated within one’s being?

Among all that may grow, there is one plant above all others with the power to truly live: the Rose.

Rooted through the layers of one’s life, it reaches the Source of everything—the Heart of the Universe. Its color is the color of blood, flowing through every creature, through humanity itself. Its hue reflects its Origin: the Heart.

Seeds planted in the intellect may sprout for a time but will wither without sustenance. Only those sown in the Heart grow forever, nourished by an infinite wellspring of meaning and vitality.

Jesus spoke of the mustard seed—comparing it to the seed of faith. Mustard or Rose—the name matters less than the meaning. Both are symbols of potential, resilience, and sacred transformation.

This year, may the Rose take root deep in the Heart.
May it grow and flourish, weathering calamity, weakness, and the weeds that crowd the soil of the soul.
May its petals bloom as Art,
its stem rise as Beauty,
and its fragrance drift as Truth.

Let its Ambrosia nourish the spirit of others,
its perfume remain untainted,
and its dew glisten clear in the morning light.

In this turning of the year,
may the Rose of the Heart flourish—
uniting us in the eternal rhythm of hope and renewal.

Stavros

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