ELECTROCULTURE | Light You Cannot See

Biophotons, Consciousness and Hope...

Let the Light Find the Wound
In honour of my father, Stephen William Bacon.

This reflection was inspired by Episode 6 of The Electroculture Foundation Series Podcast: "Electroculture Isn’t Just Coils and Copper."
🎧 The Hidden Source behind Light, Life, and Regeneration.

---

I was lying in bed, still groggy from sleep.

I’ve told myself countless times not to read my phone before rising.

But in the darkness, only one thing glowed—
that blue, artificial light.
Cold. Familiar.
Or so I thought.

I opened an article:
“We Emit a Visible Light That Vanishes When We Die.”

The title struck me.
Like a match in a cave.
A sudden flare in the dark.

I didn’t know yet how precisely timed that light would be.

It spoke of biophotons—
tiny particles of light emitted by our bodies.
Too faint for the eye,
but real. Measurable by delicate scientific instruments.

This light, they say, glows brightly in youth.
And fades when we die.

Just as I was reading those words…

A message popped up.

It was my brother.

“Ray”

Proceeded by:

Missed call.
Missed call.
Are you up?

I knew.

---

I walked outside, barefoot, phone in hand.
The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon.
I sat down on the earth. Still half-asleep.
Fully awake inside.

He answered.

“Have you had any little birds visit you?” he asked.

I froze.

Because I knew exactly what he meant.

Before my mom died, she suffered greatly.
Trapped in her body for over a year—unable to move. In pain.

When she passed, I opened the door to our root cellar.
And there, within the cool darkness, a tiny bird flitted in joy.
It paused mid-air and looked directly at me.

Still.
Fearless.
Present.

As if it had been waiting.

Then, like a signal released, it flew over my head like a bullet.

Liberated.

---

My brother was asking if I’d seen one again.

“Is everything okay with Dad?” I asked, though I already knew.

“No,” he said. “He’s dead.”

And the moment cracked open.

---

That serendipitous article I’d been reading:

Described something called Biophotons…

Particles of light emitted from living cells.
Subtle. Soft. But real.

Science says they’re ultra-weak photon emissions produced by biological systems.
Not reflections—actual light, generated from within.

They flicker through our tissues.
Pulse from our skin.
Glow in moments of growth, stress, repair…

And disappear at death.

Even plants do it.

In one experiment, researchers wounded leaves and photographed them for 16 hours using sensitive imaging equipment.

The results were stunning.

“The injured parts were significantly brighter than the uninjured parts of the leaves.”

Brighter. More luminous.
More alive in their brokenness.

That phrase stuck with me.

As if life rushes into the wound.
As if something—some intelligence—responds not by withdrawing, but by arriving.

A lattice. A blueprint.
An invisible design the body references to heal, to restore.
To remember.

---

---

And it reminded me of something Rumi wrote:

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

I’d heard it before.

But I hadn’t felt it.
Not until now.

---

Most people frame biophotons as biochemical byproducts.

Reactions in the mitochondria.
Oxidative stress.
Free radicals.
Cellular respiration.

But in that moment—grieving, cracked open—I saw something else.

I saw physics.

Electrons oscillating. Fields converging.
Information flowing like currents in a stream.

A symphony of order rising from entropy.
Reorganizing itself back toward something whole.

Back toward harmony.

Not chaos.
Not randomness.

But memory.
Resonance.
Coherence.

The body pulling light into the wound not just to fix itself…

…but to remember what it was before it was broken.

---

All things are connected.

Maybe not in ways we can always see.
But certainly in ways we can feel.

We call it coincidence.
We call it synchronicity.
But maybe it’s just physics we haven’t understood yet.

Physicists like Bohm spoke of implicate order—a hidden wholeness beneath appearance.
Maybe this light—the biophoton—is a ripple on that field.

If all life came from a singular point—a burst, a word, a will—
Then everything since is just extension.

One beam refracted into infinite directions.

We think we’re separate.

But we’re just light bouncing at different angles.

---

Death tells a different story, though.

Because when death comes, the light goes out.

Literally.

The photons stop.

Like the moment a seed germinates—there’s a flash of light.
Like when a sperm meets an egg—there’s a flash of light.
And at the end—just before or just after the last breath—another flash.

Then, darkness.

What is life, then, if not the embodiment of light?

And what is death, if not its return?

My dad was alone when he died.

He had often been alone—even as a child.

He was like the lone oak I sometimes see—
Still among fields of wheat,
Quiet, rooted, steady.

Strong in storms.
Isolated by choice.
And sometimes by pain.

He passed without anyone knowing.

No hand held.
No voice at his bedside.
No light above the bed.

And yet.

That same day—before the call, before the news, before the cracking—
I meditated.

And I saw him.

Lying still. Sleeping peacefully.

Not struggling. Not afraid.
Just stillness.

And between us, I felt a cord.

Thick. Like old rope.

Worn from years of silence.
Unspoken love.
Distance.
Guilt.

It hummed with sorrow.

But I didn’t pull it tighter.

I didn’t analyze it.

I just sent light through it.

A quiet kind of love. Wordless.
Not demanding to be returned.

Just sent.

I wrapped it around him like a blanket.

And I left that meditation in peace.

Only later would I learn—that was likely the same day he died.

He had already passed.

Or was passing.

And I was there.

Not in body.

But in light.

So what is life, really?

Is it breath?
Heartbeats?
Synapses firing?

Or is it the field between us?

The invisible lattice.

The memory light has of how to form us—
And how to return us.

Because if we shine—and that shine can be measured—

Then maybe love is not just emotional.

Maybe it’s electrical.

Maybe it moves through light.

Maybe it doesn’t need proximity.
Maybe light doesn’t either.
Maybe connection lives in dimensions deeper than time.

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

And I had a wound that morning.

Still do.

But I also have the light that rushed in through it.

---

My father’s passing wasn’t just loss.

It was a doorway.
A reminder.
A signal.

That the body is made of fields and light.
That love travels faster than sound.
That life doesn’t end when it fades. It transforms.

And maybe—just maybe—
That fading light isn’t vanishing at all.

Maybe it’s going home.

---

Let it in.
Let it break you open.
Let the light find the wound.

It’s how the healing begins.

Thank you.

Ray “Within the Darkness There is Light” Lee Bacon

Maybe what we call light is not the residue of life, but its source made visible.
A ripple of resonance.
A pulse of coherence.
A window to God—briefly opened, gently closed.

🌿 THIS WEEKS PODCAST — "Biophotons, Grief & the Light That Connects Us"
From subtle plant signals to sacred geometry…

living systems communicate across distance, time—and even death...