Category: journaling

art, art appreciation, creative practice, Creativity, instinctive meditation, journaling, Joy, meditation, Memories, mindfulness, Personal growth, writing

Some Trees are Blue

Adele Satori
“Some Trees are Blue” Adele Satori 2025. Image shows a textured painting in vibrant hues of blue, orange, red, green, and yellow.

One recent night my memories woke me up.

“Remember the time you painted the trees blue?”

I surely did! I was about six years old, in first grade. I remember being in school, painting a picture of the most beautiful tree. Not only blue, but with yellow, orange, red, and green.

My teacher, who I remember as mostly kind, looked at the picture and told me trees are brown, or black- not these bright colours.

I was heartbroken, and I knew she was wrong. You see, one of the things my family did growing up was to do things like to to museums. I remember seeing the paintings of Paul Gauguin, and being so excited! Here, in a museum, where people came to look at pictures people made, were paintings of trees and plants the way **I** saw them! Bright colours, and vibrating. Here was a grown-up who also saw the songs of trees, and he painted them to show the world.

I may have tried to tell the teacher that. I can’t quite remember; it was a long time ago. I just remember being sad and confused. Didn’t everyone see the songs of trees? How they sometimes shimmer the way pavement does on a hot summer day?

I think most kids have this ability to see multiple realities– until it’s taught out of us. Those of us who somehow keep the magic become the artists, poets, explorers, inventors, often getting “lost” in our beautiful inner worlds. Some of us are seen as mad (I always wondered about that description.).. I suppose the adult version of having a note pinned on our sweaters.

As I lay there in bed, other childhood memories came. That same year, we had a class where the visiting Phys. Ed. teacher put on music and told us to pretend we were a train. We got into a milk-and-cookie infused samba line and chugga chugga’d to the music.

Except me.

Oh no! In my mind I became a train! CHUGGA CHUGGA!!!! WOOO WOOO!!! WOOO WOOO!!! I pumped my arms, shook my head, and in my imagination saw the “more powerful from a locomotive” from the opening sequence of “The Adventures of Super Man” (Starring Georrrrrrge Reeeeves!!!).

Everything, and everyone stopped.

I got taken out of class, and sent home with a note pinned to my sweater about how I couldn’t control myself. It wouldn’t be the last time! So many kidhood memories of experiencing things like this, and “weren’t real”, but those are stories for another time.

My thoughts turned back to trees. Part of me wanted to jump up then and there and paint, but my logical brain started to wake up…. I only have black canvas board… I don’t know where my palette knives are (because this urge was too primal for brushes)… and wandered through the technical aspects of how adult me would paint those trees.

I ended up later that morning going to sit near trees, and soaking in all their textures and colours. I came home, found my knives, and sat down to paint. I went quickly, and intuitively. Sometimes my eyes were nearly closed. I followed the memories of texture, light, sound, and movement. Not thinking if I was doing it right (I’m not a painter, primarily.. I just have the tools around). Not thinking of how others would perceive it. Not worrying if I was wasting materials (another childhood lesson). Simply enjoying the process of painting a tree in all its hidden colours.

And I’m here to tell you… that experience healed something in me. That’s the beauty of creative practice. Creating to create and explore, without expectation of outcome, or demands for others, opens the way to our inner worlds. You don’t have to show it to anyone else, or even keep it.

My invitation to you now, is to remember something you used to do, or like to do and haven’t made the time to do, but especially something you liked to do as a child. Sing silly songs as you go through your day. Make little cabins for ants out of twigs. Finger paint (paint with water on the sidewalk if you don’t have paint!). Twirl in circles. Lay on the grass and watch the cloud beings chase each other. Use what you have on hand. Play and create for the pure pleasure of it.

I’m going to go smile at the most beautiful blue tree I painted.

creative practice, instinctive meditation, journaling, meditation, writing

Meditation as Inner Journaling

Adele Satori
Image show closeup of a hand holding a pen on an open journal with blank pages. In the background is a garden path and plants

Not long ago I was invited to reignite my journaling practice as part of a journey to understand myself more deeply. I balked at first, and decided to meditate awhile to figure out why.

My journals are sacred space, and there have been times that has not been honoured, so I know that’s one reason, even though I currently live alone. Although I’m pretty good at allowing a direct mindheart to pen connection, my inner writer and editor sometimes disrupt the flow… backing up.. crossing out… rearranging. And sometimes seeing my thoughts in writing make them somehow more “real” and a whole different adventure of judgement and evaluation begins.

It came to me that meditation is a form of inner journaling- the ultimate sacred space. I’ve cultivated a practice that welcomes and allows all that comes up, without judgement or editing… sounds a lot like pen to paper or hands to keyboard journaling, doesn’t it?

Opening to a feeling in meditation for me is sometimes less distracting than writing. I can explore more deeply all the nuances that it encompasses… mind.. body… and spirit, beyond words. I can explore in multiple directions simultaneously in a way I have yet to discover while writing. I do often have a pen and paper nearby, for the times I have astonishing realizations. They don’t always stick with my in thought, so this has been working for me, as I flow between inner meditation and outer meditation… inner and outer journaling.

Astonishment doesn’t have to be life-changing, by the way.. it can be as beautiful as recalling in detail some small thing I witnessed in a day… like the dance of shadows on a sidewalk. Becoming more attuned to experiencing awe, wonder, and astonishment is enriching my life so much!

Meditation has also enhanced my writing. If I take even a short bit of time to transition between ordinary and writing states of mind, I’m becoming more able to allow the flow, without distraction, and seeing the act of writing or typing as part of the embodiment of that flow. Much as I learned long ago to hit record from the moment I sit down to compose digital music. I can finesse and edit later- the important thing is being open to receiving what the Muse is whispering to my heart.

creative practice, inspiration, instinctive meditation, journaling, meditation, spirituality, writing

The Universe Woke Me, and I Listened.

Adele Satori
Image show yellow ginko leaves on a grey cement sidewalk. A single drop of water rests on the center leaf, and a reflection of the sun is visible.

I woke up at 2 AM. Not uncommon, but this was different. I distinctly heard “Enlightenment. Enlightenment.” O dear goodness, brain, please let me go back to sleep. And yet it was persistent.

“Enlightenment. The light in me.” I had an urgency to find pen and paper, turn on a light that pierced the darkness, and write. I feel sometimes it’s important to share the process as a creative person, so here’s what came, only reordered slightly for clarity.
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Enlightenment. The light in me. Becoming light. Finding peace. Finding innocence. Uniting with my inner child. The inner child as light? Innocence.

Innocence lost. Is it one defining moment, or a series of events?

Reaching for the light in me, like reaching for a glass of water. The thirst is quenched for a time, and then we refresh.

Innocence. The “pure” soul- or maybe better- or orginal soul. Full of wonder and awe. Exploring things deeply with the whole being because everything is fresh, and new. Experimenting. Figuring things out. Kids’ drawing showing aspects of what they see and feel.

Rising to the surface in times of joy- eating an ice cream cone. Looking at the sky. In times of sorrow- calling for Mama when hurt. Saying goodbye when driving away from a burning house (not mine. I saw this on a video). In times of hope- reconnecting with someone…the video I saw of a man taking his 5 year old son to meet his Grandmother for the first time…. there were two little boys standing on those steps.

Do those who live closer with Nature retain more innocence? Do artists?

What does pura vida mean? Pure life. Living in deep appreciation.

Getting the wonder taught out of us. Being taught to conform, rather than discover our full potential, unbound by convention.

“Personal growth” as commodification of the journey back to the soul.

Enlightenment is a process, not an end game. Not a competition. Not a hierarchy. Vibration is simply vibration. The colonization of communing with the soul is rampant.

Feeling like something’s wrong if we don’t know what our life purpose is (what do you want to be when you grow up?), as if it has to be ONE THING FOREVER, when the purpose might Universally be to learn, discover, love (the world around us, people, our selves) while we are in this body.

If we are lucky, we are born into an environment where we are nurtured, protected “just enough”. Not all beings have that privilege.

Has tech “stolen” that from kids? How seeing packs of kids out roaming is so rare any more.

Healing the inner child as reconnecting with that pure soul/original innocence.

The other day I wondered if when we die, we step fully into our happiest moment/memory before the next adventure begins.

Reaching. Obtaining. Enlightenment can’t be possessed. It’s the dance and music of the soul.
********************************************************************************Well. That was quite the adventure! Much to ponder. Seeds for creating. Seeds for being.

journaling, perception, writing

The Holiness of Everyday Things

Adele Satori
Image shows a paved narrow road, with trees and bushes on either side, and a bit of blue sky in the upper center.

It hasn’t escaped me these past few days.

Walking through the beautiful neighbourhoods near where I live. Old majestic homes, windy roads, and sculpted gardens.

Stopping to pet dogs. Chatting with neighbours. Sitting at my kitchen table reading and taking notes, or enjoying a meal I’ve just created. Holding a warming cup of tea or coffee in the mug the little boy across the way gave me for Christmas.
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The way a woman wearing an old coat a few sizes to big, and smelling of smoke, clutched it closer, as if it were a small comfort.

The thing that first I noticed about the couple walking through the store was that they were holding hands. You don’t see that all that often anymore, at least I haven’t noticed it. They looked to be in their late 60s/early 70s. And then I saw how grey they were. Their clothes rumpled and faded. Their shoes looked sooty. And their faces. Simultaneously blank, and yet so full. It was as thought they had suddenly materialized in the store, and weren’t sure how they got there.

I started to walk up to them, to say or offer something…. but they pulled closer together, and clasped their hands tighter.

It was then I knew. That there was nothing in the store for them in that moment. That more than anything, they wished they were just two people shopping. That they would go home, wandering through their beautiful neighbourhood, pet a familiar dog, and sit at their kitchen table to enjoy a meal they had just created.

instinctive meditation, journaling, Memories, writing

Doorways Are Everywhere

Adele Satori
Black and white photo on the left shows a woman wearing overalls sitting on a horse in front of a house. Sepia toned photo on the right shows a man sitting down sorting apples in baskets. This is Mrs. and Farmer Bethke- two people from my childhood. (The picture of Mrs. is long before I knew her.) Thanks to my brother, Ed, for finding these images!)

You never know when you will receive an invitation to a doorway into meditation

I don’t know if it was because I was riding a stationary bicycle, but when someone I was talking with the other day said they grew up on a farm, I was immediately transported. Perhaps because riding a bike was so integral to my growing up years.

There I was, barefoot, toes wiggling in the velvety soft dust of the lane between the corn and hayfields. The cornstalks were rustling in the lazy summer breeze- a drier, more rattling sound than when they were green in Spring. I could smell the sun-warmed hay, freshly baled from the second cutting of the season. Bees buzzing in the chamomile under the apple trees. It made the remaining minutes of my training warm up delightful.

I also thought of the Bethkes- owners of the corn and hay fields, as well as the roadside market down at the bottom of the hill where I grew up. We always called Mrs. Mrs. Bethke, and I remember calling the mister Farmer Bethke, but never Mr..

So many memories of being sent down with 50 cents clutched in my hand, tightly, so I wouldn’t drop it in the tall grass of the orchard, to buy a dozen ears of sweet corn for supper. Sitting on the back steps shucking that same corn.

Sometimes a cow or two would escape from the farm, and wander up the hill and into our yard. Memories too, of Spring smelling of apple blossoms, and the manure spread on the field. Summer sounding like the arrival of mourning doves and mosquitoes. In Autumn, raking leaves, burning them, and sometimes roasting marshmallows. Winter- skating on the pond, and sliding down the hill on an old tractor inner tube, or cardboard refrigerator boxes until the year Santa brought us all flying saucers.

Mrs. Bethkey always wore overalls and a blouse, like in the picture, with a bandana covering her hair, and when it was chilly, a blue and grey plaid shirt (it might be in the photo behind Farmer Bethke!)

I don’t remember much about Farmer Bethke, other than the time he chased and yelled at us for playing on the hay bales stacked up in the field. (They made such a good fort and castle!) Looking back as an adult, I’m sure it was a combination of safety and that playing on the bales would… erm… unbale them a bit.

Their sons were stock car drivers, and we could often hear them revving their cars before an upcoming race.

This is the beauty of Instinctive Meditation® practice. Any small noticing, any memory, can be an invitation to explore our inner world, and reset. I’m so grateful that I’ve become attuned to seeing these invitations, and adding them to my repertoire.  The past several days, since this conversation, these memories have been my doorway into meditation.

The farm is long gone, although the house and a couple outbuildings remain. Part of the farm is now a small park. The dusty lane is paved, and suburban houses have taken over the fields. The pond where we skated, and the lone oak on the hill that holds so many secrets still exist, but that’s another story, for another time.