Image shows a pastel drawing of an ocean beach. There are waves coming to shore. On the right is a large boulder, with a yellow sun just to the left of the boulder.
Consider all the pain and all the pleasure You have ever experienced As waves on a very deep ocean which you are.
From the depths, witness those waves, Rolling along so bravely, always changing, Beautiful in their self-sustaining power.
Marvel that once, you identified with Only the surface of this ocean. Now embrace waves, depths, undersea mountains, Out to the farthest shore. ~Insight verse 136, “The Radiance Sutras”, Lorin Roche, PhD. ************************************************************ The image I drew in a recent Playing With Creativity and Meditation class that my friend Andrea Abrahamson and I co-teach at the online Radiance Sutras School of Meditation. It was her turn to facilitate, and the theme was travel.
Going into the meditation, we were invited to attune to our senses. I live on a really busy street, and the ebb and flow of traffic began to sound like ocean waves to me. I could see the image I drew so clearly, so out it came. As I worked with the pastels, my fingers blending the colours together also sounded like the ocean to me, so I played with that… moving my hand and much of my body, creating the sound of the ocean. The movement of waves. The tingling of my fingers reminded me a little of the sharp tingling of sand under my bare feet.
It’s my favourite little beach in Pacific Palisades, and is still closed after the January fires. I looked at the satellite map recently, tracing the route down the twists and turns down Sunset Blvd. that I’ve enjoyed driving. So much is gone; I’m not sure when I’ll have the heart to make the drive again. It’s so wonderful to have the memory of it, and now this image, as one of my doorways into meditation.
“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.
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.
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