There was only one thing I ever wanted from my grandparents’ house.
Not the heirlooms, the antiques, or the sentimental treasures others might have noticed. Just one small sculpture—a metal tree rooted in a chunk of stone. I was obsessed with it as a child. I’d stare at it during visits, transfixed by its quiet strength, its stillness, the way it seemed to grow out of the rock like it had always been there, like it belonged.
When my grandparents moved and downsized, I never got it. I didn’t even ask. It felt like one of those childhood longings that gets packed away with everything else. I assumed it was gone—taken, donated, forgotten. I carried the image of it in my memory for years, but life moved on.
Journal Prompt: What childhood object or symbol still lives in your memory? What do you think it represents for you now?
Years later, I was at their house again—long after the move, long after the bustle of sorting and dividing things. My aunt casually said there were a few items left, things no one had claimed. We could look, if we wanted.
And there it was.
The metal tree. Still in the stone. Still whole. Still waiting for me.
I didn’t cry, but I could have. It felt less like I had found it and more like it had found me. Like it had been holding space all these years, trusting that when the time was right, we’d be reunited.
Journal Prompt: What has returned to you unexpectedly? What came back into your life just when you needed it?
It felt sacred. A sign. A whisper from the universe that I hadn’t strayed too far from my path.
Recently, I brought it to a group I attend—a circle where we share, reflect, and offer intuitive insight. I showed the sculpture, shared the story, and one of the group members looked at it with quiet recognition.
“That’s the Tree of Life,” she said.
The words hit me like thunder and lightening.
The Tree of Life.
Of course it was.
That childhood obsession, that one object I was magnetically drawn to… It wasn’t random. It is a symbol of deep spiritual truth, interconnectedness, growth, and divine alignment. A tree, forged in metal—resilient and strong. Rooted in stone—grounded and unshakable. It had always been a talisman. I just hadn’t known its name.
Journal Prompt: Has someone ever named something inside you that you hadn’t yet recognized? What happened when they did?
The implications of that moment rippled through me.
It meant that even as a child, I was reaching for connection. For something sacred. For something ancient and wise. This wasn’t just about nostalgia—it was a soul memory. A symbol that had waited for me to catch up to it.
The Tree of Life spans cultures and traditions. It represents the sacred web of life, the journey from Earth to Spirit, and the quiet wisdom found in growth, in stillness, in staying rooted while reaching upward. That sculpture wasn’t just meaningful because of where it came from. It was meaningful because of what it is.
And now, it sits on my altar with reverence.
Not just as a memory—but as confirmation. That I am on the right path. That even in the times when everything feels uncertain, some things will rise again to meet you with deeper meaning than you ever imagined.
Journal Prompt: What symbols or signs have come into your life that felt small at first but turned out to be profound? How have they shaped your path?
Sometimes, the universe doesn’t speak in fireworks. Sometimes, it speaks in rusted branches and chipped stone. Sometimes, it speaks through the eyes of someone else, seeing you clearly before you can name it yourself.
Look for what lingers. What calls to you. What won’t let go.
It might just be your own Tree of Life, waiting patiently to remind you who you are.
In kindness,
The Floral Goose
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