A phoenix is an eternal bird that, according to Greek mythology, cyclically dies only to resurrect from its ashes. It was therefore considered a perfect symbol of constant renewal.
One Summer, my wanderings through the French Alps’ woods brought me to a secluded clearing. In middle of it were the decaying stump of a mighty pinetree.
Somehow it struck me as a most appropriate site to plant a young tree. And so I did, on the top of it, in its very center.
When I returned a few weeks later, it had prospered.
I marveled at this representation of how the youngest generations sink theirs roots in the physical body and, one would imagine, the wealth of knowledge of their predecessors.