“Thus a word or an image is symbolic when it implies something more than its obvious and immediate meaning.” — Carl G. Jung, Man and His Symbols
Have you ever encountered a photograph, a song, a tree, an animal, an object, a dream or a coincidence that seemed to carry a hidden significance, even if you couldn’t quite articulate what it was? You recognise what stands before you, yet instinct insists there’s a meaning beneath the surface. Let’s talk about symbolism.
This is what fascinates me about symbolism. I don’t see symbolism as just a tool we invent after the fact to describe our emotions. At times, the symbol appears first. We encounter a sign, sense its weight, and only later begin to grasp what it might be pointing towards.
In this sense, symbolism shares common ground with semiotics—the study of signs and the meanings they convey. We constantly interpret one thing as representing another: a red rose for love, a skull for mortality, a white dove for peace. The object exists in its own right, but it also communicates through what it stands for.
Yet there’s a deeper layer to symbolism: the signs that appear unexpectedly within our lives. These rarely arrive with neat explanations. Often, their significance only becomes clear much later. There’s simply a sensation—sometimes subtle, sometimes insistent—that an image, sound or event demands our attention.
Perhaps not all signs are meant to be understood at once. Maybe we encounter the symbol first, and only later discover the language it speaks.
Symbolism, Semiotics and the Language of Signs
For thousands of years, humans have communicated through signs. Long before psychology or semiotics became academic fields, we interpreted the world symbolically—finding meaning in nature, dreams, animals, weather, colours and everyday objects.
This is especially vivid in Ancient Greek culture and mythology. Athena’s owl stands for wisdom. Aphrodite is surrounded by emblems of beauty, love and desire. Poseidon’s trident signifies his dominion over the sea. Hermes represents messages, journeys and boundaries crossed. Each of these symbols is recognisable, yet points far beyond itself.
In this way, symbolism becomes a language of its own—visible, yet its meaning remains hidden until we learn how to read it.
Personal symbolism is even more mysterious, as no universal dictionary exists. What passes unnoticed for one person might evoke a powerful emotion in another. An ordinary photograph may become deeply significant after a certain event. A song forgotten for years can suddenly play at a moment when its meaning feels uncomfortably appropriate.
We might describe these moments as coincidences, but the word fails to capture why some feel so charged. Most drift through our lives without impact. Occasionally, however, one insists on being noticed.
Here, symbolism crosses into mysticism. The sign presses for attention, even when we cannot yet understand its message.
When We Invite Symbolism Into Our Homes
One of my most vivid experiences with symbolism involved a friend after the end of her relationship. In the midst of sadness, she bought some landscape prints to display in her home. She chose them because they felt peaceful and comforting—scenes of autumn trees, fallen leaves, and a pathway winding through the countryside.
When I visited and saw the pictures, I experienced them entirely differently. The autumn leaves and the path disappearing into the distance struck me as quietly unsettling. I remember feeling as though the image was telling a story: you must walk this path, even if it leads towards loneliness.
My friend disagreed. For her, the landscape represented calm and solace. For me, the symbolism spoke of isolation, of endings, and a solitary journey. Neither of us could have predicted what those images would eventually come to signify, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they gave me.
As the months passed, her mood darkened. Eventually, she took the pictures down.
That experience stayed with me. It changed how I think about the things we choose to bring into our homes. I began to wonder whether a symbol remains passive once it takes up permanent residence in our personal space. We wake to it, pass it throughout the day, sit beneath it, sleep beside it—absorbing its atmosphere even when we’re not consciously aware.
For me, symbolism is not just about recognising a sign and interpreting its meaning. There is power in what we repeatedly invite into our environment. A picture can carry sadness, hope, sensuality, rebellion, tranquillity or darkness. A song can embody longing, heartbreak, anger or desire. When we surround ourselves with these symbols, their emotional language seeps into our lives.
I have felt the same effect with music. Sometimes we play certain songs because they seem to understand us better than we understand ourselves. At first, the music gives voice to feelings we can’t express. But the more we immerse ourselves in those sounds, the more they shape our sense of self. We move from hearing the sadness or longing to inhabiting it.
Perhaps this is why changing our environment can feel so transformative. We remove a picture, rearrange a room, stop playing a particular song, change what we wear, or replace an object from a previous chapter. These may look like small changes on the surface, yet symbolically they’re statements: this no longer belongs to who I am now.
This is what my experience has taught me. I’ve become more mindful of what I allow into my space, knowing that a home is not just a collection of objects but an outward reflection of our inner world. The pictures on our walls, the things we cherish, the music we let fill the air—all temporarily become part of the identity we’re living through.
This doesn’t mean we should fear every melancholy painting or sorrowful melody. Symbolism is subtler than superstition. What matters is recognising the emotional language we choose to live alongside. Sometimes we’re drawn to a symbol because it already speaks to a hidden part of us; other times, living with that symbol deepens the feeling it expresses. The influence flows both ways.
My friend’s autumn landscapes taught me this long before I had words for it. She found peace in those images; I sensed solitude. Eventually, the pictures were taken down, and that chapter closed.
Since then, I pay far closer attention to what I bring into my own surroundings. If symbolism is a language, then the things we live with are part of an ongoing conversation. It is worth asking ourselves not only whether an object is beautiful, but what story it tells, what emotion it invites in, and whether we want that story to speak for us.
Synchronicity: When a Song Finds Its Moment
Carl Jung gifted us another lens for such experiences: synchronicity. He was fascinated by meaningful coincidences—events with no clear cause, yet bound by significance.
Synchronicity and symbolism are not identical, but their paths often cross. Synchronicity marks peculiar timing; symbolism provides a way to interpret what that timing might imply.
Recently, I experienced this through music. I was lying beside someone I cared for, gazing into their eyes, when Lovefoolby The Cardigans began to play. I hadn’t selected the song; it surfaced from my library at that precise moment.
What struck me was the subtext: beneath the song’s playful sound lies vulnerability, longing, and uncertainty in love. In that intimate moment, the music underscored feelings I hadn’t yet fully understood.
At the time, I couldn’t foresee everything that would unfold. That’s what makes symbolism so compelling—the sign is present before the full story is told.
Was it chance? Was it synchronicity? Perhaps both.
Mysticism intrigues because it allows questions to remain open. Not every experience needs to be categorised as either “supernatural” or “meaningless coincidence”. There’s a vast territory in between, where we’re free to observe and wonder.
The song didn’t predict the future, but its themes were already in the air. I simply didn’t yet realise how relevant they would become.
This is the symbolism that fascinates me: when the sign appears before translation.
Zeus, the Thunderbolt and Justice Through Revelation
Occasionally, the universe speaks with a sense of humour. One afternoon, I amused myself by editing photos of someone I was seeing—experimenting with different hairstyles for fun. The next day, out of the blue, I received a batch of photos and videos, quickly deleted but not before I glimpsed an image I recognised. The hairstyle in this version looked very different from the polished one I’d seen before.
The timing was uncanny. I’d spent the previous day conjuring illusions, only to have a new version of the same subject appear unexpectedly hours later.
My Hellenic imagination leapt to Zeus.
Zeus’s thunderbolt is Greek mythology’s most electrifying symbol. It stands for divine authority, but also justice, order, and revelation. Lightning doesn’t gently brighten the world—it strikes, illuminating darkness in an instant, making what was hidden visible.
That’s why I think of the thunderbolt as justice through revelation.
Justice isn’t always about retribution. Sometimes, it’s about clarity. Once light is shed, we’re free to decide what it means.
There was something mythic about this experience: one day I played with illusion, the next, truth flashed into view. I hadn’t sought it; it simply arrived.
Perhaps that’s why I imagined Zeus atop Olympus, hurling his thunderbolt at just the right moment.
The coincidence circles back to synchronicity. Two seemingly unrelated events converge and, together, reveal a new meaning. The significance lies not in either event alone, but in their connection.
Here, mysticism is more interesting than explanation. The question becomes not “How did this happen?” but “Why did this sign appear now?”
Sometimes, there is no answer. Maybe there doesn’t need to be.
When Symbolism Speaks Before Understanding
The more I reflect on symbolism, the more convinced I become that understanding does not always arrive alongside recognition. We often sense meaning long before we know why.
This is the pattern of mythology, literature and art: a symbol emerges before its meaning is clear. Only later do we realise why an object, image or event mattered. Perhaps our personal lives unfold in similar fashion.
That’s why certain objects become totems. For me, Alice in Wonderland is such a symbol. I collect Alice-related items not simply for nostalgia, but because Alice stands for curiosity, rebellion, stepping into the unknown and challenging the world’s odd rules. Another person might see just a trinket; I see a different layer of language.
That is the essence of symbolism: the visible object remains the same, yet its meaning shifts with the person who encounters it.
Perhaps signs operate in much the same way. What one person disregards can hold profound meaning for another, because the symbol belongs to their particular journey.
Semiotics helps explain how one thing stands for another. Jung’s synchronicity gives language to meaningful coincidence. Mythology transforms meaning into stories and gods. Mysticism allows us to remain curious about what we cannot explain.
Not every leaf, song or photo is an omen. If every detail were a message, the messages themselves would lose value. What fascinates me are those rare moments when the symbol catches us off guard, the coincidence that feels too perfect, the image that lingers in the mind.
Perhaps some signs hold only the meaning we give them; perhaps others arise from intuition, allowing us to sense more than we can articulate. Or maybe symbolism and synchronicity guard mysteries beyond our reach.
That uncertainty is what draws me in.
We’re taught that understanding must come first: observe, analyse, then interpret. Yet at times, the order reverses. We encounter a sign, feel its presence, and only later does meaning crystallise—allowing us to look back with new eyes.
The Ancient Greeks turned to myth, nature and the gods for guidance. Jung explored meaningful coincidence through psychology. Semiotics traces how signs carry layered meanings. Though separated by centuries and worldviews, these traditions circle the same human experience: perceiving one thing, while sensing it means another.
Perhaps that is the mystery at the heart of symbolism: a sign does not always announce or explain itself. It may simply appear, leaving only a feeling behind.
We notice. We remember. We wonder why it mattered.
Then, one day, meaning reveals itself—and we realise the sign had been speaking long before we learnt how to listen.
— Earl in the Unknown
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