Mine was made in elementary school—eggshells pressed into glue and painted with bright poster colors. The image was simple: a bee hovering over a red tulip. I loved it. I remember the pride of seeing those tiny fragments come together to form something recognizable, something alive. The piece itself didn’t survive the years, but the memory of making it did.

I didn’t think much about that little bee and tulip for decades. Then recently, I noticed something curious: I’ve recreated that same image several times as an adult—this time in real tesserae, with intention, skill, and experience behind it. Different materials. Different scale. Same hovering bee. Same red bloom.

Why that image? I can’t say for certain. Inspiration arrives in ways we don’t always understand. Perhaps revisiting it quietly closed a circle. Perhaps it offered a sense of continuity between who I was and who I’ve become. Or perhaps that simple composition still holds something essential for me—movement, color, life poised in midair.

Mosaic has a way of doing that. It connects fragments across time. Pieces from different eras of our lives can settle beside one another and suddenly make sense.

I often ask students about their first mosaic. Not their most accomplished piece. Not the one that won an award. The first one. The awkward, earnest, glue-on-your-fingers beginning. There’s something honest and revealing there.

What was your first mosaic?

Do you remember the image? The materials? The feeling?

It might be worth revisiting—not to replicate it perfectly, but to see what remains. You may discover that the seeds of your creative voice were there all along, quietly waiting to hover back into view.