Most people played with pinwheels as a child. It’s a whimsical toy consisting of a windmill type device pinned loosely to the end of a small stick. As the wind blows, the multi-colored paper or plastic spins creating a mesmerizing display of colors and movement. It’s simply captivating to a child or adult.
Perhaps that toy is the orchestrated result of some influential pinwheel flowers viewed by some forgotten toy maker in history. The long powerful floral petals form curvasive fingers out from the center as if to catch an imaginary wind and perform some impossible bouqueted ballet. Drawn to these whimsical yet vibrant shapes, a sublime reminder of childhood reaches back from the echoes of our half remembered past. Can you imagine the petals spinning like a toy of your youth?
Only now, as adults, with greater experience and perhaps a more cynical eye, we understandably view the pure white petals as a quantitative measure of purity in our lives. A view of grandest desire and design. For who does not like to think themselves pure? Yet this view is not without it’s own danger.
The exciting glowing petals suddenly take on an air of smallness. The blackness surrounding each petal pure and full of vibrant life represents our own bleak mortality. Indeed, aware that these pinwheels will not spin with the cheerful abandon of our youth, we wishfully attempt to view them with the hopeful ideal of mobility.
However, the persistent lack of motion results in our metaphoric experience that as we become older we indeed become more fixated and inflexible in our ideals. A view soon encroaches portraying each of us as pinwheels no longer able to spin with the winds of passing time. Yet each of us remains a flower. Our capable beauty exists in a dignified and artfully desirous form, if only for those briefest of moments that make up our lives.
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