Spinning Memories

I found these flowers during my walk today, and the moment I saw them I was pulled back to childhood. We used to pluck a bloom and toss it into the air, trying to keep it spinning as long as possible before it drifted down. It was such a simple game, yet it felt like a tiny science experiment, timing the throw, watching the petals catch the air, learning by doing. Maybe that’s why it stuck with me. Those small curiosities, repeated a hundred times, quietly shaped how I notice things now.

In black and white, the memory feels even closer. Color would have made the flowers the whole story, but removing it lets the details breathe, the soft curve of each petal, the subtle textures, the way the light drops off into the shadows of the leaves. I like how monochrome turns a familiar plant into a study of form, tone, and rhythm. It’s the same play from childhood, just slower, more attentive, toss the distractions out of the frame and let the eye linger.

I photographed the cluster from different angles, open blooms, a shy bud, overlapping leaves, like short chapters in the same memory. The frames remind me that some of our best lessons arrive quietly. We don’t call them “skills” when we’re kids, but curiosity, patience, and observation start exactly there, in games that don’t need a scoreboard.

Maybe that’s why these small walks matter to me. They’re a return to that playful way of seeing, one photo at a time. To see in color delights the eye, but seeing in black and white feels like listening to the soul.