Dandelions and the Fibonacci sequence are connected through a fascinating principle of natural design. The seed heads of dandelions exhibit what botanists call phyllotaxis – the arrangement of leaves, seeds, or other plant parts that follows mathematical patterns. The seeds in a dandelion head are arranged in spirals that follow Fibonacci numbers (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, etc.). If you look carefully at a dandelion seed head, you can see two sets of spirals – one going clockwise and another counterclockwise. Typically, the number of spirals in each direction corresponds to consecutive Fibonacci numbers. For example, you might count 21 spirals in one direction and 34 in the other. The seeds also grow at what’s called the “golden angle” of approximately 137.5 degrees. This specific angle is derived from the golden ratio (approximately 1.618) and equals 360° divided by the golden ratio squared. When new seeds form at this precise angle from the previous seed, it creates the most efficient packing arrangement possible. This 137.5° angle ensures that no two seeds are directly in line with each other from the center, allowing maximum exposure to sunlight, air, and optimal use of space. That mathematical precision isn’t unique to dandelions – it appears in many plants including sunflower seed heads, pinecones, and the arrangement of leaves around stems. This is the math of life.
Don’t write if you have to force it, if you sit there and squeeze out words like a dry sponge wrung out, if the sight of the page makes your stomach turn, if the thought of starting is already exhausting. Don’t write if you need someone to tell you it’s good, if your hands only move when applause is expected, if you write for the sake of being called a writer. Don’t write if it’s just a trick, just a hobby, just something to do between distractions. But— if the words hammer at your skull, if they crawl under your skin and won’t let you sleep, if they drag you out of bed and demand to be spilled, if they burn, if they ache, if silence would kill you faster than failure— then write. Write like your veins are filled with ink, like your bones are made of sentences, like the world would stop spinning if you stopped typing. Write when no one is watching. Write when they are. Write when it’s beautiful, when it’s ugly, when it’s the only thing that makes sense. And if none of that is true, if you’re waiting for a reason, for permission, for someone to say, “Yes, you should”— then don’t.
The ground cracks, not from thirst, not from flood, just from shifting. On the sidewalk, a thing with wings twists, twitches, stops. A man walks by in shorts, doesn’t look up, doesn’t look down, but the sky knows he is there. A girl in a sundress eats something cold. A car rolls by with its windows open, the sound inside spills out, but no one listens. The hills wear something new, not green, not gold, just different. A breeze, or maybe just air moving. A dog barks once, then decides against it. The thing with wings is gone. Spring races like a mainline.
