desert blooms

One of the things I loved about the desert and living in that strange space not meant for human habitation was the surprise of a cactus flower. Here in the southeastern US, flowers spill from every green plant and exude odors so sweet they make stopping to smell them unnecessary. But in the desert, flowers look odd sprouting from thorny plants, and odors are faint if anything. Those blooms are both delicate and dangerous. I don't recall ever being tempted to lean over and smell the flowers on a barrel cactus, yet to see one stopped me in my tracks.

I feel an affinity with the desert that I've never felt in my home geography. I think I understand something about the life of a cactus. In Arizona, a root system is shallow and wide spreading so that the tiny amounts of water that falls can be gathered quickly. Skin is thick and waxy to protect the plant from the harsh sun and tempatures. And then, there are those famous spines: protection from those creatures that would have cactus for breakfast.

In thinking more about my "negativity," I begin to wonder if possibly the cactus is a better way to understand myself. The world is so arid, so brutal, so f*cking hot. And I only produce a small spray of flowers once each season.