#114: The Cactus Baby
Why so much affection for something so prickly?
Yesterday, I peered into my cactus pot and found a miracle. A tiny prickly miracle. My cactus, that I have had for years and possibly haven’t given the attention it deserves, is having a child. I am going to be a cactus mummy.
And then I remembered this article I found a few weeks ago, which suggests millennials are filling the gap traditionally occupied by children with houseplants. I majorly cringed. Is this me? Thankfully I realised I have only just turned 22 and that the number of houseplants in my flat is probably symptomatic of something else.
So I pondered: what is this cactus providing that is currently missing from my life? Why am I so invested in its child? It adds a personal touch to a rented home; it adds some greenery to my garden-less flat; but most of all this cactus, the very cactus that sat in my childhood bedroom throughout my adolescence, provides stability and familiarity.
When life is full of firsts — jobs and flats and microwaves — we crave something long-term, something dependable, something we know will greet us every night after work. The basil on my windowsill is in a constant cycle of near-death and miraculous revival — he is a train wreck not to be depended on — but this cactus does everything slowly and surely. Even his baby was no real surprise: he has been showing for a while now and his new pot and cactus feed have certainly helped — instead of being a sad brown he is becoming a beautiful green. He grows so comfortingly gradually that I need not fear the change.
Katie once talked about the simple pleasure of watching her herbs grow, while academic tasks were looming and I suppose this is a similar thing. This cactus is here and alive and growing, even when everything is changing around me. Friends come and go, I pop home for a weekend, out to work and back again, but here is my cactus sitting stable and strong and happy, cheering up my room and myself, even if he is not exactly huggable.
