The Horrific Pricking

SPOILER ALERT: I’m a cactus freak.

Having searched, I have learned that there are no support groups for cactophiles. There is no AA for cactus addicts. Modern internet dictionaries don’t even recognize the word, ‘cactophile.’ We are a lost, forgotten minority that society ignores. There is no help for us.

From kindergarten to third grade I lived in the extreme desert of Southern New Mexico. I went on many hikes through the desert. Every time I saw a cactus I was turned on.

I spent my high school years living in far, far West Texas and I spent way, way too much time out in the desert (often in mind-altered states). Once, while tripping I hugged a cactus…

… and I wasn’t pricked!

I have also spent numerous adult years living in the desert. I have a deep fondness for the desert. Sure, rattlesnakes will set my heart a-pounding but that is not exactly a joyous feeling. But when I see a cactus — especially a cactus in bloom — I get down on my knees and commune with that cactus.

If I were a plant I would want to be a cactus — or maybe a tree with thorns like the mesquite tree (a short, scraggly tree of the American Southwest). I like the idea of growing upward toward the sun impervious to outward threats thanks to my thorns. What on earth does that say about me?