Letters to My Daughter: The Guardians Rescue

 

Dear Daughter,

Some rescues are loud. This one was quiet.

The barrel cactus had been uprooted during the clearing of the land—nudged gently aside by a contractor’s bulldozer, laid on its ribs like something sleeping. It had been there since April, waiting. By August, it had begun to fade. Its ribs thinned from thirst, its skin pale from sun scald. It no longer looked like the ancient sentinel it was—just a toppled elder, slumped in the dust.

I remember your father and I standing over it, unsure. It looked so out of place. So exposed. We didn’t know what to do.

We’d spent months walking the property, growing fond of the barrel cactus scattered across the land. Some were small and round, swelling into green pumpkins after the rains. Others were tall and weathered, their crowns missing last season’s fruit—harvested by mule deer who know where sweetness hides. One in particular stood out: a massive cactus on the outer edge of the bee yard, half-hidden behind a creosote. It peeks around the bush like a shy guardian, watching the bees from a respectful distance. I always smile at it when I pass. And that day, I thought: Perhaps it’s time to bring the watcher a companion. A partner to stand beside it for the rest of its days.

The Shy Guardian Peeking at the bee yard

I returned to the fallen cactus alone. I knelt beside it, placed my hand near its base, and whispered a greeting. I always do that—before touching, before deciding. I ask permission. I listen.

We brought out the wheelbarrow, thick gloves, and a wide piece of burlap. As we maneuvered it into position on the burlap rug, your father, in a moment of forgetfulness, rested his shoe on top of the cactus. One of the hooked barbs went straight through the sole and gave him a good poke. He yelped—sharp and sudden—and then laughed, wincing. Another lesson, always, in mindfulness. Even the gentlest rescues require presence. With slow hands and quiet breath, your father and I lifted it from its resting place. It was heavier than expected—dense with memory. We wrapped the cactus gently, cradled it like something sacred, and wheeled it to the bee yard.

We gave a warm smile to the shy cactus behind the creosote as we entered the bee yard, and I pointed out the sweet giant to your father. “He is about to receive a lover,” I said. He smiled and chuckled, understanding the gesture.

We weren’t sure which direction to face the great giant. Barrel cactus don’t like to have their orientation changed—the yellowing on its skin had already warned us of that. It was actually your father, during one of our walks, who noticed that all the barrel cactus on the land had their fruit crowns tilted toward the south. That was our best guess, and we honored it—facing the cactus in the same direction, trusting the wisdom of its kin.

I chose a spot directly east of the palo verde we had just planted. Ironically, or perhaps perfectly, it’s a place where the two cactus can see each other. One to admire the other from afar. A quiet companionship. A balance of shade and thorn. We packed the earth around its base and left the edge bare—for you. I know how you love to place stones you find around the property along the borders of each bed. This one, too, will receive your offerings in time.

Weeks passed, and each time I stepped into the apiary to think, I greeted the new guardian. Sometimes I knelt beside it, whispering apologies for its uprooting, hoping the new soil felt like home. I picked out the small rocks wedged between its ribs and frowned at the broken lower barbs—scars from the months it had spent lying on its side. Then, one weekend, the rains came—four inches in a single sweep. And to my surprise, I watched the green return to its skin. The ribs began to widen, slowly, like breath returning to a body. I smiled. The cycle had begun again.

The Two Lovers

Lesson for you, my daughter:
Not all rescues are dramatic.
Sometimes, they are quiet acts of noticing.
Of listening. Of saying, You still belong here.

Love, 


Your Mother 
The Desert