Mistletoe Cactus

 I’ve started a garden in my backyard, mostly desert plants. It’s a bit cluttered, a little eclectic, but it has a charm all its own. In the morning, it becomes a quiet refuge—somewhere I can sit, meditate, pray. The birds know it too. They come for the easy meal, for the water that’s always there, and I sit still long enough to feel like I’m part of it.

One of my plants is a mistletoe cactus, and it’s a bit of an oddball. When you think “cactus,” you picture heat, dust, something stubbornly holding onto water. This one does the opposite. It comes from a rainforest. Instead of rooting in the ground, it drapes itself over tree branches like it doesn’t need to belong anywhere in particular.

The stems are long and thin, almost wiry, falling in loose, tangled strands with a kind of easy, unbothered rhythm. When it blooms, you might miss it if you’re not paying attention. The flowers are small, soft white, tucked along the stems without much fuss. Later, it forms tiny round berries that really do resemble mistletoe—so much so that the name just makes sense. 

Blink, and you’ll miss it.

Just life—noticed slowly.