Out of Place, Yet Right at Home: The Prickly Pear That Could (And Did)

A few years ago, while wandering the campus of our local university, I spotted something unusual on the sidewalk — a single, paddle-shaped leaf with tiny spines along its edges. It looked like it had been freshly evicted from a nearby flower bed, likely an innocent casualty of an overzealous landscaping crew’s leaf blower. I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but something about its strange, sturdy shape made me pause. It looked like a succulent trying to hitchhike its way out of town.

Naturally, I did what any plant-loving opportunist would do: I scooped it up like a treasure and brought it home.

Back then, I had no idea I was adopting a prickly pear cactus — a plant that looks more at home in the arid southwest than the snowy, cold winters of Ohio. But I planted it anyway, tucking the base of the leaf into the garden and giving it just enough soil to feel wanted, a little garden real estate, and let nature do her thing. And wouldn’t you know it — it rooted, and then some. 

Since that humble beginning, it’s grown into a surprisingly robust presence in my garden, multiplying its spiny paddles like it’s trying to take over a corner of the desert that never got the memo it’s in the Midwest. I’ve always loved how out of place it looks — like a defiant little rebel in a land of peonies and daylilies. But it turns out, this plant is tougher than it looks. Never mind the fact that we sometimes hit below-zero temps in winter — this plant was like, “Cold? Never heard of her.” It persists. No greenhouse. No babying. Just sheer stubbornness. Honestly, I respect that.

Then, a couple of years ago, something even more magical happened — it bloomed. BLOOMED. Bright yellow flowers that shimmer in the sunlight like little desert fireworks. Delicate, glittery, and totally dramatic — just my kind of vibe.

The other morning, during my usual walk around the garden (a.k.a. my coffee-fueled pajama parade), I spotted the cactus had burst into bloom again. Yellow flowers, glowing with a kind of buttery shimmer, wide open and wild. They always take me by surprise. The blooms are short-lived — just two or three days, tops — but they shine like they know they’ve only got a moment to make an impression.

And isn’t that just like a glimmer? A tiny, unexpected sparkle in the everyday — the kind that makes you pause and smile and think, “What are you even doing here? And how are you so beautiful?”

This little cactus, born of a sidewalk rescue, reminds me how life is full of small, unexpected survivals. Of things that shouldn’t grow where they do, but somehow find a way. Of moments that bloom briefly and brilliantly, then pass — leaving behind nothing but a memory and maybe, if we’re lucky, a photo or two.

Honestly, I really do love how out of place this plant is. It’s like the Florida relative who comes visit you at Christmas in the Midwest but shows up in sunglasses and sandals — and still looks fabulous. Every time it blooms, I’m reminded that beauty doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it’s prickly, unexpected, and wildly out of its element… but thriving anyway.

And if that’s not a glimmer, I don’t know what is.

– The Wallflower