When my husband and I moved into our house in central Arizona, a regal saguaro cactus grew in the front yard. From the beginning, we were proud of the elegance it lent to our landscape. Hardly a day went by that we didn’t admire the plant’s nicely swollen belly, its graceful spire, and tough as nails spines, highly effective armor against its predators. It was a robust, healthy looking specimen, over eight feet tall.

My husband and I were new to Arizona, knew next to nothing about the area’s indigenous plants, let alone the saguaro cactus. But over the next few years, I acquired some knowledge about Arizona cacti, and the saguaro in particular. For one thing, I learned that saguaros are protected by the Arizona Native Plant Law, which prohibits the damage or removal of any part of the plant from the environment without a permit.

The Saguaro is native to the Sonoran Desert of southeastern California, southern Arizona and adjoining northwestern Mexico. It is the largest cactus in the world. Its skin is smooth and waxy, but the trunk and stems have sharp, tough 2-inch spines protruding from their ribs. The average growth rate for a saguaro is only one inch per year, but it may attain great height, anywhere from 15 to 50 feet. When watered, the plant’s outer pulp expands, thus increasing the diameter of the stem and allowing for water storage. Because of this efficient hydration system, these cacti may weigh up to a ton.

Their capacity to store great amounts of water enables saguaros to flower every year, regardless of rainfall. In full bloom, their flowers display white petals about 3 inches in diameter, clustered around a tube about 4 inches in height. In the center of the petals, yellow stamens form a protective circle around the entrance to the tube, which contains sweet nectar at the bottom. This enticing nectar, combined with the color of the flower, invites birds, bats and insects to sip the syrup and pollinate the flower simultaneously. The saguaro can only be fertilized by cross-pollination (pollen from a different cactus).

The more I learned about saguaros, the more impressed I became with their attributes. I began to feel blessed having such a fine specimen guarding my house. It never failed to evoke my admiration as I drove up the driveway. I often forgot that it was merely a tall, decorative plant, for it seemed to be a creature in its own right. I thought this strange until I learned that the Tohono O’odham Native American Southwest Desert People consider the saguaro a sacred plant. To them, it is not just a plant, but also another form of humanity. It figures in their creation stories and even today, the Tohono O’odham people continue to harvest its fruits. My only disappointment with my resident saguaro was that it had not yet flowered.

One early Saturday morning, I opened the front room blinds and saw my beautiful saguaro lying flat on the ground. For a moment, shock overwhelmed me. I could only stare at the spectacle in disbelief. The plant’s roots had torn loose from the soil. Its top was jammed up against one wall of the garage. What had happened?

I ran outside, and examined it closely. It had not toppled on its own. Deep vertical gashes ran down the middle of its body. Midway between the top and bottom of its stem, there were two yawning gouges. These puncture wounds indicated that someone had used a metal rod or something similar to push it over. I was furious. What savage soul would do such a thing? Then I noticed that the large, red rock next to it had also been knocked over. I glanced toward the street and saw what was left of our mailbox, now smashed to smithereens. A shiver of fear ran through me. It was clear that this was an act of vandalism, maybe even a personal attack. When my husband saw the damage, he called the police. But as the officer dutifully filled out a report, he informed us that it wasn’t likely the perpetrators would be caught. “Probably the work of some drunken kids,” he said.

His words did not reassure us. Next, my husband called our home insurance company to see if they would cover the cost of replacing our saguaro. The insurance agent told him they would pay up to $500.00 for landscape damage. After filing our claim, my husband called several local nurseries for an estimate on a replacement. A saguaro of the same age and height as ours would cost about $1,300.00. We could not afford that. Then I contacted a friend who I knew was very knowledgeable about desert flora and fauna. While I hadn’t expected much more than her sympathetic ear, she did offer more hopeful information than anyone else I’d talked to so far.

To my surprise, my friend informed me that my cactus might be saved. Until speaking with her, I’d thought it was finished. But my friend knew the owner of a local cactus nursery who had years of experience working with desert plants. He might be able to help.

Of course, I contacted this man. That very afternoon, he came to our house and assessed the damage. He assured my husband and me that our saguaro might be saved if it were replanted. Of course, he couldn’t guarantee its survival, but he thought it was worth a try. He explained the transplantation process. First, the cactus needed to be out of the ground for a few days, preferably a week. Exposure to the air would allow the freshly cut roots to form a protective dry skin. After that, he would hire a small crew to replant it. The cost seemed minimal, especially as compared to purchasing another saguaro.

My husband and I agreed to his proposal. An hour later, one of the nursery’s employees came over to prepare the plant. He informed us that while the roots were healing over, the body must not be allowed to dehydrate. To prevent this, he sprayed the cactus barrel with water and then covered the whole trunk with a huge tarpaulin. Promising to be back in a week, he left us to contemplate our saguaro’s misfortune.

A week later, three men showed up to relocate the cactus. I’d chosen a lovely, sunny spot in the backyard where the soil was less rocky than other parts of the yard. First, the men dug a hole, which didn’t seem deep enough to me. However, I was told that its depth was sufficient, as the saguaro’s root system is very shallow, especially for such a tall, heavy plant.

Now it was time to move the victim. Before attempting this, each of the men donned thick, leathery gloves. Working together, they managed to lift the saguaro’s heavy body just high enough to get a leather hoist under it. Slowly and carefully, they slipped the hoist around the trunk, and then raised the cactus into a large wheelbarrow. According to one of these men, my saguaro weighed at least three hundred pounds.

After the planting, the workers applied sulfur powder to the saguaro’s wounds. They advised me to do the same every day until healing had completed. They watered the root area and splashed water on the tall stem. Then they left, wishing me luck.

A few months later, the transplant seemed a success. The saguaro retained its roundness and color. I’d feared it might sag and slowly implode, rotting from the inside out. Every few days, I applied sulfur into and around its wounds. The plant held on, and I was proud of it. It looked handsome in its new location, and while no longer providing the wonderful curb appeal it had in the front yard, it was a definite addition to our backyard garden.

Unexpectedly, my husband and I had to go out of town for several months. The morning after we got home, I looked out the kitchen window as usual, glancing first at the saguaro. It was still standing tall, but suddenly I realized it looked very thin. It was also listing slightly to the left. “Oh, no,” I muttered. Feeling heartsick, I went outside to view my patient. Indeed, it was in trouble. On the stem, there were insects crawling in and out of the puncture wounds, which had never completely grown over. At its base, there were several exposed roots where burrowing insects, perhaps even rodents, had dug underneath. A close examination revealed the shrinkage the cactus had endured. I now believed it was dying. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to give up. Another application of sulfur was in order, plant food around its base, and a shoring up of its roots with rich potting soil. I called the nursery and asked what else I could do to preserve the creature. At that, the nursery’s owner actually came to our house and inspected the saguaro, then looked at me solemnly. “It’s dying slowly,” he said. “But I can plant you another one in front if you like. I’ll give you a good price. Two hundred fifty for a four-footer.” I told him I would think about it.

Months passed; the creature hadn’t changed much, except for its color, which seemed paler. Its spines weren’t as sharp as before. They had lost their sting. “You’re on your own now,” I told the saguaro. “It’s up to you and nature.”

In June of 2009, seven months after its ordeal, my saguaro flowered. The plant had never so much as offered a bloom in the eighty years it had lived prior to its near butchery. Under cover of darkness, insane vandals had taken out their rage on an ancient being and left it for dead. What could possibly have brought about this miraculous flowering in a body so broken, so hurt?

Another year later, it was still alive. It looked about the same as the previous year, but even thinner. Yet, once again, in June it generated flowers. Again, I wondered why. Could it be that when it received that terrible injury, all the universal life forces within it, perhaps sensing the mortal blow, summoned the strength to flower, to offer pollen to the birds, the bees and the winds? My noble saguaro would not relinquish life easily.

I’ve heard it said that when a person is dying, sometimes in the last few days before death, he or she rallies, gains strength, seems to be getting well. The recovery may last for a week, even longer, but soon the body fails and death occurs. I thought it was like that with my proud saguaro. In a final burst of energy, it reached for its last chance to reproduce, to attain its own immortality.

Included herein is one of the photos I took of the saguaro’s flowers. I wanted to preserve the beauty of their delicate white petals to remind me of my courageous cactus. During its two brief seasons of flowering, I witnessed birds hovering above the blooms, long-beaked humming birds drinking the nectar, bees landing on the petals, nestling in the yellow tunnels. I had no doubt my saguaro was rallying.

In December 2010, my husband and I took a trip to Nevada to visit family at Christmas. We left for home a few days later, but didn’t get back until after dark. The next morning, I opened the kitchen blinds and gazed out the window. The first thing I saw was the saguaro lying on the ground, entirely uprooted. Its wounds had reopened; its flesh was gutted and gnarled. Nothing could be done, except mourn.

Copyrights
Suzanne Cisneros
2015

Do read her powerful book CHIAPAS RISING

The Arabian Peninsula. It was in the cold month of December, 1998, in my adopted desert city that the life altering event took birth.

My son was studying Dentistry in a local college in the neighboring town of Ajman, U.A.E. The town was about 30 miles from where we lived.

Every day I would drive to the college town to pick up my son. There were days when he had to stay longer than usual and on such days I would spend time enjoying Arabic coffee in a sea side hotel as I took in the breath taking views of this quaint Arabian town as the sea mist rolled in and eased my thoughts.

December in the desert is rather cool, chilly and one can almost feel the icy arms of winter tugging at the warm ocean waves, making them shiver.

My mother had been very ill for almost three years. During these years, every now then, several times a year, I would receive news that mother is unwell, in the hospital and I would rush to see her. She was in my motherland. It would take about two hours by air and there were several flights out of my city several times a day. Therefore, whenever she was hospitalized, I was able to reach my country within a few hours of receiving the information. It was a routine. I would go there, she would slowly recover and I would return to my daily life in my adopted land. However old your parents become, they remain immortal to you. My mother had an enlarged heart and her health had been steadily declining over these past three years.

Even if it was a minor pneumonia or infection, I never waited. I rushed to her side without hesitation.

Three years had passed…. in no time.

One evening, as I was waiting to pick up my son from his college, having coffee at the Beach Hotel, I received the dreaded telephone call from my sister, she could hardly speak as she was crying inconsolably and in between her sobs, she said……… “Bhai (brother), Amma (mother) is going …… come if you can, her voice trailing off, she hung up.

This time, it felt different. My heart stopped. My mother was dying.

I do not remember what happened next. I was so overcome by grief that I lost track of time and all else. I must tell you that I was too attached to my mother and she was too attached to me. All mothers love their children but this was different. It was as if she lived for me. As I said, I lost track of time, I lost sense of direction, and I was beyond grief. I now lived in the twilight of sorrow where eyes forget to weep and the mind forgets to think.

How much time passed after I received my sister’s call, I still do not know but when I came to my senses, it was dusk, the sun had just set, I was on the beach, which was completely deserted, except for the sea gulls. The sea was unusually turbulent and it was cold. Only the sea gulls glided low-reflecting my sinking heart.

I remember prostrating in worship, below a palm tree, in the soft warm forgiving sand … for how long I was in that position, I know not. However I do remember, distinctly, praying and crying aloud… to God, begging Him to grant her just enough much time that she could hold me in her loving arms just once more ” ……….. God, you have to listen, You cannot take her away, You are not cruel, You know love so well ….” I was mostly incoherent, disoriented, almost maniacal and I do not remember what else I said. Yet the faithful foe called sorrow emerged from the dark cave and gipped me. I was sinking into the chasms of grief, but I still envisioned light, filtering like little stars through the darkness, twinkling gently. I held on to my faith. Faith was the torch that allowed me to ‘see’.

I must have remained in that prostrated position for God knows how long when I felt someone was shaking me violently, physically and it was as if I was waking up from a deep trance like slumber.

This was when I heard the rumbling, the thunder and the haunting words:

“Go now……….. she will embrace you once more.”

Utter disbelief! Coldest shivers! Was I delirious or dreaming? I looked around.No one or nothing but the turbulent sea, the sea gulls, the cold sea breeze greeted me solemnly.

I gathered my senses, sat there for about ten minutes and regained my composure. I remembered that my son must be worried as I was always there when he came out of his college and this day I was not there to greet him. So I rushed, still in a ‘ twilight zone’ state of mind and told him that his grandmother was in the ICU and that the doctors have given her only a few hours as her vitals are failing fast and that I had to leave for my homeland immediately. My son sat there in the front seat of my car, very quietly and I could sense his sadness.

On my drive back home, I called my wife and told her that I must leave for the airport to catch any flight I can find because mother was in the ICU. I did not tell her one word of what had transpired that evening but deep in my heart I knew some Divine force had spoken to me, that His angels had embraced me and that I had felt His powerful presence.

“Go now……….. she will embrace you once more.”

This was the only voice echoing across the devastated plains of my mind.

The four hour flight was the longest few hours of my life. They were torture.

I reached my homeland just after midnight. I was met by my brother-in-law who was a respected and well known doctor and surgeon. He embraced me and I asked “Please tell me that Amma is alive.” He was quiet. After a painfully long minute, he informed me she was in a coma. After that terrible revelation, we drove straight to the hospital.

We reached the hospital in about 45 heart wrenching minutes. Most of the family members were there as the doctors had said she has few more hours of life left. Without meeting anyone I rushed to the ICU only to be told by the staff nurse that no one is allowed in but my brother-in-law managed to take me into her ICU room. The sight in the Intensive Care Unit is not one which one wants to see yet I was there and there was my mother hooked to so many tubes and machines, lifeless and pale! The cold ocean breeze touched my face once again- this time distantly, as if jolting me back to reality.

“Go now……….. she will embrace you once more .”

I sat down at her feet and started kissing them and was silently reminding God of His promise, of the mystical words that had been revealed to me only hours ago as I sat alone by sea . Deep down I was convinced that the Divine One will not let me down; He will not, He cannot go back on His words. My brother-in-law touched me on my shoulder and softly said that I must leave now and let her go in peace but I stayed there, at her feet. I was left alone with her as everyone felt it was best to do so, so I may cry as much as possible as human nature is, be at peace and reconcile with the inevitable.

It was while I was crying at my mother’s cold and lifeless feet that I felt her foot move, with slight jerk. I called the doctor on duty. He and my brother-in-law rushed in. The looked at my mother and examined her vital signs and concluded that it was a simply a nerve reaction and nothing more. They were not aware that I was not about to believe them. In my heart I was hearing His Divine Voice …………. “Go now, she will embrace you ….” and I was waiting for that because I knew that it was true. Few minutes passed and another jerk and then another ……….. both the doctors were there, observing and seemed a bewildered. Then the seemingly impossible happened. My dear mother opened her eyes, looked me and …………. and smiled!!!!!

I saw the utter disbelief in the doctors’ eyes. As the minutes passed, she was getting better, stronger, breathing on her own. It took about one hour and few minutes when she asked me to come close to her. She asked me to tell the nurse to remove her life support system. They did. They complied reluctantly, in complete denial and disbelief. Next morning she was moved to the general medical ward and was settled in her room in the hospital, out of the ICU.

She had to come back to see me, just like the mystical voice had predicted.

The entire team of doctors and hospital staff were talking about this miraculous recovery. They were at least honest and the Consultant attending to her case admitted that this was most unusual case he has ever managed and indeed, there was no rational or medically sound explanation for this most dramatic recovery

…………………. My darling mother lived for ten more years.

I had begged for just one last embrace, in return, I was given several years to love and cherish the most revered woman in my life- my mother.

The Divine One kept His Promise. To this day, I thank Him several times each day.

He is so close to us. Why do we do not see Him?

Why do we doubt?

Why does our ego blind us to the invisible truths?

Miracles do happen.

They happened to me on one cold desert night as the sea gulls danced ecstatically and the moon shimmered benevolently.

‘A Wish’
A True Story
By Sarwar A Khan
2015 Copyrights

Almost 42 years ago, after traveling from Karachi to Switzerland by road, with a friend in 1971, I ended up in Europe. The journey through many of the countries and roads, travelled much before, by the likes of Ibn Battuta, Marco Polo, Alexander the Great and many other discoverers, led us though the deserts, valleys and mountains of Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Italy and finally Switzerland, culminated with our trusted camel/VW van, taking its last breath, as we ascended the ramp to Switzerland through Italy, through the famous San Bernardino Tunnel.

Once our VW van died and our survival instinct started kicking in, making us take out what was absolutely necessary, like our passports and some clothing; we started walking towards the tunnel to Switzerland. The sun was setting, as did our hopes to continue our journey in our trusted friend, the VW van. Now we were catching a bus, then a train, which took us all the way through Switzerland, France, and Belgium to the Lilliputian country, Luxembourg. This compared to the United States where I have lived since 1972, was truly a fairy tale, Camelot kind of country, most of which one could travel through, in less than a day. Here my friend, Richard who owned the van, departed for his home in Virginia, USA, while I carried on to Amsterdam Holland.

I arrived at Amsterdam late in the evening. Upon descending from the train, I was followed by several suspicious looking characters, who thought that since I was coming from the Near East, I must have been carrying hashish. Much to their dismay, I told them that I had nothing. I knew of a friend who lived and worked close to Schiphol Airport, and so I took a bus to go and seek him. I found his place, only to learn that he had been in a horrible automobile accident a few weeks earlier, and was lying in a hospital in Amsterdam in a coma. I went to see my friend, but was only able to view his lifeless body, hooked up to numerous pieces of life support equipment. That is how I bid farewell to my namesake who had been my friend for many years in my homeland. He never woke up from his coma and passed, soon after, but now I wonder that perhaps he stayed on in a spiritual form, helping me in my hours of desolation?

Now, with only four dollars in my pocket, I found a cheap hotel room to spend the night. The room cost $2.50 leaving me with a dollar and fifty cents, the next morning. I could not sleep, so I spent most of the night on my knees, praying to God for mercy.

The next day, I left the hotel and started walking on the road, not knowing where I was going or how I would survive with a Dollar fifty in my pocket. As I was walking on a crowded sidewalk, I came upon a tall man, possibly my age, with a black beard, kind soft face, who just smiled at me, stopped, and asked me if I was OK. I replied, not really, since I had nowhere to go, I knew no one in Amsterdam, and had only a dollar and a half in my pocket.

This man, who called himself Robert, smiled and offered to pay for my food and lodging for the time, I had to wait to get some funds from somewhere. He looked like the pictures I had seen of Jesus, and when I became really ill because I had no warm clothes, he sat all night on the stairs where I lay, because I did not wish to wake the other hostel guests from my constant coughing. Robert read, from the Old Testament, in Hebrew. I recovered and after almost three weeks, I left Amsterdam after getting funds from Richard in Virginia. I repaid Robert, who volunteered to fly to New York with me, since I had never travelled in an airplane before, in my life. Upon reaching JFK airport in New York, Robert, my savior, simply walked away while waving to me in the terminal.

For the past forty two years, I have searched for Robert, but never found him.

Did he really exist or was he just a celestial entity, who came to save my life? Interestingly my friend Richard, from Virginia, later became a Buddhist monk and runs a monastery/teaching academy, in Lexington, Virginia.

So in my life, I met two saviors, one who said he was a Jewish man, (as was Jesus), and one who was a Christian when I met him, but now has been a Buddhist monk for over thirty years.

Were these simply co-incidences or miracles of life?

Or was this a Jesus-Buddha connection that I was never aware of until years later, after it happened?

Who knows…..life is full of miracles and miraculous incidents.

Copyrights J.Khan- ‘The Green Van – My Memoir’
2015
USA