Fig Tree

Sylvia Plath’s analogy is seared into my mind. I would say it is an accurate depiction of active anxiety.

I, too, see my life branching out before me like a green fig tree. “From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckons and winks.”

One fig is an audacious teenager undisturbed by life’s worries, another fig is a focused scholar, another fig is a social trend follower and perpetuator, another fig is a reserved young woman uninterested in partaking in such nonsense, another fig is a cultivated college student, another fig is an ambitious career aspirer, another fig is reflective, another fig is present centered, another fig is a standoffish and withdrawn preserver of self peace, another fig is a wholehearted lover and romantic, another fig is swimming in a delusional blissfulness, another fig is highly pragmatic and logical, another fig is a conceptual writer, another fig is passionate about the arts and sciences, another fig is mathematically inclined, another fig is a mother of a happy home, and another fig is a good friend, sister and daughter, and above these figs are many more figs I can’t quite make out.

Deep in my somnambulism I envision myself sitting at the root of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I can not make up my mind which of the figs I should choose. “I want each and every one of them, but choosing one means losing all the rest, and, as I sit here, unable to decide, the figs begin to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plop to the ground at my feet.”

I, too, find myself paralyzed with indecision. There is an indistinguishable line blurring which choices of adolescence are slight excerpts or pages of a great memoir and which are all conclusive plot lines contributing to a single motif.

Or maybe I am Janie, also underneath a tree but one of which bears pears. I can picture myself stretched along the foot of the pear tree upholding the embodiment of all of these questions, hopes, and aspirations. I can visualize myself sitting at the crotch of this tree near the roots of my memories and values. I can visualize myself peering up at the blossoms of my dreams.

I see myself relishing in the warmth of the streaks of sunlight seeping between the pear tree’s branches, but I also see myself becoming uncomfortably moist with perspiration in the heat. And so I also see myself enjoying the shade of the pear tree’s leaves, but I also see myself shivering with a chill from the cold.

Beyond this I envision myself at the base of a tree with a book or a journal or a friend or a lover. I desire to recognize that I can be multifaceted (what a concept). I can gather all my figs, or pears, or apples, or oranges in a basket of identity and taste them as I please.

I long to feel the grass beneath me even if it might itch at my skin and appreciate the variety of smells that may dazzle or disgust my senses. I long to admire the coexisting realism and spiritualism of the nature around me and take deep breaths of fresh air, invigorating me with flows of the world into my lungs as life comes to fruition before me.

Above all I see the trees far behind me standing for my childhood and see many more trees in the distance encapsulating every other stage of this intricate life.

El.