The fig tree.

"feels so scary getting old" (Ribs, Lorde)

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.

…

“I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I think it’s an intrinsic part of humanity to hold onto every dream that once passed through your mind, mourn the ones you will never achieve, pray to never grow up so you don’t have to choose between the ones that remain possibilities. As the year I have to actually get a job inches nearer, I’ve spent a countless amount of time thinking about Sylvia Plath’s fig tree analogy. The idea that I am the fig of my choice from the tree of possibilities, and if I chose one, the others must rot and fall. The Bible treats fig trees as physical manifestations of everything good. Prosperity, good health, spiritual enlightenment, and security; the sweet fruit providing a richness akin to life.

I wanted to be a dentist at 8, a singer at 11, a fashion designer at 13, and a journalist when the time came for me to get serious. I hated science and hadn't done any since middle school, so any kind of doctor was out of the question. And just like that, the first fig fell to the ground, rotted with time. I quit choir, still played the piano, but only sang in the car. The second fig held on for dear life before it fell, it couldn’t survive the storm of my future. I still liked fashion, but I dropped art. There was no chance of me going to college for it. I plucked this fig but didn’t eat it, still purple and ripe, I gave it to my little sister.

There are so many more figs on that tree, some are fatter, others riper, and some too far from my reach. Everyone thinks I should choose the one that touches my fingertips, feet flat on the ground. It’s so close I could just grab it and it would be mine. I can’t explain why I don’t want it, I’m picky with my fruit. A number sway lazily on thin branches, purple and juicy, so tempting to pluck. But the rest will fall, rotted on the ground if I do. Figs of philosophy, academia, the shiny bright world of music and film, luxury without labour, sports and olympic dreams. Each tiny fruit, a representation of my entire reality, hanging on entirely in wait for the decision of my pick.

According to The Bible, the fig tree was planted in the Garden of Eden as the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, alongside the Tree of Life. I find it curious that Esther Greenwood’s (The Bell Jar) monologue on life and choice stemmed from the memory of the former, when the latter is quite literally, The tree of life. The story of Jesus cursing a fig tree due to its appearance of fruitfulness, with lush leaves inviting the hungry eye, while bearing no such delight, is the most prominent representation of that particular fruit tree in media. While I will never know Plath’s intentions with the association, I do believe that a parallel could be drawn to Esther’s potential and interests in life, but unwillingness to pursue them. I don’t think a person could be reduced to simply the fig of their choice anymore. I cannot believe that Esther was the figs she pictured rotting at her feet, she was the whole tree. We forget how young we are when we supposedly chose the life we’re meant to spend the rest of our time on earth living, we forget the massive amount of people who die living a completely different one from their initial choice.

My figs that fell, and new ones that will, become a part of the soil from which my tree of childhood first grew, the tree they were once a part of. Their shrivelled skins disintegrate, and seeds seep into the layers of earth. With every fall of rain, every beam of sunlight, a new tree slowly begins to slowly grow. According to every gardening website I check, growing a fig tree with seeds instead of cuttings is a slow and unpredictable process. But so is ageing and living. I've been a child my entire life and those years have been filled with changes in emotions and beliefs happening in a flash. I read that it’s unsure if the growth of a tree from seed is even viable, a complete coin toss. But my mind is so full of such a multitude of possibilities for my future pursuits, that I’m sure that of the hundreds of figs I lose, at least one has a seed within its many, that has the likelihood of growing a tree. Perhaps a new tree of post graduation endeavours, and the eventual fallen seeds from it sprout into my middle age. Each tree causing the exponential growth of others, and on each branch there is a fig as juicy, fat, and purple as one on the first tree of my life. 

I see young girls my age on social media, grieving their years of aspiration and wonder, as they near adulthood. Mentioning the very analogy that has resulted in my spiel, as a haunting force in their life. I want them to realise, just as I have, that we have so many years of exploration left; two decades more of just youth! The world around us contains countless people who were hippies half a century ago, and retired with a secured pension. The world will keep revolving, whether or not we pick the right major or go to the right college or choose the right first job. Choosing business will not kill your art. You can try being Ee Gee, the amazing editor, turn to the husband and a happy home and children, and die as a famous poet. Sylvia Plath’s first job was as a farm worker; she died as one of the world’s most renowned female writers.