The Fig Tree Analogy

Wisdom of the Week

The few books I’ve read about navigating your twenties all underscore the notion that the most important decision a person makes in their life is who they choose to marry. So how is one supposed to go about making other decisions until they know who that person is?

This challenge extends beyond life partners— in fact, how is anyone supposed to make ANY decisions? Life is unpredictable and all of the cliché advice to “trust your gut” and “do what’s best for you” creates more confusion instead of the clarity its meant to induce. How do I know if my head or my heart will guide me correctly? What if doing what’s best for me in the moment is not what’s best for me in the long run?

I tend to indulge these thoughts; it is both terrifying and strangely comforting knowing I possess the agency to make decisions capable of altering the course of my life. Tomorrow, I could quit my job, move to Europe or a farm out west, cut all my hair off, sell my possessions and even change my name.

The film Past Lives is an exquisite exploration of these questions. It illustrates what it means to grapple with the path life has chosen for you and the outcomes of decisions you didn’t even realize you were making. We will never be able to foresee the future, and so, we must learn to just live.

The Hamilton musical soundtrack is my comfort playlist and it was my most-listened-to album on Spotify a few years ago. The song “One Last Time” references a fig tree in its lyrics, citing scripture. Fig trees are not only mentioned in the Bible but are often used symbolically in modern literature. The Island of Missing Trees, a book I mentioned in my Top 5 Books of 2023 post, assigns literal and metaphorical meaning to a fig tree while also casting it as its own character, capable of thoughts and feelings. It is fitting that I’ve chosen this passage from The Bell Jar for today’s post. I leave you with Sylvia Plath’s fig tree analogy:

“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. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. 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

With love,

Emma