Staring Up At Figs

A Meandering on Indecision & Life Choices

If you asked me to describe my home a few years ago, I would have been able to deliver the name of a city, but no concrete descriptors.

I had lived in the same city — and more or less the same house — for over two decades. That house and that city had become a kind of default to me. The only water I knew how to swim in and the only air I had known how to breathe. That water and that air, while beautiful and safe, had grown so familiar that it was nearly invisible.

When I reached college, I chose to stay in that elegant water and pristine air because I felt like it was the right choice for me. I watched as my friends trekked to faraway streams and atmospheres, taking off on unsure and lively adventures. Swimming in water and breathing in air of ranging colors and viscosities — some “good,” some “bad,” but all different from what we grew up in together.

All the while, the air and water surrounding me grew more transparent until its opacity was practically nonexistent. Without substance. A personal drought of vibrancy.

So I took the biggest leap of my life — ventured far from the land I loved to one that I had dreamed of for years. Here I’ve grown a small community, filled with people who didn’t know the past me but know the current me. For so long, it felt like my life was destined to be just one thing. The same air and the same water. And now it feels like many things. Many people and many places.

The choice I made to move was one choice of many I could have made at that particular moment in time. Today, as I reflect on the life path I’m currently on, ponder how it might change, and observe the choices of those around me, it’s unsurprising that the “fig tree” passage from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar (1963) comes to mind.

In the iconic excerpt, Plath introduces the fig tree as a metaphor for life choices. Each fig on the tree represents a different life protagonist Esther Greenwood could live — in one, she has a husband and a happy home and children, in another, she’s a famous poet, and so on. She can only choose one fig, yet she wants all of them. So she sits plagued with indecision as the figs rot and fall to the ground. A section of the passage reads:

Indecisiveness is a quandary I know — and struggle with — all too well. I’m privileged to have a choice at all. To have the opportunity to play a role in forming my life alongside chance. And yet, there are times when I wish I could give up my decision-making role. Get blindfolded by fate, spun around, and whack at life like a piñata and see where I land. Because it seems like every choice comes with a laundry list of cons alongside its pros. That in order for me to succeed — for me to be happy — others must fail or be unhappy.

But life is not like pie. When it comes to your personal life choices and destiny, there doesn’t necessarily have to be a finite number of slices. Each path comes with its own array of benefits and drawbacks. But if you don’t make up your mind and pick a fig — all the paths may wither before you can make up your mind.

The life choices that I’ve made have led me to the mindset I have today — which is one that is mostly happy and excited about what the future holds. Is it because I made the “right” choices rather than the “wrong” choices? Not necessarily. In another life, if I hadn’t attended the college I did, pursued the career path I have, or moved to the city I’m in now — I may still feel happy and excited about what the future holds. Wherever I would be would simply be where I’m at. I wouldn’t know any different. There’s a freedom in that — in thwacking the gavel, making the choice you see best, and knowing that it’s okay that there were other ones. That it’s okay that the decision didn’t make everyone happy. That other fruit may have been sweeter or more bitter. There are only so many figs our hands can hold.

Today, if you ask me to describe my hometown, I can do it in much more vivid detail. I can tell you about the sleepy climate, the exquisite lakes, and the sublime mountains and how they contrast the skyscrapers and concrete playgrounds of the city I’m in now. I can tell you about the common character of the locals — the passive-aggressive shells that turn soft when offered a cup of coffee and how much they differ from the loud, direct nature of the city-dwellers in my current community. I can tell you about the Chaco-clad “granola” folks who spend their weekends scaling cliffsides and dancing among the trees. The neighborhood block parties and endless park visits.

When I chose this path, this cross-country move, I knew it would expose me to a fresh environment — new air and water to try my hand at swimming in. What I didn’t realize is that it would somehow get me even better acquainted with the home I spent two decades living in. Distance can be necessary to appreciate the true beauty of something. How can you enjoy the full elegance of a fine painting when your nose is just inches away from it?

I know that when I return home, I’ll see it in a new and unexpected way because that’s how I’m already seeing it. The air and water are already electric once again.

Don’t be afraid to be bold and do the unthinkable thing and make your choice. Unapologetically. Figs can be bitter and sweet at the same time, sometimes in pleasantly unexpected ways. But regardless, it’s better than being hungry with shriveled fruit at your feet.

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