By S. Adila
Edited by Nur Qistina
“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.”
Stumbling upon the fig tree theory by Sylvia Plath, the 20th-century American poet, I finally know how to put an image or a name on that one particular familiar phenomenon that frequently occurs in my life at one point in time. I am accustomed to the overwhelming feelings of wanting to do so many things at once that I end up not choosing any of the options, feasible or not—idly around.
The fig tree theory by Sylvia Plath is just a good visual and figurative representation of the said phenomenon. Worded it better to polish my own thoughts about the matter.
Upon saying so, I wish to tear down this emotionally intricate issue to a solution that I deem best.
Closing my eyes and imagining myself with Sylvia Plath at the moment of her mental image endeavour as she seems to make home beneath the fig tree, I would humbly suggest she pick the nearest fig or the plumpest one her eyes have fallen onto; neither is okay, but most importantly, pick, raise her hand, and reach for one before all of them turn ashes in colour—rotten. Underwhelming in the eyes, despised by the guts.
Or perhaps she had some difficulty at the moment of time; thus, I might suggest she ask for help or get a long stick, anything, to make it convenient for her to pluck a fig and devour it to her heart’s content.
After all, humans vary. One is never the same as the one next to him.
Therefore, extending my thoughts to tie a knot to this issue that seems familiar to our being, I suggest one jot down all the many things he wants or wishes to execute. Making a list, neat or messy, is not important. When you get everything visible for your naked eyes, pick one that seems reachable the most, within your arm's length and approximately a strand of hair close to your fingertips. Or pick one that your heart desires the most to accomplish. Neither matters, but importantly, choose. Pick one of the many options before your interest turns into a puddle of wasted talent.
Setting my point across, what I want to explicitly say is that, do it before it’s too late. Reach for it before it’s fleeting away. Grab it before it turns into a cold breeze passing by the misty night.
“I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest,...”
This is what Sylvia Plath conveyed, which is understandable but not necessary. Pick one and enjoy it without getting the rest or not getting anything at all, is the real question.
Sometimes choosing one doesn’t mean you are sacrificing the rest. The one you pick is worth the leftover if you enjoy it thoroughly, satiate the deepest hunger, and crave for the far-fetched dream. After all, when you finish the one lucky fig you picked, you can still reach for the next one if you’re still hungry. The fig tree will never cease to grow, as will your chances and possibilities.
Conversely, a few paragraphs following the former statement, Sylvia Plath continued, “I don’t know what I ate, but I felt immensely better after the first mouthful. It occurred to me that my vision of the fig tree and all the fat figs that withered and fell to earth might well have arisen from the profound void of an empty stomach.”
Palpably, the figs are just an illusion of our endless list of dreams, but it doesn’t flatten one’s hope to indulge in one or reach for them all. Even the corpse-like figs could rise from their deaths upon reaching the right destination.
Instead of just analysing the extent of the fig tree theory written by Sylvia Plath (or, I would say, a theory understood by those who comprehend the underlying meaning behind the text), I think it’s better if we could stretch the extent of the regret followed by our blunder of spending time thinking what to do instead of actually doing it.
Even so, this is merely my piece of mind. Everyone might have their own interpretation. Sided, or perhaps contrary, one’s perspective is respected.
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