Sylvia Plath & the saga of being a teenage girl in her twenties

"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 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 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."

God bless Sylvia Plath and her fig tree.

I didn't write the Bell Jar but if I did it would look like this,

"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 an advertising agency owner in a fabulous high heel, and another fig was a famous author and another fig was a brilliant travel blogger, and another fig was Stevie Nicks, the amazing singer, and another fig was a ranch Argentina or teaching in Spain, and another fig was the constant hustle of freelance work, and a pack of lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic gymnast. Just maybe one small fig that looked enticing when work got too much was cooking beautiful dinners for a beautiful husband, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.

I saw myself leaning against the trunk of this 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 fell to the ground at my feet."

The first fig I noticed, at the age most girls wanted to be ballerinas, was being an olympic gymnast. I was headed on the path of success, at least everyone in our gym was led to believe that. Every day I went to the gym for countless hours and trained in extreme circumstances but slowly I watched that fig shrivel up and I burnt out.

Another fig that has grown with me is the idea of moving to Florida. For as long as I can remember I told everyone I would move back to Florida and surf all day and live rent free by the beach with my grandparents. However, now I'm in my 5th year in California and I can't decide if the fruit is rotting or ripening.

The most prideful fig on my tree was working full time at 17 years old at an advertising agency. I thought I made it. This was life. I thought I could climb a latter from here and I never needed an education. Then a fig hung over me and begged to change the trajectory of my life, so I moved to Malibu and started Pepperdine. Next was Argentina and if you read my blogs or have ever spoken to me in person you know that changed my life. Then a fig came out of no where and I was being flown to France to speak about politics and a new world in front of big and important people. Then Spain. Then the Gallery. Followed with job opportunities and freelance work I couldn't keep up with. Then this and that. I was stuffed with ripe figs.

At some point maybe I stopped watering the tree or there was a change in weather but this tree stopped producing figs and my opportunities dried up and what hung in front of me was an idealistic view of my life. Do I want to go back to Argentina? and if so, what will I do for work? Do I want to return to Spain and teach English? If so, how do I get into the program I want? How do I get a job at a big advertising agency? How do I get more freelance clients? How do I travel the world? How do I navigate life?

Thus, my fig tree although barren, holds hope for the future. Maybe there's a fig representing a life in Argentina where I live in my favorite city, hike Mount Fitz Roy, go biking in Patagonia, and reclaim my Machu Picchu experience. There could be a fig where I finish out grad school in Spain while teaching English and maybe I am offered a job in Spain and I never have to return to the states. Or maybe I'm not thinking big enough. This fig tree shouldn't represent missed opportunities but rather be a hopeful sign that life has so much to offer.

I rescued a fig tree from the side of the road the other day. I put the 11 foot sad and lifeless tree through my sunroof and drove 25 miles an hour all the way to my house where I realized it wouldn't fit in my place with 9 foot ceilings and it would have to live on my balcony. I watered it and nursed it back to health and slowly new leaves started to grow. The tree learned of its height and started to curve under the roof and inch its' way out to open air. The fiddle leaf fig tree adapted to its surroundings. Maybe my fig tree story, unlike Sylvia Plath's, is one of adaptation not missed opportunity.