revisiting sylvia plath's fig tree

musings on the many lives I could have lived

We’ve all read it. We’ve all been called out by it. We all seek it out in those moments of uncertainty. You know what I’m talking about - the “Fig Tree” analogy, as mentioned in "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath.

The excerpt encompasses the allure one feels when deliberating between distinct possible futures that feel within our reach, along with the nuanced feeling of decision paralysis.

Every time I read this passage, I’m compelled to write a letter to myself in another world and ask if she is okay with living with her choices. I want to sit her down at a cafe and hold a scalpel to her chest just to see if the blood isn’t coloured with regret or disdain for her past. Except, I’m not sure which version of myself to call upon.

Is it the one that’s living in a quaint town off the coast of Greece spending her days collecting shark teeth and swimming with mermaids?

Is it the version of myself hiking across South America counting the stars at night with just a backpack and worn down sneakers for comfort?

Is she settled down in a suburban home with a white picket fence, two kids and a husband?

I want to write to all of them and ask if they are happy with the choices they made.

If we were to assume every version of ourselves in other universes is given an equal amount of positive opportunities and luck, then shouldn’t the world we reside in now also have the potential to save us from the misery we create for ourselves? The more I think about this, the more I believe that we purposely contain ourselves in a paradox where we feel that we are doomed in this life before we even begin to live it. Doesn’t every life-altering decision come with its own convoluted set of challenges? Is it ever really a loss when every version of life you have lived outside of this one has its own struggles and lessons to learn?

These are questions I want to ask the Fig Tree. I want to write to all of the different versions of myself spread across the space-time continuum and reassure them that the choices they have made so far, which led to perfectly imperfect lives, were exactly the right ones.

In the life where I’m living by the coast in Greece: I wake up at dawn, do some yoga, I’m a writer, so I stretch the words from my body, sit down at my desk with my cup of tea and begin to pour. I’m alone but not lonely. I have a few friends, some acquaintances and I find an occasional lover with kind eyes for a few years. Unfortunately, the lovers eventually all want something that I’m unable to give them. Some want a child, others a shared last name, and the most recent one wanted me to leave with him to cycle across Sicily. One by one they leave with sombre hearts and the guilt of hurting them eats me away for years until I’m ready for the cycle to begin again. “It’s for the plot!,” I think. But when I take a moment to dig my fingers into my chest and pull out all of the rot, I realize I’m afraid to admit that I’m scared of making an eternal promise. Scared to share the fullness of my life with someone completely.

When I’m at my desk writing, only my words are privy to the inner secrets of my mind and it feels safe. The gravity of following a lover that I’ve given my heart to completely is far too heavy and I don’t allow myself to be whisked away from the Cyclades where I’ve found temporary solace. At night, I walk alongside the shore and let my feet flirt with the waves, slowly dipping them into the coolness of the saltwater and pulling them back just enough so my dress isn’t soaked. I’m Circe on the island, except my entrapment is an invention of my own design.

I like to think of myself in another life where she is brave enough to wade the waters and maybe even walk far enough just to lose sight of the shore. She’s a girl with grey hair that she lets her kids oil every night, has fingers wrinkled from years of running her hands through the hair of her lover, and is daring enough to wake up with another heart breathing alongside hers. I’ll think of her and wish her well, and then go back to my small house by the lapis lazuli ocean and hope to find new oceanic treasures the next day to add to my collection.

In the life where I’m trekking Patagonia: I’m wearing my late father’s jacket. The outside pocket of the jacket contains a picture of my parents sitting side by side, one of the last few reminders that they are still together. The group I’m hiking with, a band of misfits I’ve discovered through a Facebook group for hiking adventurists, help distract me from his loss. But whenever I come across an elderly bald man with almond-shaped honey eyes and a belly that moves when he laughs, I’m brought to tears by my grief.

In this life, I travel with my newly acquired friends, share stories about where we come from, and sit around the campfire at night until our faces are warm with laughter. The meat we roast at night is savoury with South American spices and each bite brings me back into the past as I’m reminded of the turmeric, coriander, and ginger spices my mother would use in her cooking. Her food would be the glue of family dinners. All five of us would sit down at the dinner table every night and take turns making each other laugh by sharing the funny predicaments that took place during day. My mother would have the biggest smile transfixed on her face as she listened on while plating us seconds.

The chair at the end of our dining table for 6 remained empty and we all would try really hard not to notice the gaping hole my father had left behind in the threads of our lives. I quickly propel myself back to my tribe of wanderers and make a silent promise to chew my food more quickly and immediately wash it down with water so the spices can dilute themselves before they start to conjure up more memories. In this life, I’m running away. I’m hiding from my grief in the mountains of South America and I’m letting it overstay its welcome like the pair of worn-down sneakers I should have thrown out years ago but still keep. Going back home hurts too much and spending my days with new faces in strange lands helps keep me numb. I occasionally write a letter back home with no return address just to let my mother know I’m still alive. I include no return address so she cannot ask me questions I have no answer for. “When are you coming home?,” “Are you eating well?,” “Your sister just had a baby girl, are you going to see her.?” I’m hard to reach in this life and my only true companion is my father’s old jacket that helps me weather every South American storm.

In the life with two kids and a husband in suburbia: I’m coming home from work and my two toddlers are running towards me with giant smiles. It’s the first time I’ve come home before the sun has set and they’re still awake. The smell of pizza is wafting in from the kitchen and my stomach does a small flip in anticipation of seeing my husband wearing an apron that’s covered in tomato sauce and flour. Instead, I see him holding pizza boxes and I quickly hide my disappointment before he notices.

I tell myself I should throw out all hope of going back to the people we once were when we were younger. When we were just two college kids trying to figure out the complexities of making it in the world. I reminisce on how he would spend Friday nights making us personal pizzas in our tiny New York City kitchen while I would be studying for my law school exams. Eventually I had to take over the reins on cooking when he lost his job in investment banking and we couldn’t afford fancy dinners or lavish vacations. As years progressed, date nights turned into secret competitions of whose life was better and I was spending more and more time at the office just to avoid those difficult conversations. Eventually, he proposed, leading with the idea that things would turn around for us. I said yes.

We had a big wedding and honeymooned in the Maldives. It felt like I was robotically checking off all of the boxes on a checklist containing everything I thought was the right thing to do. Our apartment became too small for the three inhabitants under it’s roof- the two of us and our arguments. A small part of myself wished I could have broken away from the constraints of living with someone I didn’t love anymore. But in this life, I’m playing it safe. I’m afraid of what will happen if I break away from a life that I’m living just for the sake of societal pressure. I daydream of another version of myself that’s still single, free and refusing to accept a mediocre love. But those thoughts are too much to handle right now and my therapist is away on vacation so I can’t vent to her. We move to the suburbs of a quiet town and agree on two kids, one boy and one girl. I come home late from work to avoid face-to-face conversations and he hides away in his home office.

5 years later, the divorce papers are signed. He gives me the house but takes every dream I’ve ever had for myself. One day when the arthritis in my hands hasn’t left me debilitated and I’m helping my daughter move into her first apartment in the city, I leave a small note on her kitchen counter. “Whatever you do, do not play it safe. If it doesn’t feel like fire in your blood, don’t entertain it for one second.”

As I sit here and envision the different lives I have lived, I wonder if I am truly ever happy with the choices I made. Maybe I do have a few elated moments here and there like the birth of a child or writing my first book, and maybe I do find small joys in the struggles of each experience. But would I trade the life I have now for any of those? Most definitely not. You see, thinking about the choices we could have made differently only leads us to a paralyzing fear of the unknown.

Choosing one fig and losing out on the rest does not mean you doom yourself to “what if” for the rest of your days. It means you trust the timing of your destiny. The concept of limiting ourselves to certain paths is lost upon me because I think it’s possible to embrace your love for art and start painting in your 60s or decide you want to start playing the piano again at 30. Maybe you don’t get to live on a European beach, but you can choose to vacation there every year with someone who makes your heart feel safe and loved. You can publish your first book at 50 and become a well-renowned author who still has the blessing of two kids and a happy marriage. It’s cliche to say anything is possible but in actuality, it truly is when you have a thirst to live so much of this captivating world.

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who wrote this?

Pardip Kaur is a NJ/NYC based writer. When she's not discussing existentialism in plushy cafes, she's  visiting every museum in NYC. As an avid lover of Greek mythology, she likes to juxtapose ancient ideologies with the paradoxes of everyday life. In groups, she's the astrology friend and lives her life by the phases of the moon. She hopes to publish her own book one day but until then you can read her writing on her Substack "A collection of Paradoxes” and on her Instagram here 𓆩♡𓆪

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