(en) The Fig Tree and All My Lives That I Won't Live

In her novel "The Bell Jar," Sylvia Plath created numerous iconic and masterful metaphors that are still used by authors today, inspiring generations. One of these is the theory surrounding the fig tree, which the novel's protagonist describes.

„I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like. 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 brilliant professor and another was amazing editor. (…) I saw myself sitting in the crotch of the fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each of every one of them, but choosing meant losing all the rest.” Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

When I read "The Bell Jar," at a probably too young age, I realized it was a quote that would haunt me as much as Fleetwood Mac's 1997 performance. The description of the fig tree is the most characteristic of all of Plath's quotes. But what do these sweet figs hold?

The answer is parallel – a word usually associated with similarity, although its Greek root simply means “parallel.” Plath, writing her novel, disguises herself as Esther. As a 31-year-old woman, she ponders the question of choosing her own fate. We know, however, that her life ended just a month after the book's official publication. This “what if” of possible lives is precisely a parallel – parallel, non-intersecting biographies that could happen but will never have a common beginning or end.

For some time, I observed a trend in the media related to the aforementioned Plath quote, where internet users shared their dream, potential life stories. I saw hundreds of versions of the same fig tree image, with different roles assigned to each fig. Sometimes, a fig that was labeled "mother" for one person was labeled "businesswoman" for another. I wondered what my fig tree would be like, and then I understood the connection between all these interpretations. For many people, the fig tree was a wishful thinking about who they would be if money weren't an issue. Many choices were based on pure passion and the desire of the heart. And I think that's what life is all about: at least trying to get closer to one of these figs, even if we can't have them all at once. At the same time Plath speaks up about fear of missing out. The fact choosing one meant losing all her other lifes, showing how unable it is to pick one fig for yourself is so popular nowadays and it’s shorted to FOMO.

My choices weren't that spectacular—especially if you know me personally—but the whole trend reminded me of something that had stayed with me for years. Something I felt not only when reading Plath but also in my daily life.

I've always been curious about strangers. I could stare at passersby for hours, imagining what it would be like to become someone completely different. It wasn't that I wanted to change myself—I wanted to live a different life. I believed that the fact that we only get one life per person was deeply unfair and limiting. I wanted to explore alternative versions of myself: ones who would have chosen a different path, hesitated, thrown themselves into a cliff, or made logical decisions instead of emotional ones. I wondered if I could survive without certain experiences. Would I like myself if I didn't carry certain burdens from my past? I'd find out if I reincarnated.

I still envy people's lives so much, and each one is fascinating to me. The only solution to such needs? Reading, and with considerable commitment.

Returning to the question: is Plath's metaphor just a passing social media trend? In my opinion, no. The fig tree is more than a hashtag under an inspiring photo. It's a symbol—universal and disturbingly true. It's a myth that requires maturity to strike the right emotional chord. The fig tree theory is a literary fixation. It's a shameless fantasy about life and how much one can desire from it. It's both hunger and the sin of gluttony. It's the sticky, scorching fig juice on the fingers of each of us who suddenly feels the consequences of our decisions. It's sitting astride a tree and gazing into the sun. Everyone used to do this as a child in the orchards behind our grandparents', parents', or aunts' houses. Now, hungry, we sit on the branches and, under the sun, we must choose which future we are ripe for.

Natalia