tangled bows

“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 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.”
sylvia plath, the bell jar

my mother tells me that when i was little, i insisted that i would have a different job every day of the week. one day i would be a hairdresser or a makeup artist, and the next an actress. the next i would be an adoring matriarch homeschooling her children, and a business owner the following day. there has been an ever-growing list of things i am determined to accomplish, established since i was toddling, and not a single thing has shifted. there are so many figs that i desperately want to indulge in, but i haven't yet found a way to get over the immobilizing fear of choosing one fig, losing all the rest, and leaving my stomach to still grumble with desire. this is my best effort to satiate my fig-full hunger.