I have a terrible habit.
I can never stay in the same space for too long. I either have to move or rearrange the furniture.
It seems this terrible habit also followed me into the bloggersphere.
I began this blog after my time in Japan came to a close back in 2013. As I packed up my life in anticipation for my two-year Masters, I thought I’d move to a new blog home.
Now, my two years have wrapped up, and for quite a while I was dizzy navigating the rapid waters of adulthood. I had no head space to sit and breathe.
Finally, I’ve got a Sunday all to myself. I slept in. I went walking. I read. I shuffled around. I had time and peace to think.
It’s time for a makeover.
I recently picked up Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar for the second time. I abandoned it way back during my Masters-years and somehow finally acquired a physical copy of it in recent months. Despite the years that have gone by since I last read part of it, one major aspect always pops up whenever her name comes to mind: the fig tree.
“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
It is hauntingly beautiful, the way she laid it out.
It perfectly paints the struggle gnawing at my insides. Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the remake: The Fig Tree. Born out of a lethargic Sunday afternoon, out of a stubborn quarter-life crisis that just won’t go away.
Same blog, same content, with a new purpose.
If you are as lost as I am, join me, will you?
P.S.: I know that photo isn’t one of a fig tree. Toma(e)to, tomato.