“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
I remember reading The Bell Jar when I was 19 and the above quote jumping out of the pages and tattooing themselves to my brain. It's been awhile since I've thought of it, and at 5:45 this Sunday morning restless and unable to fall back asleep, this quote was pulled from the archives of my mind in a vivid flash. Resonance.
I surrendered to the sleeplessness, got my bike and peddled. I rode the empty streets of West Philadelphia, through to center center city. It's been 3 months since returning to the U.S.
Soft chirping from the birds punctuated the cool air, and adorned the grey sky. There were no fumes from the cars, no pedestrians, only green lights. The rubber against the pavement like white noise. I reach the uphill road just after the bridge, staying on the third gear and peddled faster against every thought.
The noise has been frequent the past 3 months. I've been ignoring it too often, I've realized, and gotten good at it. But I'm aware. When I ignore it, when I go against my truth, the noise only progresses. The number of drinks on the weekend increase, the irrational & erratic choices, the discontent. It's been three months and I continue to make sense of it while trying to find the sync. It's the repetitive questions and the same answers.
How long will you be back? I don't know. What will you do next? I don't know. How does it feel being back after all these years? I don't know. Half of them don't care but I spark their curiosity. But the ones that genuinely do care, well, I hope they love and understand.
I come to a three-way intersection and choose the tree lined street. I imagined there were more birds and sweet song down that road, and I was right. I imagined the fig tree Sylvia describes, and I imagined for a moment not having to choose , but feeling content in the unknowing. And the fortitude of having the branches within reach. I would never starve. The breeze in my hair, the subtle change of color in the trees, and the solitude I let swallow me into a blissful abyss. Back to the silence where my heart is the oracle. And I felt home again, honoring the noise until I could rest from trying to make sense.
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| September 2016, USA. Photo by Redlite photos. |
