[Garden Memories: XXVIII]
We had two huge fig trees in at my childhood home. Come to think of it: by all measurements figs are disgusting: seedy, granular flesh; porous, sappy pith; soft and puncturable skin.
If figs had any of the self-degrading traits humans have, they’d shrivel up and die. Every last one.
Consider all the self-critical “material” a fig could come up with. Every last trait of the fig tree seems inferior to other trees. Figs would struggle with an imposter syndrome, posing as a real fruit tree but hardly offering recognizable fruit. Think of the self-doubt a fig would wrestle with, always questioning if it could give anything of value to a world that prefers hard wood and big, juicy fruit. Would a fig be stricken with depression, given that its offering to the world is mostly ignored? Would a fig feel paralyzed by a life full of negative feedback loops?
And yet a fig has one of the highest concentrations of regenerative growth hormones, which means it’s incredibly resistant to dying and can be easily propagated. Its fruit is the simplest to dry and preserve—no cutting and prepping necessary— and both celebrated and revered for thousands of years across the globe. It’s fast growing, abundant, and its foliage is both useful for animal feed and human textiles.
It’s not our mistakes and weaknesses that kill us. What we choose to bring to the foreground does.
