Indecision’s Orchard
“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.” Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar The orchard is quiet in the early morning. The grass is damp beneath the soles of my shoes. Sunlight filters through gnarled branches, dappling the ground with alternating patches of light and dark. The air is thick with the sweet, earthy, and almost cloying scent of ripening fruit. Bees hover lazily over blossoms, and the occasional fig, heavy and dark, drops to the soil with a soft thud. The trees hold on to the ones that are sharp and green, loosen their grip on others that are blushed and ready, and let go of the rest. I walk slowly, admiring each one suspended in its own state of becoming. I pass rows of trees, not taking anything from them. From afar, the orchard seems endless in its abundance, every branch heavy with potential. Up close, it reveals its own burdens. It is overwhelming....