10:35 pm -- figs and fish

Yesterday, I celebrated my birthday. And as usual, my fear of the future grew as I blew out the candle.

Nineteen feels like a very serious age to be. Old enough that people stop asking what you want to be and start asking what you are going to be. Somehow, everyone else seems to have an answer. At college admission weekends, every introduction practically came with a packaged future.

"I'm studying Neuroscience and Human Biology for Pre-med."

"I'm going to do International Relations and Economics for Pre-law."

"Computer science."

"I'm hoping to go into finance."

Meanwhile, as an undeclared major, I'm still pre-question.

My Instagram algorithm isn't helping this sense of loss either. My scrolls bring me back again and again to The Bell Jar and the fig tree. For those not in the know, Plath writes about a woman sitting beneath a fig tree. Every branch holds a ripe fig, each one representing a beautiful possible life—a novelist, a professor, a traveler, a mother, an artist. She wants every fig. But choosing one means losing the others. So she hesitates.

But while she waits, the figs wrinkle, darken, and eventually fall to the ground. "Don't let your figs rot."

I've thought about my figs a lot.

Dermatologist. Entrepreneur. Journalist. Designer. Museum curator. Author. Illustrator. Veterinarian. There are so many different figs hanging before me. Each one seems beautiful and tempting for an entirely different reason. In my privileged mindset, I forget that for many, the problem isn't choosing the fig; it's having the fig.

Almost exactly a month ago, I was browsing through a seafood market in Seoul. By the end of it, I found my stomach upset (figuratively, that is—the food was still delicious) rather than satisfied. Maybe age has made me more emotional or sensitive. As I wandered between narrow aisles, shoes smacking against the wet ground, I couldn't stop peering into the tanks. Fish followed me with wide, sad eyes. Octopus arms slowly unfurled and curled back again. Crabs climbed over one another, legs tangling together.

Everything in the market was just waiting.

Waiting to be chosen. Waiting to be killed.

But strangely, I found myself feeling even worse for the seafood sellers. They weren't that different from the seafood---they were also waiting. Waiting for a customer. Waiting for a paycheck.

They all sat beneath nearly identical signs. Nearly identical tanks. Nearly identical offerings. Whenever someone walked by, each vendor brightened, stepping forward with rehearsed enthusiasm, hopeful that this customer would stop at their stall.

Yet every family only needed one seller.

As my mom negotiated with ours and our chauffeur kindly translated, I found myself looking past our stand. The neighboring vendors had already retreated back to their short plastic stools. Some stared blankly at their phones, eyes glazed at a Netflix drama. Others leaned against the tanks, teasing their fish with their fingers.

I couldn't decide who made me sadder. The young sellers. Or the old ones.

The younger ones still looked like they could imagine another life somewhere beyond the market. The older ones looked as though the market had become the shape of their lives, as ordinary and permanent as breathing.

And I began wondering: Did any of them ever have a choice? How many figs were hanging on their tree? Or had there only ever been one?

I can't imagine many children saying, "When I grow up, I want to spend every day inside a twenty-four-hour seafood market."

Maybe someone dreamed of becoming a singer. Or a teacher. Or opening a flower shop instead. Maybe life picked for them, narrowing the figs, one decision at a time, until the fruits just disappeared.

I think, over time, everyone's figs narrows down a bit. Some people start with more figs than others, but everyone loses some of them inevitably. Responsibilities accumulate. Rent comes due. Families have demands. Parents grow older. Opportunities drift. And all of a sudden, the life you have isn't one you built through dreams; it's simply the one you arrived in.

I'm lucky enough to be born into circumstances where I do have more starter figs than many others, where I still have the liberty of choice. But I'm also realistic enough to recognize that, as time goes by, many of these figs will begin dropping for reasons beyond my control.

To be very honest, around half-an-hour ago, when I began writing this blog, I wrote with the intention of having the "lesson" be about being grateful for the amount of figs that I have instead of being scared. But the more I write, the more I realize that, at least for me, the fear actually isn't about having too many figs or having to choose one. It's the fear that I'm not the one who can pick it--- that life is out of my control. I don't think any of us can truly, fully pick the fig ourselves. Where we're born, how we're raised, who we meet.... they're all involved with the picking.

I still don't know which fig I'll end up with. But I do think I will find peace and happiness regardless. The goal has never been to mourn every life we didn't live, but to love the one (or ones) we eventually do live enough that we stop looking over our shoulder, wondering what the other figs might have tasted like.

My best friend gave me a birthday present I wear everyday now (lol that makes it sound dramatic; it's one day so far)—a pretty golden bangle engraved with the words: "For I know the plans I have for you. Jeremiah 29:11."

I might not know which fig I will end up having, but God certainly knows. And if God is with me every step of the way, I know I'll be happy enough to never question the others.

cheers,

Emma

(I do apologize if this blog is confusing; I was reflecting and changing my mind a lot throughout writing.)