I was rereading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and I got to that famous fig tree passage:
“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 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 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.”
And I think to myself, ‘like hell I’m only picking one! Nobody is going to live on one!’ And I avoid the sports career and STEM field branches – those are not my cup of tea – grab a whole bunch from the art branch and leg it. And some of those are not going to be great. At all. But then a couple of others jam together nicely so far I’ve found.