The Fig Tree

The fig tree, and the delectable fruit that accompanies it, are symbolic in many ancient traditions. In Judeo-Christianity, the fig is referenced from the very beginning of time, a staple in the Garden of Eden; a symbol of prosperity and abundance used in parables to show how tending to ones faith produces bounty and beauty. And let's not forget the barren fig tree, able to be fully restored with a little TLC, a reminder to us all that what we see on the outside is not the full story.   

In Eastern traditions like Buddhism, the fig tree symbolizes enlightenment and is highly revered, if not fully sacred. The fig teaches about looking inward to find spiritual truths and awakening. And also, don't judge the fruit by its color...just wait until you experience what's on the inside.  

In ancient Egypt, it was seen as the tree of life, literally the intersection of life and death, helping souls into the afterlife. In Rome, abundance and fertility. In the Middle East, purity and knowledge. In America, well, we dumbed it down to produce a yummy fruit cookie/bar. 

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Personally, I have had a love-hate relationship with Fig Trees. One of the traditions of my former Italian family was for each "branch" of the family to care for a fig tree that had been carefully propagated from the original tree brought over from Italy by the first generation. A lovely tradition in theory, for years we dutifully cared for our tree, bringing it in during the harsher winter months and back outside once spring had sprung, watering it with reckless abandon (seriously, how much water does a plant really need?!), and ironically, the only person who actually ate the fruit was little ol' me (I am sure there must be some symbolism there...) And after a while, wanting to take the tradition one step further, thousands of dollars were spent on farm equipment that would be used exactly one time to help dig a gigantic grave so that the fig tree could be buried at the end of fall, winter underground and then dug back up and replanted each spring, just like they used to do in the old days. 

For anyone whose eyes just widened at the excavation visual, or who perhaps had the letters WTF float through their consciousness, yes, it IS coo coo for cocoa nuts....a BONKERS idea at best. And yes, it really does work. 

So, for a couple years, the fig tree was buried and unburied and buried and unburied. And then, one fine day, I realized I had been left with a buried tree in the ground. And yet another decision to make.

Well-meaning friends had all sorts of things to say with the overwhelming majority telling me to let by-gones be gone: Let it die its natural death, they suggested. But, let's be honest: I haven't purposely killed a living creature (minus flies and mosquitos) in so long I cannot recall it. I have literally attempted to save each and every life form that comes to pass my way, going as far as trapping wasps and RELEASING THEM BACK OUTSIDE and I wasn't about to let an innocent tree just die on my watch. It was not at fault for the falling apart of my life and subsequent leaving of the person responsible for its yearly excavation. And now, the baton of insanity had been passed.....

So, one day, the builder/landscaper friend of mine came by, with an ax to grind of his own, and offered to dig up the tree for me since he had some angry energy to unleash. Who am I to get in the way of another human's need to dig? So that year, the tree was dug up and planted once again and when the time came, I had planned to simply put it in a VERY large pot and pull it inside but alas, Solomon, in all his sentimental glory said: But we HAVE to bury it....it's tradition. (Oh, for the love of God already!)

Yet, because I am a sucker (and my friends and I couldn't actually lift it to put in the planter) I hired a lad to bury it back up. And once again, it wintered underground. 

This spring, I had a brilliant idea: Why not put Solomon in charge of the digging-up and burying of this soon-to-be gigantic tree? It's an Italian tradition afterall, and I am clearly NOT Italian (so I was told many times). I pulled him aside and said, "Hey, it's time to dig up the fig tree and you are now responsible for helping." He groaned and complained as we lifted the board from the hole and dug the tree out. And then the most incredible question was uttered: 

"Why are we doing this again?" Solomon asked.  

An eerie silence took over the entire land. A death stare shot into his face: A diabolical look that slowly went deep down into the bottom of the burial ground from which we had just brought forth the ancient fig tree.....and back up at the boy whose words were still hanging in the hollow air.

I resisted every evil urge that passed and simply reminded him of his desire to stick with tradition. 

"Oh, I'm fine if we just want to plant it in the pot," he stated, nonchalantly. 

HALLE-FRICKING-LUJAH!

I ran into the barn, grabbed the gigantic planter and we used every ounce of strength to plant that tree in its new, mobile home. 

(Don't worry, it grows leaves eventually. How else will we sew loin cloths later?)

So, I started the slow process of filling the large hole in the back yard. This took several weeks as I cleaned out chicken coops and yard waste and whatever else might fill the space. And then one day, I was at the garden store and saw they had a particular variety of fig trees for sale (Chicago Hardy) that CAN BE PLANTED IN OUR ZONE! I am pretty sure the marketing material said: NO NEED TO BURY. 

I was so excited I almost bought two....almost.

It's not that I don't appreciate the nostalgia/tradition of the off-the boat fig tree but COME ON! They literally make them so that you DON'T have to be absurd twice a year! So now, while I will still wheel the first generation plant in and out of the barn (for tradition's sake, you're welcome Solomon!), I will also watch my hardier Chicago variety take up its space and dig in some roots where they actually belong and shoot, grow freely like the earth meant it to. 

 

And, this little guy has already started bearing fruit. 

I'll take the WIN!

You can literally take a leafless branch that has broken off the tree, and stick it in the ground and lovingly tend to it and one day you get this. Have faith, the fruit is coming. 

 

Forgiveness, Part 2

At the moment, we live in the gap between the way things are and the way things should be, and in the meantime, all we can do is try to make that space as lovely as we can.

-From the show Trying

I spent some time this week talking to my 21 year old self. I apologized to her. And forgave her. She didn’t know what I know. She didn’t know the pain she would walk through, the decades spent haunted by imposter feelings, the numbing that prevented her from breaking and the eventual shattering that would come anyway. And I... I didn't trust her to figure it out; didn't believe she was brave enough or strong enough to handle the necessary struggle.

Her craving for something that felt like stability and security impatiently insisted she force love, grab hold of what was present instead of guarding her heart and waiting for something safe. She did not understand it then: Love cannot be forced. It is forged, quietly, subtly, organically. She did not understand the implications of her decisions. She quietly neglected her inmost desire to be accepted for who she was, to be given space for who she might become, in order to be the right person for the one in front of her. She saw drive and ambition, excitement and adventure, and the hints of eventual financial security. She thought she could help heal the rest, those rough edges, and unhealed trauma that would later cut her so deeply she could not recover while still inside that construct. She believed love as a verb was far more important than love as a noun: That through her sacrificial actions and dutiful repetition, love would grow and love would heal and love would win. She did not know that it might only win for one while irreparably damaging the other. She insisted that the idea of “the love of her life” was simply a romanticized Hollywood concept, ignoring dozens of older couples who were still incredibly and deeply “in love” with their partners, whose eyes still sparkled at the very topic of their beloved, and whose voice softened as they recalled a memory or simply mentioned their name. She accepted the nagging numbness that was slowly taking over; the self-preservation that became her inner existence, and impatiently pushed forward, insisting she could make anything work, so stubborn and strong and scared. 

I forgave her for rushing in….for her impetuousness, the recklessness which brought us here. I forgave her for ignoring the signs that felt like danger, for packing away her doubts and fears and what her gut already knew. I forgave her for only seeing two paths instead of the world full of possibilities. And I apologized for failing her: For being unable to meet her whimsical expectations, for walling up to save what was left of us, for refusing to accept the notion that it all fell on us to fix and for digging in my heels when I realized we had thrown away dreams and clung to irrational hope for something terribly unhinged. 

And, then, quietly, I thanked her. Within the immense heartache, she gave me experience and joy and incredible, beautiful offspring. 

We sat silent and still. So raw. So much wiser. Together, we gather what remains and are making lovely this space in-between. And, in the end, love is all that is left and love will always win. If it didn’t win, then it was not really love anyway. 

Forgiveness, Part 1

 As a step in healing from the trauma of divorce and the years leading up to it, I have spent an inordinate amount of time working on my own character development, clinging to strengths like they were life rafts and becoming more curious about my weaknesses (real, perceived or otherwise) while figuring out what is worth devoting more time to (most of it) and what is not. And of course, I have been learning to forgive myself for all sorts of things in an effort to more fully forgive the acts of others as well. It's been quite a journey. 

One of my character flaws that pops up on repeat is a total lack of time perception, namely, how long it will take me to finish something so that I can move on to the next thing. This creates all sorts of unfavorable moments from being chronically late to certain standing appointments to telling friends I will "call them right back" only to never be heard from again (at least not in that hour...or day). One of the places this creeps out most frequently is when I am traveling to tournament weekends and I plan to leave at a certain time. No one, not even myself, believes I will get out of the house anywhere close to the designated time. Something about traveling (or simply leaving the house) makes my ADHD brain want to use the time pressure to do ALL the things I have been putting off BEFORE I go. So I might find myself cleaning out kitchen drawers or the chicken coops or changing all the sheets in the house which leads to a whole lot of laundry or maybe selecting new paint for the next house project I have no intention of starting in the near future. I have found I am better off not setting a time frame on my departure as it takes the pressure off and I no longer feel compelled to finish all the things: I just go when I go, end of story. (I still arrive VERY late to the hotel sometimes but let's be honest, this is not a huge issue.)

The upside, however, is I often find myself driving on the turnpike during the glory of the golden hour, watching the dance of light drenching the land in front of me as the sun sets behind, illuminating my path as if I were destined to go the very direction I am headed. It is breathtaking. 

That is where I found myself mesmerized on Friday. My path lit up, my brain spinning with the stunning beauty of it all and I was left contemplating something that had happened that day. You see, I had a smudge on my sunglasses and from what I could tell, it was on my left lens. I took off the glasses and cleaned them up, but still the smudge remained. I tried again with no better result. Because I was driving at the time, I couldn't look closely at the glasses so instead, I put them on, closed my right eye and realized that my left (non-dominant) eye could see clearly, no smudges. I switched to keeping only my right eye open and found that, in fact, the right lens was the issue. My dominant eye was so convincing in its resolve that the issue was on the other side that I just bought it, hook, line and sinker. It wasn't until I shut that dominant eye off that I could see clearly what was really going on. 

With the sun's warm glow still hugging my soul, I realized that in so much of my life I have let the dominant voice around me tell me what the problem was when the reality may have been something very different. When we shut off those outside voices, quiet the noise and pay closer attention, sometimes the solutions look very different, because the problem was misplaced in the first place. Sometimes, there isn't even a real problem at all. 

At any rate, I am learning to forgive my younger self for making the decisions she did; afterall, they seemed right at the time and she had no idea she needed to quiet all that external and internal chatter. I am forgiving her, knowing she made the best decisions she could with the experience and knowledge she had.  And at the same time, the path in front seems to be full of golden hours as if this was simply how it was always supposed to be. And for that, I am truly grateful. 

Liam's Ash Wednesday

Picture this: You are sitting in church on Ash Wednesday, listening to the words of the minister telling you that the idea of fasting during the season of Lent is to remove anything that is a stumbling block in your relationship with God, not necessarily the snickers bar you had intended to give up. It was never about the food but about the obstacle preventing you from walking fully with God. He then begins to give better examples of things one might remove (and it isn't the snickers bar): adulterous thoughts, laziness, screen distractions. And he starts to say: "Like that neighbor, you know, the one who built the fence that blocks your view....." and before he can go on to explain we need to remove the resentment in our heart, I leaned over and whispered to Liam, "Wait, we can remove our neighbor?" To which, Liam, in his full abundantly joyful glory, bursts into hysterical laughter. RECORD SCREECH. 

The entire church, (all 8 parishioners), and the now very silent minister, turn to look over at him, still so tickled he cannot contain himself. So I explained what was said, everyone laughs, the minister is left speechless and Solomon, face in palm, sits mortified, hoping maybe he can give US up for Lent.  

I am pretty sure I won Ash Wednesday. 

Changing Infrastructure

As I was stopped at the intersection near my kids' high school this morning, I found myself praying a prayer of gratitude. I was acutely aware of the changed infrastructure: the new turn lanes, the big lights giving plenty of time for cars to pass through, the convenient gas stations, the gentle traffic flow. It just struck me in that moment that, while I am certain this intersection had originally been just fine, as the community started growing it became downright horrid: Cars waiting forever to turn, preventing more than a single car or two to get through the light, lines gridlocked because of a backed up drop off lane, people frustrated as they tried to get to work and school, complaints being posted daily on social media. It was insanity. And don't even get me started about what happened if we left the house just a little late. We were toast. 

Then one day, things started to change, rather abruptly. And in the murky middle was so much stress and anxiety and irritation: construction seemed to last forever, everything was messy and inefficient, people seemed to drive with even less patience and mercy. It was an absolute miracle we, as a community, survived it (if you believed everyone's vicious internet comments.) No doubt, the transition was rough. 

But today, the same road was calm and smooth and met the rhythm of the people with what felt like generosity and joy. And I found myself so very thankful. And hopeful. Because just like that intersection, I spent years acutely aware that our infrastructure was a mess and nothing ran efficiently and oh, the complaints. And even though I am still in the murky middle and all the unknowns are destabilizing and scary, I know there will be "the other side", when the rhythm of my life will feel authentic and will be met with peace and joy. 

This Lent, I choose to continue my daily gratitude practice and to see the hope in all things, even the very hard ones. And while I need to give up the late night doom scrolling (why do those reels have to be so darn funny?), intentionally claiming back joy, one little light at a time, speaks to my heart, and feels like love. 

In My End is My Beginning

In T.S. Eliot's "Four Quarters" he writes: 

What we call the beginning is often the end, and to make an end is to make a beginning.

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I don't know who decided that there was anything special about the clock rolling over into a new year; why, as humans, we celebrate the passage of time in this way, as if getting one step closer to the inevitable end of life as we know it was something to be excited about. But, as far as rituals go, this shedding off of the old and invitation to the new seems to surpass all things: religion, language, culture, location, there is no barrier really. Around the world, humans inhale this fresh start, this beginning again, and exhale the year they want to leave behind in one huge collective sigh. We send that which we want to forget and/or celebrate up into the air, in bursts of light and color and crackling thunder, and we enthusiastically toast to the hope for something better on the horizon. It is as beautiful as it is bonkers. 

Personally, today is a very mixed bag. It marks the end of a very difficult year, inviting the hopefulness and excitement (and if we are perfectly honest, anxiety) that comes with the opportunity to begin again, albeit unsought. It also marks the day that I met my former life: 27 years of knowing the person I thought would be my forever. I come to this place with the same heart and soul and even slight dose of skeptical optimism as I did 27 years ago. Outside of the five kids, the biggest difference is the intermittent joint pain and oh, the wrinkles. (My grandma called them her trophies of a life well lived. I am not ready to concede that just yet but I do hold out hope that I will end with laugh lines that outweigh the sorrow.) 

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In my beginning is my end. In succession

Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.

Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, 

Old fires to ashes, and ashes to earth

Which is already flesh, fur and faeces. 

Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.

Houses live and die: there is a time for building

And a time for living and for generation

And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane

And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots

And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

    In my beginning is my end. 

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As our house has crumbled and we work to rebuild from the ashes once disguised as hope and promise, I have come to see the intersection of beginning and end, end and beginning, as one. They are merged into unity and I begin to understand that this turning over of the new year is simply part of that union. As the wind shakes loose all the broken dreams and we continue to show up, sweep up, build back up, perhaps a bit more tattered and worn than before, I understand T.S. Eliot:

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, 
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstacy. 
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by the way which is the way of ignorance. 
In order to possess which you do not possess, 
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not

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Today is so simple. And painful. And hopeful. And sad and exciting and every other big feeling rolled up into an enormous emotional sushi roll. And instead of dissecting it into its individual parts, I am embracing the way they mingle and mix to create this crazy, nuanced, lively existence. In order to arrive at what I am not, I MUST go through a way in which I am not. 2025 has been very much that 'way'.  

Like it or not, this year was a year for learning. I learned about cognitive dissonance. I learned to reside there, to sit with the discomfort, to lean into it. I learned to ride a zero-turn (super fun), to paint walls (albeit poorly), to painstakingly choose my own colors, and furniture and decor. I learned to fix things and ask for help and accept the loving support of those close to me; to make choices and mistakes and financial decisions, and more mistakes, and I learned to bounce back up each time ready for the next best thing. I learned that what I had once considered to be a character flaw - my sometimes loosy goosy lack of clear hard fast opinions or feelings on so many things, the seemingly chameleon-like quality of seeing things as "both/and" or "it depends" (not some rigid black/white) - was actually healthy and that this dialectical thinking and acceptance of the coexistence of opposites operating around and within us simultaneously, could be exactly the balm to heal my tender wounded heart:

I can delight in the freedom to be my full self while also mourn the loss of my former life. I can both genuinely long for the comfort of the life I was formerly living and appreciate the dissolution of the life that is no longer mine to live. I can miss the person I chose to spend my life with, even find myself wishing for things to turn back around, and still be thankful for a home free of anger, rage, trauma and fear. I can rejoice in my freedom and awakening and weep over the excruciating loss. I can experience love, so much love, and still be alone. I can be alone and also relieved. 

This paradox of life has always stood out to me: highs and lows happening in tandem. In the depths of the harsh darkness, the light has been with me as well: Grief and joy walking hand in hand. 

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A friend asked me this week what would make me happy this coming year. I didn't think too long. The thing is, I have always been happy. It is my default. Like others, the full range of emotions is readily available to me; fleeting moments of frustration, anger, disappointment, fear, anxiety (oh how she sometimes makes herself too comfy) and all the others we don't like to linger too long with as well as all those we celebrate and crave. Through it all, the access to joy has never been extinguished. My natural state leans toward happiness. The lowest moments this year, the days I could barely catch my breath through the weeping, were met by gentleness and eventually made way for calm and peace and suddenly, as if it had been watching and waiting, joy. 

This year I learned that I can be both sad and happy. At the EXACT. SAME. TIME. (Seriously. What the actual....) I found that I can delight in all that I am grateful for while holding space for all that hurts. It can all be true. All at the same time. True. And freeing. And utterly exhausting. 

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I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre, 
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away ---

The lights are out. 2025 has rumbled its wings. And just like that, the scene is changed and the facade has been rolled away. Enter 2026. 

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I am here, or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning. 

Becoming

I dream of peace
Above all else
To share a world where we could be ourselves
We must learn to rise above the past
Before we can at last 

Begin again 

-Dream Theater

When I was 21 years old, I wrote this excerpt about becoming:

"I was not born a woman, as you were not born a man. These qualities of life have been granted us after long hours and experiences spent developing who we are, inside and out. And now, by being alone, we find that we are our "better half". It is so often assumed that a significant other fills that role in our make up. Now we know it is right there within ourselves and a lot closer than we ever imagined. We come to realize that not only are we worthy of being loved and cherished, but that this treatment must begin within us. We must first love ourselves and hold onto what is good about our own lives before we can step out and allow others to love us; before we can really love in return...."  

I wish I could hug the sweet child (dressed like an adult, kind of) that I was then. Apparently and unbeknownst to me, I was writing to my future broken self and entirely unaware that using the phrase "qualities of life" to describe becoming gendered would cause 48 year old me to face palm a bit too hard. Little did I know that the act of becoming isn't some linear journey with a beginning brimming with enthusiasm, a structured, electrified middle and a glorious final destination of pure delight and wholeness. You don't just grow up and magically stop "becoming" as if you've arrived at some static place of self where you live happily ever after for all the rest of your days exactly the same person forever and ever, amen. (I think I just barfed a little.) No, no. The thing is, we are continually becoming who we are. And every twist and turn in the road leads us to new understandings of our authentic selves, of who we want to be and how we want to show up in the world. And, news flash, sometimes we suck at this. We fail to be our best selves, we show up poorly, we act out of character, we judge, we condemn, we fight growth (it's not comfortable), we fight change (it's hard), we complain, we check out, we become dismayed or scornful, pointing fingers because why isn't everyone a little better than they are today and for the love of God, we cannot believe that other driver just cut us off ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME "USE YOUR TURN SIGNAL BUDDY"....we try and try and try but we are just, so, damn, human. 

And sometimes, it's downright exhausting. We are repeatedly challenged by the curve balls, bricks and boulders thrown our way; and just when we are swathed in a dulling cozy comfort that leads us into the temptation of believing we have arrived and have nothing left to do on the subject, we are pushed to our limits, brought to our knees, praying for a strength we wish we didn't need all while being shattered into a kaleidoscopic version of ourselves we hardly recognize through the blinding pain.  

And then, life, ooooh life, has the audacity of throwing us a bone, flashing a glimmer of joy and beauty and grace, giving us hope, a tiny ray of light, like maybe we stand a chance....

And that was just yesterday. Today we rise again. Our own personal phoenix tale. Round and round the circle she goes, where she stops, nobody knows....(but she's likely tired and maybe a little cranky so tread lightly.) 

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As we find ourselves in this season of advent, may we let go of the past year, of who we thought we were and who we tried to be and maybe even who we imagine we are becoming, (you know, all that mushy middle stuff), in order to make room for beginning again.