The Parabola of the Fig Tree – Sunset Observer #29…by Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture | @MDWorld

March 22, 2014 Whitney Farmer 1 Comment

Mom has been speaking to fig trees since the ‘70s.

To be accurate, ficus benjamina, which are known (or to my mother ‘who’ are known…) as weeping fig trees. Often grown here as houseplants, they are also called fruitless figs which might be why they weep.

But in their homelands of Asia and Australia, they produce fruit which is favored by doves and Imperial Pigeons

Ficus trees came into our family during the Age of Wicker and Macramé. All light came through our hot Fresno windows, but then mixed with the shadows of leaves before reaching us while we sat in circle backed rattan King’s Chairs and ate popsicles. When it would finally rain, Mom would drag each pot out so that the trees could drink their water from the sky and perhaps not resent their domestic captivity. There was a shelf dedicated to their happiness which included a squirt bottle for misting and a bottle of liquid plant food that had crystals around the dropper. Eight drops were used per quart, if I recall. Panic would set in if you lost count in the midst of preparation because we knew that – if something happened that the ficus didn’t like – they would drop all of their leaves and “…commit suicide…”

When I grew up and once upon a time had my home and marriage in dark Washington, I spent hundreds of dollars on special full-spectrum light bulbs and bottles of the same plant food that my Mom had used to feed her exotic babies. (This was for my fig trees, not pot). But one night, I put the damper too low on the wood stove and the fire went out. As prophesied, the trees dropped all of their leaves and died. Can’t blame them: After winter comes inside a home, it’s time to go.

After Christmas here last year, I went dumpster diving for an enormous terracotta pot. It was heavy because in it was soil and the dead stump of what at one time must have been a beautiful ficus. It looked like its previous guardian had wrapped white Christmas light around it, which is how people celebrate here when they are rehabbing from tinsel. But the ficus didn’t like it, so it dropped its leaves and committed suicide.

I thought that the twisted stump would make an interesting base for vines of green bean seedlings that I needed to transplant. I planted them around the stump, and soon they covered it with heart-shaped leaves and white flowers. But Archie the Rat got to the beans before I did.

At the end of the season, I was surprised to see small signs of life coming from the stump of what I had mistaken for a dead weeping fig. But apparently it had been just resting and was now feeling much better. Now it started to put out small leaves and then twigs and then branches.

A couple of days ago and as a last act of putting winter behind, we moved the ficus benjamina from under the front porch and into the sun because its upper branches were becoming pressed and constrained against the ceiling. There are some signs of distress and weakness because of our drought. Despite the hand-watering that has continued from the beginning in the ordinary and expected way, everything in nature seems to be uneasy and in need of extra care. But the rebound has been magnificent.

Mom updates me on the status of both of the ficus who are now in our lives. My rescued one is a bit lopsided because of being one-half in shadow. The other one has been moved to a beautiful spot overlooking the water, but Mom is still concerned: The foliage on it above its braided stump has some spots that we hope will be overcome with a change of light and individually washing each leaf with a dilute lemon juice solution. This worked for my lemon tree which I couldn’t resist planting in a 2’X 2’ patch of dirt by the front door. But the potential for beauty and new life makes gamblers of us all when faced by what might be a hopeless outcome.

Throw a boomerang and it plots an arch-shaped course in the air, maybe even a parabola. If you from a fixed point draw a line to that arch and then from that point on the arch draw another line to some fixed straight line, the length of those two lines will always be the same. Move the point on the arch where you intersected, and the corresponding point on the fixed point in the distance will change in precisely the same measure.

So sometimes life or we ourselves throw us a drought or a parabola. And sometimes the distance back can be shorter and faster than the outbound journey of desolation, but more often not. As the first fruit of new foliage starts to appear, it is just the beginning of a new battle instead of the complete victory over the old one. The seed isn’t there yet. So without the detailed care of washing each individual leaf if necessary with an experimental concoction, there still might not be a next generation.

Eden takes work.

Quote of the Blog, from Jesus (Luke 21:29-33 The Message translation: “Look at a fig tree. Any tree for that matter. When the leaves begin to show, one look tells you that summer is right around the corner. The same here – when you see these things happen, you know God’s kingdom is about here. Don’t brush this off: I’m not just saying this for some future generation, but for this one, too – these things will happen. Sky and earth will wear out; my words won’t wear out.”

NEXT TIME: Roadtrip?…DENIED!

Image: Of Mia the adopted Sun Conure in the midst of the rescued ficus benjamina, from my cell phone.