The Fig Tree

This past winter I spent a stretch of quiet days at our tiny lake house in Virginia.

The house itself is humble and cozy, perched beside a small dock and wrapped in windows that look out over the surrounding forest. Deer wander through the trees at dusk. Owls announce themselves in the evening hours. The mornings belong to birds.

It is the kind of place that naturally invites stillness.

On the porch we keep several large potted plants. One of them is a fig tree that my husband planted himself years ago from what was essentially a hopeful little twig. Over time—and with a bit of patience and care—that twig grew into a rather majestic little tree.

Like me, it enjoys sunlight and fresh air.

This winter, however, nature had other plans.

Virginia experienced one of the coldest stretches in recent memory. Ice storms swept through the region, coating the forest in glittering sheets and snapping branches from trees that had stood for decades. The temperatures dropped to levels that the fig tree could never survive.

So inside it came.

In our tiny lake house there are not many placement options for a large potted tree. After some rearranging, the only logical spot turned out to be directly behind my recliner, positioned in front of the sliding glass doors where the sunlight pours in.

The result?

The branches now form a leafy canopy above my favorite sitting space.

This chair has long been my little sanctuary. It is where I meditate, read, write, occasionally nap, and cuddle with our two cats and two very small dogs who believe the recliner was designed exclusively for them.

At first, I wasn’t thrilled with the new arrangement.

The branches made the space feel a bit cramped. Leaves brushed my shoulders when I leaned back. It felt… crowded.

But after a few days something shifted.

The light filtering through the leaves cast gentle patterns around the room. The soft green canopy above me created the feeling of sitting beneath a living shelter. The tree’s presence brought a kind of quiet vitality to the space.

It felt protective somehow.

Alive.

One afternoon during meditation I decided to keep my eyes open rather than closed. Instead of focusing on my breath, I let my gaze rest softly on one particular leaf.

It was broad and thick, a deep green with veins that branched outward like tiny rivers. Just beneath it hung a small green bulb—the promise of a future fig.

I studied the leaf the way one might study a landscape.

Its texture.

Its color.

The intricate network of veins carrying life through its body.

And suddenly something occurred to me.

Outside, the temperatures had dropped to record-breaking levels. Trees had lost limbs. The forest floor was locked under ice.

Yet this fig tree—this living being—was thriving.

In fact, it had begun producing fruit.

It had no idea what kind of winter was coming. It did not check weather forecasts. It did not analyze atmospheric data or listen to emergency alerts.

It simply existed.

Had I not moved it inside, the coming freeze would have destroyed it.

The tree could not save itself.

It lacks the senses to predict the future.

It lacks mobility.

It lacks the analytical mind that humans rely upon to navigate danger.

And yet… it lives.

It grows.

It responds to the conditions surrounding it with remarkable sophistication.

This realization led me to another.

In many ways, I serve as a kind of guardian for this tree. I observe the environment. I anticipate threats. I move it when necessary. I provide water and shelter.

The tree trusts the conditions it finds itself in.

But I am the one arranging those conditions.

And in that moment I found myself wondering about the unseen guardians that might exist in my own life.

In The Journey, we explore the idea that all living things are expressions of the same intelligent Source Energy. The fig tree, the deer in the woods, the owls calling through the night air, and you reading these words—all animated by the same underlying field of life.

Different forms.

Different levels of complexity.

Same Source.

Human beings possess a fascinating combination of abilities that other organisms do not. We have mobility. Self-awareness. Complex senses. Abstract reasoning.

And perhaps most importantly…

Free will.

Yet free will can be a double-edged sword.

Because while we have the ability to move ourselves away from danger, we do not always recognize the path that leads to greater harmony or safety. Social conditioning, fear, distraction, and chronic stress can cloud our perception.

Our nervous systems become dysregulated.

Our awareness narrows.

We miss signals.

In The Journey we discuss how a balanced nervous system allows us to perceive subtle information that is constantly flowing through our environment. The body becomes more sensitive. Intuition sharpens. Synchronicities become easier to recognize.

The communication from the greater field of intelligence—the Source that animates all things—becomes clearer.

Just as the fig tree responds to light, moisture, and temperature, we respond to a vast web of energetic signals.

But when our nervous systems are overwhelmed, the signal gets lost in the noise.

In that sense, perhaps guidance is always present.

Perhaps the universe is constantly attempting to “move” us—gently nudging us through intuition, coincidences, bodily sensations, and unexpected opportunities.

But if we are distracted, stressed, or disconnected from our bodies…

We simply can’t hear it.

The fig tree does not need to interpret signs. It responds automatically to its environment.

We, on the other hand, must learn to listen.

When we cultivate stillness through meditation, mindful movement, or time in nature, something remarkable happens within the body. The nervous system shifts from a survival state into a state of regulation and coherence.

Our internal vibration changes.

And suddenly the world feels different.

Clearer.

More connected.

More alive.

Perhaps in those moments we begin to perceive the subtle ways the larger intelligence of life is supporting us.

Guiding us.

Protecting us.

Not by controlling us—free will remains intact—but by offering signals and opportunities.

In a sense, I am to the fig tree what those unseen guides may be to us.

Watching.