The harvest I wanted

I had always wanted a fig tree in my garden. I could of course buy ripe figs in Australian supermarkets, but what I really wanted, was to get my hands on a crop of green figs so I could make green fig preserve. This sweet and utterly delicious South African delicacy of cooked, whole green figs in a spiced syrup instantly takes me back to both my Ouma's kitchen and all the adult moments since when my mum had surprised me with a jar of these preserves. (Mum knows how much I love them, and what is more enjoyable in a gift than such an expression of thoughtfulness?)

I really could have planted a fig tree many years ago when we bought our first (and current) home, but I didn't. Why? Well, the tree would have been near our bedroom window and I worried about the fruit bats making noise and a mess if some or all of the figs were left to ripen. Plus there was always something else in need of serious attention in the garden... and maybe we would move? I was also busy raising kids and I had my own business. Unsurprisingly, I had a list as long as my arm of other things that needed doing. 

Throughout the years, I had always noted but excused my inaction on the matter of a green fig harvest.

Could I have found the small bit of time to look after a fruit tree? Yes, of course I could have. It was just a matter of prioritising it, like I did with many other things in my life. 

Would the bats really have been a problem? Probably not, since I would have picked most of the figs already while green.  

And if we had moved, would I have been happy to gift the new inhabitants the future harvests off 'my' tree for years to come? Oh, absolutely - the very thought brings me great joy, even as I imagine I would feel sad parting with my (as yet imaginary) mature fig tree.

I did end up buying a healthy little fig tree some years ago. Unfortunately, as I was still held up by most of the same concerns, I then planted it in a largish pot rather than in our backyard. I reasoned that I would be able to keep it on our front deck, where it would get enough sun, but would also hopefully remain undiscovered by our furry possum friends who had an annoying habit of ruining or stealing the edible things I tried to grow in our garden. 

My tree-in-a-pot plan seemed to be off to a good start, because in its second year, my little fig tree produced seven perfect mini figlings. I left them to grow as big as they would get (they were still tiny), then picked them early to make my first ever green fig preserve. I was very proud of my single jar of tiny figs nestling in their green-gold syrup, and joy of all joys, they tasted just like the ones my Ouma had always made. 

It was, however, a one-off event, as my little tree became root bound in its pot. It made beautiful new leaves each year, but never produced any fruit again. 

So why not make the commitment to planting my fig tree in the garden? Why keep it limited in a pot rather than committing to a course of action that would have seen it grow and bear fruit for many years to come? Why consider that 'permanance' a risk? 

I've given this a lot of thought, because I think it points to a pattern I've noticed in my own and other people's contexts. I've realised, as is typically the case with the kind of regret borne out of simple inaction, that I had allowed my 'what ifs' to be too powerful in the narrative. I should have been willing to plant a sapling in the ground and commit to taking care of it, not only for the promise of a harvest, but also for what could have been gained in the process of creating that harvest. 

The promise and the worthwhile process - these are the things worth acting on, not our small fears. The realisation of a small fear is manageable, and is just part and parcel of a worthwhile process anyway. 

I have also realised that it is never too late. That I can still plant a fig tree in the garden now - like I did with a passion fruit vine five years ago, which has given me the joy of its exotic flowers and fresh summer fruit for three seasons now - even if I had lost a measly few to the possums. 

It is never too late to take a small risk and act in the hope of a harvest. And in that action, there is an unexpected amount of joy and other benefits to discover also, right? 

How many times have I not looked out of our kitchen door at my flourishing passion fruit vine and delighted in seeing it fill the climbing space my husband and I had made for it, its main stem turning solid and strong in the garden bed. And has it not been a series of happy moments tending to it as I guided the fast-growing new vines to grow only where I'd be able to reach the fruit? And how rewarding was it not each fruiting season to see the first flowers bloom and the tiny fruit start to grow? Sure, the moments of enjoying a home-grown, juicy, sun-warmed passion fruit will aways be an absolute delight - a clear milestone in the endeavour - but I realise now that it's the process of getting there each time that most consistently and meaningfully create the moments of peace, joy and reward for me.  

And yes, I guess I'm not saying any of this to make a point about fig trees or passion fruit vines. What I'm really doing as I'm writing this, is reminding myself that inaction borne out of small fears, and the regrets that follow, must surely dot every life and most endeavours. And maybe that is ok, but I also think it is something to acknowledge and consider in each instance, as it then becomes possible to choose a different course of action. We can do this in service of a potential harvest, yes, but also in allowing ourselves access to the meaningful process that enables that harvest. 

Relevance in the work space

I have for example seen business leaders limit their efforts in terms of training their inexperienced staff, in fear of it being a wasted effort should those people leave. (Ironically, their people then often did leave, because they were frustrated with the low support for their development from their leaders). I have also heard those same employers lament the lack of technical knowledge in the young people they hired. They wanted the harvest in their industry, but didn't want to take the small risks inherent in growing the harvest. The what ifs had won. 

I have also seen business leaders invest consistently in the harvest - as my own first boss did in his architectural practice, many years ago, when he hired me straight out of uni. He took great pride in being the type of employer who created opportunities for young, inexperienced professionals to learn and develop, even though not all of us stayed - but we all worked hard while we were there, and some did stay, for many loyal years.

I also see the same reality play out in my specific area of focus in my work - organisational development through systems and process uplift. 

Too often, standing on the slight precipice to improvement work in a business, people will give the assumed 'what ifs' too much weight. They might want a more cohesive and more impactful business, but the concern is that tending to and engaging their people in healthy systems and processes would be too burdensome. This fear then typically allows daily busyness to win as urgent work is prioritised over and over again, even if less likely to ensure a harvest later. Over time, the business then becomes rootbound in its pot - possibly still producing beautiful leaves, but failing to become and produce what it had the potential to. 

And yet, what is needed for a business to flourish, can so easily be incorporated in the everyday. Plus there is every reason and opportunity for it to be a meaningful, worthwhile and enjoyable effort along the way, rather than a distraction or a risk. 

I think it helps to remember that if we choose to act and enable the journey as our main focus, it will generate its own unique momentum, and then a harvest becomes the likely, if not inevitable bonus. 

And I say all of this without judgement of course, because... small, fruitless fig tree in a pot! 

If you'll excuse me now though, I have a passionfruit vine that needs a trim.