I was in Portugal recently and was intrigued by the fruit buds softly and greenly ripening on the fig trees. In June, they are already round and green, and just starting to enter their fullness, although they don't ripen completely until August.

They look lush. The leaves look lush. Coming to fruition.

The figs don't have to work hard to become what they are meant to be. And they don't control their destiny. Maybe they'll be eaten by birds, their seeds scattered. Maybe they'll be eaten and relished by people, licking the stickiness off their fingers. Or maybe they'll grow so ripe they fall to the ground and feed the small animals and insects.

They bud, grow, have their moment of fruiting and are gone, part of everything else in the universe.