In the Fig Tree:
The Italian St. Rita, as is usually the case with the saints, greatly desired to join a convent as a young child, but was prevented. In obedience to her parents, at 12 years old she married, and bore her violent and otherwise criminally-inclined husband two sons. He beat her continually and brought her not much in the way of happiness, but she stayed with him, and towards the end of his life even managed to convert him to Catholicism and a new path. This was one of the first steps towards what she would become: the patron saint of impossible dreams and lost causes--and abused women.
However, she persevered, and one morning, the good nuns awoke to find that she had been spirited into the locked convent in the middle of the night by her own patron saints. Feeling they could not ignore such a clear statement from God, they permitted her to stay.
Later, on her death bed in the convent, she made another impertinent request. She asked that a visitor bring her a fig and a rose from a garden she had always loved. The problem, of course, was that it was the dead of winter, and there would be no figs and no roses.
But, of course, there were. The visitor went to the garden she'd named, and found there just the fig and just the rose, and brought them to Rita.
There are many details that make the fig tree a good companion for a saint. First of all, that it will grow out of rock, like an orchid, only gigantic, that it could even (and in some places has) grown out of the 'ruins' of our civilization. It is now believed that fig trees were the first plant species to be bred for food, some 11,000 years ago in the Middle East--several hundred years before wheat cultivation began. According to legend, underneath it, Buddha found enlightenment, and from between its roots sprung the Srasvati river; according to a NASA clean air study, the weeping fig also produces clean air, processing out our nasty pollutants--bringing us back full circle, with new life forming from our ruins--by way of the fig tree.
The roses shown in ink are Alain Blanchard, from the species 'Rosa gallica,' which is reputed to be one of the earliest cultivated species of roses. As she sits, in the ink version, in the curve of the tree trunk, she pushes the bark outwards in waves--that is how I imagine it looks when reality 'shifts' to allow an impossibility new space in the world. Being a saint, she lets the bird take the fig.