Ink.

My first tattoo is small, stationed on my right ankle in a zigzag of what it meant to be 23. I thought about it for maybe a year, more likely 6 months. I barely think about it now, a part of my body I rarely pay attention to, and that was the point. To have something there that I could still be surprised at, but able to hide if necessary. If you are a theater person, you will understand. Something easily covered for whatever character I had yet to play-- which turned out to be unnecessary in the long run. It was my secret, my daring flash of the "bad girl" I pretended to be. Maybe it would have meant more if I hadn't gotten it with...my mom. Really, how cool is it to go get your first tattoo on your 23rd birthday with your mother? And anyway, it was her idea. As I came in for breakfast that morning, she greeted me with an excited, “Want to get tattoos today?” I was so taken aback, who was this woman? This woman who had admonished me that I was not to get a tattoo until I was “18 and supporting yourself.” (Who is really supporting themselves at 18, by the way?) Shock quickly devolved into excitement, although tempered—this was my thing, wasn’t it? Since when had Mom ever wanted one?? Still, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right? So, what was supposed to be my act of rebellion, became a bonding moment for us at a time when, I suppose, we really needed something to be. And hadn't I rebelled enough already as a teenager? I don't remember who I was without it, now. It is a mark of the esoteric things that make me who I am: my Sun and Moon sign conjoined into one neat little image. My heart on my sleeve, as it were. Everything I thought anyone needed to know about me was right there, on my right ankle.

My left shoulder tells a different story: one of coming into adulthood, engaging in a new world around me, a mark and talisman of a time when I knew myself the least, and felt like myself the most. A distinction of discovery, a promise to myself to always remember who I had become, and how long it took me get here. The three spirals copied from an ancient tomb on a hillside in Ireland are a brand to remind me to stay grounded, to connect. No one really knows what this symbol means, how the ancients truly defined the images left in their wake. Earth, sun, air, perhaps. Life, death, rebirth. We make our own symbology to explain the times in our lives, whatever moment we need to make sense of. So I left the home of my ancestors deeply yearning for remembrance, for something to make solid of who I was becoming, what being an adult meant for me. It took me 9 years from that life changing trip to do it: years of trauma and loss, immeasurable joy and unbearable sadness, to know it was time.

We brand ourselves as a way of knowing, don't we? To sit for hours in burning pain-- willingly letting an artist scar our skin-- is an act of sacrifice, an act of contrition, an act of faith. We trust that we will recognize ourselves at the end of it, that meaning will be found. It is deeply personal, or at least should be. (Maybe getting a drunken tattoo on a whim is a deeply personal thing for some, no judgement here). But for me, for others I know, and I think for the talented artists we trust with our bodies in such a vulnerable state, it is a commitment. Personal and beautiful. This one, I cannot forget is there. It is big and bold and solid. Every time I catch myself in the mirror, I get a little thrill-- that's really on my body, I really did that, it is really me! I feel beautiful, powerful, sexy. And it is for no one other than myself.

To remember.