With Some Badass Ink

Can you see it??

I’ve wanted this tattoo for years.  A gnarly, wild, tangled tree at first, for the million reasons that trees represent life and seasons and looking dead but being secretly alive, for drawing water from parched land, for bearing fruit and leaves and beauty, for being a home to some and a safe place to land and seek shade and solitude and peace for others.  I needed her to be feminine, gloriously, powerfully, wondrously feminine.  Because I love being gloriously, powerfully, wondrously feminine.  And I needed her posture to reflect the kind of life I want, the kind of woman I want to be.  Deeply rooted, and expectant, and grateful.  And I wanted my babies, my niece and nephews and godsons to be in there somewhere, the ones I’m committed to giving life to as long as I have life to offer.  Because one day they’ll be brave enough to take flight, and I will be a home to which they can return, no matter what.  

She was a little nut of an idea, and for years and years, she’s grown and stretched, and become fully herself.  But only in my imagination: I’m not immodest, but am decidedly not a drawer.  So for years I imagined her and nurtured her, this emerging vision, and fed her hopes and meaning and symbolism and the little birds.  After work, regular stops at my favorite tattoo shop, researching different types of trees, and different styles, and international tattoo standards.  And suddenly, somehow, South Africa became the right time and place to give her life, to birth her how other things are birthed, through pain and blood and the help of others.

I contacted friends far and wide, my favorite artists from home, and my first South African crush Duwayne, covered in ink and full of local contacts.  I talked it through with my favorite couple from Portland, and a princely vagabond from all over, a man named Michel.  I piteously tried to sketch my ideas and made appointments with different artists here in Cape Town.  And then I found her.  A woman with a style I love, a style laced with ferocity and detail and femininity.  And it was game on.

Bring it, 35

I’d like to say I was a baller, that I wasn’t phased by the length of time, or the proximity to my spine.  But the truth is, I remembered too late how much it hurts to be on the receiving end of a tattoo needle, and instead of visualizing the sea or puppies or my fatty fat face nephews, I found myself cursing my visual memory as I pictured my neurology textbooks and their diagrams of nerve receptors, and trying to inhale enough oxygen to prevent passing out.  Which I am a little proud and a lot relieved to report, I never did.

And then it was done; she was here, in the world, indelibly stitched onto my soft, strong, burning back, owning her space and commanding attention: I can’t stop looking at her, and only wish I could walk around topless, for the world to know.  And she didn’t cover my boring old tramp stamp that means even more to me now than when my best friend and I got it all those years ago, but she curls around it a bit, keeping it safe.  Which is appropriate I think, and as important as bringing life to others, that the me of 35 will respect and protect the Katies of the past as much as I will welcome and honor the Katies to come.  So bring it on, 35; our roots are planted, our hearts are wide open; we’re ready for you.