I’m slowly coming back into the blog scene, my loves, and it feels good. I have a loved one who is in recovery and my writings since March 2019 have been generating love poems for him. My personal North Star as many may know is—Compassion as the number #1 condition. A motto that helps me practice to this capacity and Chart My Course is—pay attention to what is needed and offer something useful.
“Guess what?”
I breath, smile and type, “What?”
while practicing relaxing my body and mind,
thinking positive when a potential loaded text comes through.
In the moments it takes to receive an answer,
I look out the window
on a cold and brisk afternoon.
Sun low, rides gold across pine boughs.
A few lines from an India Arie song filter in,
stuck in my head almost nonstop these days,
I begin to hum, “I am Light…I am Light…um hmm.”
Picture of a tattoo on your thigh comes through:
triangle, eye in the middle, pupil open like a deep pool,
all around the peripheral, sun rays emanate.
Skin’s a little irritated, red and glossy so it looks somewhat alive,
shimmering,
nice effect.
“So, I’ve always been interested in tattooing,
bought a tattoo gun and kit on Amazon for 38 bucks,
watched a YouTube video
and did my first tattoo on myself.”
What?!? No way!
I try imagining sitting still through that kind of pain.
“Awesome! Takes trust to tattoo yourself!”
I feel you smile.
“Well I figured thighs good practice skin,
till I get good enough to do it somewhere visible.
I really like it and expected my first to turn out horrible.”
“Looks professional! What’s it represent?”
Song gets cranking in my head, can’t keep it in,
I’m singing out loud, “I am light…I am light…um hmm,”
I’m singing out loud, “I am light…I am light…um hmm,”
and looking at your shiny, radiating tattoo.
“Clarity, I guess,
Seeing things on a deeper level.
Higher power.”
Over the next few days
pics of more self-ink:
ankle tattoo, more triangles,
ankle tattoo, more triangles,
a sweet skull on the back of your calf—
my personal favorite so far, for as I took it in
my personal favorite so far, for as I took it in
I realized beneath our face skin
our skulls are always grinning, always.
Maybe it’s a constant reminder to smile,
everything is OK,
and our nose bones are upside down hearts,
how about that.
I text you back, “Guess what?”
“What?” comes the reply.
“I think you found your calling.”
You’re so in the moment, “With what?”
I laugh out loud, “Doing what you enjoy that makes bodies beautiful.”
Courage grows and by the weekend,
You inked a dog, wine glass, baby Yoda reaching for a nipple squeeze
and…your best so far, but it gave me pause…
Is it what I think it is? How did you catch the angle, just right?
I pass the pic to my husband, who laughs,
“Oh geez, consult the sign language interpreters in the family!”
I text you back,
“Whose thigh did you tattoo the sign ‘ass-hole?’”
It looks like the leg of my nephew-in-law.
I see you both, laughing and having a good time.
“Yes, it’s his thigh.
It’s the sign you make, and if somebody looks, you get to punch them.”
Earlier, you had text me a picture from instagram or someplace,
it’s in the middle of a conversation about hygiene (it’s the auntie in me),
and learning how to grow your obvious skill.
I type, “Well you’ve got your connections and you could do it.”
Before I hit send, another pic comes through,
“I think I found my next one.”
When I see it, I know tattooing is your body poetry,
your story’s canvas…
your story’s canvas…
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