the mark of a late bloomer & procrastinator

I’m middle-aged and acutely aware of that fact. In fact, should I live to be in my early to mid-nineties like my last few great and grandmothers, I am truly over the hill at 52.

My mental processing over this has been reflected in my poetry as of late, particularly for the A Body of Work, series, and even in my last ditty for a Read Write Poem’s visual prompt, Dried Fruit. (I was thinking about my dried up ovaries, not hot wet sex for that one.  But I do like it when my poetry is vague enough to allow different meanings for other people.)

I’ve gotten to the age when I realize a few of my dreams probably won’t  be fulfilled. No climbing to the peak of Mount Hood with these knees. I’m not likely to see the weight scale under a certain measure again. Age-appropriate clothing is not as fun as it once was. A glisten of a gem won’t sparkle from my nose (It would sink into my widening pores and disappear)!

I’ve been wanting a tattoo for ages, too. For at least twenty-five years I have thought about what I wanted and where it would be. A unicorn on my shoulder. A hummingbird on my right (or left) breast.  Japanese woodcut waves on my arm. A geometric ho-patch above my crack. A Celtic pattern creating a wedding band on my left hand.

Sometimes it is a good idea to let time filter out stuff that shouldn’t be permanent. But this summer my real and virtual friend Carolee Sherwood started talking tattoos (I think it was in an email before she came out to Portland for the Tin House Summer Workshop) and one thing led to another along the lines of  ”I’ve always wanted a tattoo”  and “If not now, when?” and “Let’s do it at the same time.” (I have 80 email threads about tattoos!)

Then came the “What do I really want to have as a constant companion for the rest of my life?” question.

It had to be an abstract graphic. I needed to be able to cover it with clothes if need be. I wanted to be able to see it without looking in a mirror. It had to be attractive.  It had to have some meaning, yet be a little like my poems: Obscure or open enough for broad definition so it could age with me.

I had once thought I’d give it to myself for my 50th birthday. I was 28.5 months late. But due to the influence of a good buddy system and a fabulous tattoo artist in Portland, Oregon here it is:

This photo was right after I had it done September 1, 2009. (Shiny and new on the back of my right calf!) I hinted about it in a post asking what people thought this graphic was.

It is a trillium. A native northwest plant (and many other places, too) that tells me spring has arrived. My birthday is in April and that is also the Trillium Festival at one of my favorite accessible walking places, Tryon Creek State Park. It means courage and honesty. Herbalists use it as a “tender yet strong support during times of birth, death and re-birth. Helps one develop the courage and flexibility to flow with life’s changes and cycles. Coming home to oneself. Peaceful centeredness, knowing that is enough.”

And that is what I want to carry with me the last half of my life, or whatever is left of it.

Here’s Carolee’s side of the story!

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Process notes:

I thought I was going to have to design my own art, but found it in the logo for an Ontario, Canada horticulture association newsletter. Luckily, it had the proper amount of white space so the black didn’t bleed. I wanted a sharp image! Serendipity, I think.

I went to a highly regarded tattoo house (Infinity) in Portland, but got a new-to-there artist because the owner had an 8-month waiting list. That woman quit the house before my appointment and I rescheduled with another guy, Richard Cuellar, also fairly new to that spot, but who was supposed to be good at graphic tattoos. When I came in to consult with him, He assumed my ” Oh, I’m thinking of a flower tattoo, a trillium” meant small & feminine, because he seemed a little surprised at the size and style of the artwork I brought — and liked it. He suggested we go a little bigger and on the back of my calf rather than the side. Fine by me, I said, “You’re the artist, as long as it is above my hiking socks.” The day I came back for the appointment I was greeted with, “I’m kind of surprised to see you. I thought you would bail.” Hmm. Snotty? Big and bold won’t do for a middle-aged matron? “Well, I’ve already put it off 25 years. I wasn’t going to wait any longer.”

It took a solid hour, no breaks. I’d admit to being proud when he said, “You sat well.” It did hurt. Solid coloring (rather than shading) means a lot of cells get touched. But I had Mark Doty with me, Fire to Fire, and stumbled onto “Theory of Beauty (Tony),” and was grateful for sterilized pens and an artist marking my skin rather than Tony’s prison-made tattoo. There are benefits to being a middle-aged woman in Portland.

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PS. I love it. I have no regrets!

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