I hated tattoos.
Then I turned 40. And a friend got his first tattoo, one he designed. It was like looking at truth burnished into his skin, an embodied story he wore regardless of the day’s weather or wardrobe.
Four years later I sat in the black leather chair surrounded by crimson walls. I heard the snap of the latex gloves, the click of the machine and then, “You ready to join the f—in’ club?” Holy crap!
As Carl started laying the ink under my skin, I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Not the going out into the late night air to a tattoo parlor, not the listening to MegaDeath play as he marked me with a symbol of MegaLife… I couldn’t believe I sat there confronting my own fear.
As the artistry and story of tattoos began to intrigue me, I never let myself imagine one of my own because of my fear, not of the permanence but of the pain. The idea of submitting to the hurt held me back for years.
But something changed in my forty fourth year. I decided somewhere between Burundi and Canada that I wanted to live unafraid. In the company of brave women and adventurous men, in the quiet pages of ink scribbled on paper and whispered Spirit prayers, I determined that I didn’t want to live scared anymore. Scared of dreaming, scared of trying, scared of saying certain things out loud.
Read the rest over at Deeper Story today! And… if you have an embodied story to share, link up with us!