Tattoo

Why would a 55 year old woman get a tattoo? It all began about 15 years ago when I got my first tattoo. As a midwife, I venerate the female cycles and the phases of woman-life often named Maiden, Mother, and Crone. A group of midwives in New Hampshire began a custom of tattoing the ankle to commemorate the initiations inherent in becoming a cycling woman; giving birth; and becoming a wisewoman at the end of cycling.

The Moon, symbol of feminine energy, with her own visible cycles, ruler of the fluids of the Earth, became our choice to symbolize the Woman power:
On getting the moonblood, menstrual cycle, a woman would gain a waxing moon symbol, which I chose to color white to symbolize the Maiden energy.
After giving birth the woman would adda a full moon symbol, which I painted red for the Mother. And after 13 moons of holding the wise blood inside at the end of menstruation a woman would add a waning moon symbol, which on my ankle is filled in with black for the Crone energy.

At that first tattoo session years ago, I had achieved the first two initiations. My friend Delta was also excited about this way to mark our allegiance to Woman power in a tangible way. She had a friend, who had a friend who did tattoos but didn’t have a studio yet. At this time tattoos were less common, more mysterious and a bit more fringe, so I thought nothing of submitting my self to someone who might not know what they were doing. I had faith. My tattoos were relatively small – only about ¾” square each. The ankle is a more painful place since it is so boney there and my current tattoo artist warned that they “don’t hold there.” But now, as those years ago, it wasn’t for ornamentation but for a marking of my passages.

We went to the friend’s house where several women huddled around the tattoo artist, gathered to scar themselves for life – but in a determined and meaningful way. Both Delta and I brought our preschoolers with us. When it was my turn to sit on the floor and be marked, my daughter Alana, sweetly held my hand. Tattoos definitely hurt as applied—but like the memory of childbirth, that pain quickly faded and I loved my symbols on my ankle.

So it was not a surprise when Alana got to be a teen and wanted her own tattoo. We tried to placate her with piercings on her belly and her ear. But she continued to want to express herself as, well, I , her mother, had. I wasn’t sure if a teenager could really determine what they might like for the rest of her life. Certainly that’s one reason the law currently prohibits tattoos on those younger than 18 without obvious parental permission. Tattoos are practically more permanent than marriage and more so than choosing a career. And some people, even at the beginning of the 21st century consider tattoos too pagan, too vulgar. As one man quoted in Dear Abbey just yesterday said, “...tattoos are not acceptable in polite society and are associated with gangs, drunken sailors, and other “low lifes”. I hoped my tender daughter would be spared such comments.

Eventually Alana turned 18 – and the same day got a tattoo with her birthday money. It’s on her foot—but on top, not the ankle like mine. And her’s is a beautiful tiger lily – another sort of symbol of strong, beautiful womanhood. Later she got another flower on her calf.

And eventually, a couple of years after the 13th moon of my baby cronehood, I knew it was time to get my waning moon tattoo. I asked Alana to join me and she decided to get her third tattoo also. For over a year she had been considering a design. Finally she created a 5 pointed metallic looking nautical star, overlaid by a 5 petalled flower with a Cancer astrological symbol in the middle. She couldn’t really articulate a meaning to me – but I see it as a merging of the masculine star with the feminine flower, centered in her emotional, watery self.

We scheduled our date with the tattoo artist Joe at Boulder Ink. It turned out that he decorated several people Alana knows, including a childhood friend. The small room held two tables and on the other table Joel worked his magic on the arm of a tattoo lover. I went first, signing the waiver and laying sideways on the massage table. Heavy metal music punctuated the air, vibrating almost in time with the buzzing tattoo machine as it pierced my skin so quickly it created a blur of pain. I flinched at the first piercing, down near to the bone. Alana held my hand again. This time she, the more experienced, guided me. She said, “Relax, Mom. Breath. Take a deep breath.....Let it be.” And it did help to let it be, to surrender to the chosen pain, just as I had counseled so many women in labor.

When it was Alana’s turn I was amazed at her ability to withstand the pain. Her new tattoo was on her hip, a bit meatier than my ankle but her tattoo was about 3” in diameter. When it was not me under the needles, the machine reminded me of my childhood snippy (or zippy) scissors, electric, buzzing, but perfectly safe for a child. Alana dispassionately lay while needled and we listened to wild yet somehow fascinating and vaguely brazen rantings by Joel. “Are you sister? Which one is older?. . . Scandanavian are you. . .have you heard the story about drinking wolf blood?” The masterful and creative drawings he’d done for tattoos were plastered all over the walls behind him, bringing grace to his comments.

Now I am nurturing my healing ankle, keeping it clean and moist so it will scar in the way that I choose to be scarred. It usually takes 2 weeks to complete the process. The ink will eventually fade, but maybe I’ll touch it up when I become a grandmother someday.