A Tattoo: A Tale

Since getting my new tattoo (the picture will have to wait, since I seem to have the stupidest computer in the world) one week ago today, certain friends (Shari!) have requested I tell the tale behind it all. Some have also requested that I relay my mother's reaction (Paul!); however, I am still holding out the hope that if I play my cards right she may never find out at all.

Nevertheless, the tale deserves to be told. So, my dear Readers, gather around the campfire, build your s'mores in wee sticky fistfulls, and prepare to be entranced by not one but three tales; for the tale of my tattoo is a tale within a tale within a tale....

The Scar
First, I will take you back in time to the year 1994, the year of my first major car accident. We--that is, my former husband, my son, and I--were living in Hollister at the time. Hollister, as you may already know, is a little town way the hell away from everyplace else. This meant I spent a lot of time bundling up my 2-year-old into his car seat and racing back and forth along Highway 25 in my little Chevy Sprint. Honestly, I was up and down that road so many times I came to believe that I would meet myself coming or going along that route. Who knows? Maybe that's exactly what happened.

Here is what happened: On one of these many trips, I happened to look in my rearview mirror to check on my son, as I often did, and I discovered he had fallen asleep with a McDonald's milkshake in his hands. If that falls, that's going to make a really big mess, I thought to myself, little knowing how devastatingly ironic those words were about to turn. So I did what they tell you in driver's training courses never to do (here is the cautionary part of the tale): I reached into the back seat to obtain said milkshake. In the process, I drove off the road, then overcorrected back onto the road, and flipped my car. It flipped and flipped and flipped. I lost count. Eventually, it ended up on the driver's side, skidding down the highway.

Funny thing, car accidents. I mean, it really is like they say: time slows down or your brain speeds up or maybe both. Your mind has time to think of all sorts of things. So there I was, sliding sideways down the highway, and I was thinking about a story my dad had told me about when he was in a car accident when he was young, thrown from the driver's seat (pre-seatbelt days) and had only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the steering wheel and pulling himself back in. So, I'm thinking to myself, in the thoughts that I think, Okay. Are all my arms and legs inside the car? And it was then I noticed that my shoulder was dragging along the highway right outside my window. There wasn't any pain--shock or adrenaline was preventing that--only a kind of hyper-awareness which made me go, Hmm. That's not good. Better move that. And I did.

The rest, as they say, is history. Once I slid to a stop, some kind motorists helped me and my son out of the wreckage and waited with me until the ambulance came.

My son, safe in his car seat, didn't have a scratch.

I received twenty-two stitches in my left shoulder.

I was washing glass and strawberry milkshake out of my hair for three days.

My car was totaled beyond repair.

My scar is a physical reminder of this. It reminds me that this was a single car accident on a dangerous two-lane highway: The accident could very easily have involved one or more other vehicles. If it had, especially if it had been one of those big rigs that are often out there on 25, I may not have survived at all.

My scar also reminds me that when my husband learned of the accident, he only asked after his son. He asked nothing of me. His response, I'm told, was something to the effect of "Only my son matters." Yeah. Nice guy, my ex.

I am not a superstitious person, but I do enjoy dramatic gestures, especially if they are loaded with symbolic or poetic meaning. Since that time I have fancied the notion that, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be on that shoulder, and it would have to form some kind of circle to encircle that scar. I liked the idea of separating that space from the rest of my body, both isolating my brush with death and warding against future disasters. But for a long time, that's all it remained: an idea. Until....

The Ouroborus
For many years I've joked that I could never get a tattoo simply because I could never make up my mind what design to choose. I toyed briefly with the idea of a mermaid, because I love mermaids, but it just didn't feel right. There are other less specific designs I've seen on other people that I thought were really lovely--trailing ivy, tribal patterns, etc.--but those didn't carry the symbolic weight I was looking for either.

One day I was watching an episode of Red Dwarf (yes, I'm a fan) and the storyline centered on playing with the word "ouroborus." The word tugged at my memory. When I looked it up online, I discovered that this symbol--the serpent swallowing its tail--has been floating around in books and media I've been reading and watching for years. It's been on the X-Files and The Neverending Story and in numerous myths and legends.

One of my favorite stories involves a young man who is captured by a witch and made her servant. In the way of such tales, he is forbidden to eat the food hidden under a covered dish. One day while he is cleaning, he can't resist the urge to peek under the lid. He finds a baked serpent with its tail in its mouth. He decides to take a little pinch off of the tail. When he eats it, he discovers he can now understand the language of birds and overhears them talking of the witch's plans to kill him. He is then able to make his escape and earn his fortune with his new-found abilities.

The Ouroborus, depending on which story you read, can be a symbol for immortality, wisdom, and energy renewed, among other things. And it's a circle.

The Ormurin Langi
Now those of you who know me well are probably wondering why I didn't go for something a little more commonly recognizable, say, from The Lord of the Rings. Certainly, the ring is a circle. And the words that formed on the ring are often rendered in a circle. And certainly I am a fan of all things Tolkien. But. Think on this. Those words are a curse. Maybe I am superstitious, but I just don't fancy permanently inscribing a curse in the language of a malevolent entity into my skin. Not good karma. Or at least not good feng shui.

Plus, with the popularity of the movies, anything Tolkien has become... well... trendy, for lack of a better word. And I tend to shy away from following trends. What I wanted was something that captured the essence of Tolkien's poetry, that invoked a similar mythic power....

Copenhagen, 2007. Enter the boys from Faroe.

On my last night in Copenhagen, while finishing up an adventure in 2007, the summer I turned 40, I met these boys from the Faroe Islands. I call them boys, but, you know, they were in their early 20's. Anyway, I was coming back from a rather sedate night out with the girls, and there they were, sitting on the stoop outside the hostel. They asked where we were from, and we said America. And I asked where they were from, and they said Faroe. That stopped me in my tracks. I have always held a fascination for those little northern islands, and now here was my chance to learn about them first hand! The girls I was with didn't seem to find this nearly as exciting as I did, so they went on in. Nevermind them; I got to be entertained by half a dozen beautiful, beautiful boys as they told me all about their island home. And in the course of conversation, The Ormurin Langi came up.

The Ormurin Langi is a ballad of some 85+ verses that is sung while dancing in a circle. The ballad was written circa 1830, but it's based on an historical event that is far older. In the year 1000, Norwegian king Olaf Trygvason battled with the Swedish and Danish kings off the island of Svolder. When it became clear that he had lost the battle, he and his remaining men leapt overboard. Their ship was named the Ormurin Langi, the Long Serpent.

Copenhagen, 2:00am. Upon request, the boys from Faroe jumped up and formed a ring and danced and sang (in part) the Ormurin Langi for me. It's one of my best memories.

The Design
I can't tell you when all of this came together. I don't remember if I thought of the ouroborus first and the Ormurin Langi second, or vice versa. It just sort of came together in my head one day, the way such creative notions do.

I didn't like any of the ouroborus designs I found online, so I made up my own. I wanted something that looked like it had been lost at sea for 1000 years. I found a picture of a dragon masthead from a ship from the time of Beowulf, which is about right, give or take a couple hundred years.

The verses I have taken from The Ormurin Langi are from the chorus:

Glymur dansur í høll, dans sláði í ring
Glaðir ríða noregis menn til hildarting

Translation:
Glad sounds of song fill the hall as we dance and sing
Gladly ride the Northern men til Hildar rings (a famous bell)

Sufficiently joyous, I think. No curses here.

The Experience
I wanted to go someplace local, support local artists and all that. I checked online and El Toro Body Shop had the most impressive reviews. When I stepped inside, I felt right at home: The decor was made up of all manner of dragons and masks from around the world. The artist, Marty, did a brilliant job realizing my vision, piecing together my request from little more than my verbal description and the photo of the masthead. He was easy-going and friendly, and very accommodating when it came to scheduling my appointment. We had a great time talking about traveling: He lived in Norway and Holland for awhile and had all kinds of stories to share. I never even noticed the time passing.

I have always heard that getting a tattoo is painful, so I was expecting it to hurt. Nevertheless, I went into it with the devil-may-care attitude of, Hell, I've been through childbirth--I can handle anything! hahaha And you know, it wasn't that bad. I don't think it ever went past a medium level discomfort, if that. In fact, the experience was so pleasant overall that I might even consider doing it again....

And Now....
When I look at my shoulder now, I don't think about a car accident that nearly took my life, or an ex-husband who never truly understood or loved me. Instead, I think about a Norwegian King who would rather jump overboard than surrender. That's very me. Failure is just not an option. I must be the Captain of my ship; I will succeed because I must. And if I do not, then I'm going down with the ship.

But then I have the ouroborus to remind me that there is power in renewal, that there is a coming back from our lowest most destructive levels of existence. If I do fail, I will return and build again. This gives me hope.

And finally, I am reminded of those fair-haired, stormy-eyed boys from Faroe, who on a whim danced and sang for a stranger one Midsummer's night and stole my heart forever.

I've told my son that if he wants a tattoo, he'd better wait until he's 40 so that if he makes a mistake, he'll only have half his life to regret it. ;-)

But I do not regret it. No. Not one little bit.