The Phoenix on My Back

When I was twenty-one, I bought into the whole “it’s cool to be tattooed” theory.  I made the trip to Georgia, where tattoos were legal.  I’d taken with me a drawing of a mother and baby elephant.  After all, the elephant was my favorite animal. Once inside the tattoo parlor, I decided I’d just get one of the elephants and come back later for the other. Once I was on the artist’s table, I’d decided that the one elephant would be the baby one annnnnnd it needed to be much smaller than I’d originally planned.  I drove out of Georgia and back to South Carolina with a baby elephant, about the size of a half dollar, that much resembled an anteater, on my hip.  I didn’t exactly regret the tattoo, I just didn’t connect with it.  It was JUST a tattoo;  a right of passage, if you will.  And there that baby elephant stayed, alone for fifteen years. During my marital separation, I came across a quote in some random store about a phoenix rising from the ashes. Hmmm.  The obsession began.  I began researching phoenix quotes which lead to researching phoenix tattoos.  I never really considered getting a second tattoo before this time of my life.  After all, I knew I needed to rise from the ashes.  I was still smoldering, however, and not nearly ready to rise again. I moved through the stages of grief as my husband and I moved through the separation and towards a divorce.  Once the divorce was final, the fire settled into ashes and it was time.  I knew it.  I’d found the perfect phoenix.  She isn’t tribal.  She doesn’t look “real.”  Phoenixes aren’t real, so how can they look real? She’s a simplified, stylized, mystical, abstract phoenix. The life that I had lived had gone up in flames and, slowly, I rose from the ashes, anew.  I am a phoenix. I wanted a tattoo that told my story. This time around I did things very differently.  I asked around. I got references.  I viewed samples of their work.  I chose an artist and I made an appointment. He took the pictures I had printed and edited and asked him to see what he could do with them.  He disappeared to his drawing room and returned with a masterpiece, in my opinion.  She, the phoenix, was perfect.  She was the perfect size, about 12 inches, head to plume with a 4 inch wing span.  She was flying up, looking up, coming out of the ashes.  She was the perfect shades of blues and purples.  The symbolism was right on target. I felt a spark.  I didn’t expect to ever feel giddy love again…but here it was.  No doubt, this was love.  I loved her, instantly.  I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, tattoo that permanently on my back.” It took almost 4 hours in the artist’s chair for her to be transferred from a flat phoenix on paper to a life-like image that moved in sync with me. It wasn’t difficult to keep my mind off the pain of the procedure.  I contemplated the past fifteen years. I ran through the memories in my mind… year by year, the good times, the bad times, the death of the marriage, the new life that was beginning.  When she was complete, I beamed with pride.  I loved her.  I love her still.  She’s my war wound and, often, my inspiration to keep trudging through.  It’s been five years.  Sometimes, I forget there is a phoenix on my back.  Then, I’ll catch a glimpse of her.  I still admire her, the artwork and the meaning behind her creation.  She’s still perfect. Perfect for me.  Her wings tattooed on my back helped me spread my own.  Together we soar.