Write a Book, D*** It….

Words have always been my muse, my vice, my addiction. They have been my RX, my therapy, my refuge. I have inscribed thoughts and brought visions to life, first on scribbled paper, and later on carefully crafted tech platforms, as a way of not only being a beacon of light to those struggling in the dark around me, but first in a desperate attempt to both remember who I was, and more importantly to prove to myself that I hadn’t been irrevocably lost….especially during the nights when my buried soul was muted, buried, and left in violated silence.

When I have lost all words is when those around me have really started to worry.

And some people have told me over the years that I say too much, my posts are too intense, too transparent, too revealing, too deep, too blah blah blah…and after being hung up on what those people have felt, and their approval, for so long, my answer is this: you don’t like what I write? No one is holding a gun to your head to read it. Unfriend. Unfollow. Unengage.

I know that many of my posts are not for the faint of heart. “I” am not for the faint of heart. I have so much complexity and layers, dichotomies and paradoxes, I confuse even myself sometimes. I keep myself on my own toes, and not purposely. I wish I was simpler, easier to figure out, a more “peggable” type, trust me. I feel like I live my life with a label of, “great potential, super talented, and wonderful heart, but a never ceasing brain and vast awareness of people and places, and the desire to know and experience all of it while conversely being a desperately solitudish introvert, creates a living disability of characteristics akin to a squirrel, grasshopper, butterfly, and cockroach (all things I’ve been called), all rolled into one. She functions with mesmerizing multitaskedness and overachieving capacity, or she doesn’t function at all; there is very little middle ground in this woman’s life. But Jesus is her rock and stay, her grounding incense; and thank God. Without this core foundation and purpose, Carrie would fail at life.” I know these types of observations, I help write them all the time as a teacher.

From my “un-haters”, 😉, I’ve been asked repeatedly to write a book about my story. I am terrified to do so. When I post on social media or my blog, and certainly my paper journals, it’s risk free, very little rejection, and I can amuse myself with the illusion that hundreds are reading my words and being encouraged or inspired, even if not a soul glances at it.

But writing a book is a whole other game. However, this comment posted here,from a friend the other day, with it’s blatant message, stirred something in me. So while I’m not ready to write the book quite yet, I feel that the sunset of this next year will provide a rhythmic end to this phase of my life, before starting the next, I AM going to begin compiling posts, entries, etc., to begin the process, and I need your help! Any suggestions on topics you’d want me to include, the best ways to go about writing a draft, the publishing process, etc., I desperately need help with.

And to all of you who have ever told me to write a book, thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ve saved all of your comments as encouragement and focus. So, as my friend Keith said, d*** it, let’s get this party started.

When Holy Thaws

I felt this today. This week. These last couple of months. This overwhelming darkness, sense of unraveling. This cry of anguish and angst over moments that have been seared into my mind, of haunting “why me’s” that I have heard inaudibly whispered from those I love. I have been doubled-over, stumbling, from carrying the chiseled burdens of those who I watch struggle to stay afloat, drowning in the chain of shattered dreams. I know God, that You are the closest to those who are stripped of all that comforts, that You are the balm that heals from the fractured slivers of hope. But now, in this empty space, this barren land, please come to us like rain. Even if the darkness doesn’t fade, let justice flow over and around us like a river, flooding our land with all good things. Strengthen this weary soul so that those who look to her for strength see that she is their rock because of He who steadies her. Use this long night that has exposed us raw become the dawn through which Your greatest purpose and presence can be born in and through us. Amen

Grief, Exhaled….. Tattoo

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This tattoo took me over the edge from being a person who had tattoos that were “cute”,  to a half- arm- sized tattoo on my left arm.

For a while I often wondered if it was “too” big, or “too” out there, or “too” much, quickly covering it up whenever I was around someone who maybe I  thought would judge me as having gone “too far”….

It even caught me off guard at first, startling me into thinking I had black marker on my arm from teaching…

But then…. as I’ve slowly evolved and grown as a person over this last year, this tattoo has become not only my life’s mantra, motto, but it’s the embodiment of how I’ve chosen to see life.

The impetus for me to formally verbalize my thoughts, cohesively turning them into the deeply etched phrase here, was in living through  the most recent of traumas in my life.

Without going into detail, after being a single parent for over 10 years, I remarried, only to find out that my husband of less than a year had been serial cheating on me during the entirety of my knowing him…. friendship, dating, engaged, married. To sum up one of  his mistress’s words, which he corroborated, he married me because I provided a good reputation for him, and I loved his children.

A whole different trauma. A while different betrayal. A whole different grief.

And from these ashes, these words took shape. While I created this for MY life, I choose to treat everyone who comes into my life with these life affirming beliefs as well,and pray that I can pay my pain forward, through being a vessel of transformed grace and hope.

So here is what I think….

BEAR WITNESS….Do you see injustice? Do you see abuse? Do you see oppression? Do you see evil? Don’t turn your head. Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t silence your screams. Don’t ignore the pain. Face the storm. Sound the siren. Summon the jury.

REVEAL TRUTH….The truth can’t set you free until you first unwrap it, unhide it, and uninhibit it. Truth speaks for itself. Don’t drown it out. Don’t shovel it over. Don’t bury it in and slam the door. Lay it down, and out, for all to see. Bare your naked soul. Call it for what it is. It is not YOUR burden to carry the sins of someone else. Lay blame where blame is due. And then step back, unburdened, and fret not anymore, the shadows no longer hold you captive.

HOLD SPACE…..Sometimes there is nothing to do, but sit with the grief, let the tears flow, tend to the shuddering silhouette. Grief bottled in is no mourning at all. Don’t rush. Don’t downplay. Don’t compare. Don’t rebuke. Simply……..be.   Light the candles. Rest in the refuge. Be silent in the sanctuary. Stand down.

EMBRACE PAIN……Life causes all of us pain. We either allow it to shape us, or we spend our lives fighting, as it swallows us. Before we can heal, we have to simply acknowledge it. Weakness isn’t in being betrayed, or in losing, or in being ripped apart. Weakness is in acting like it never hurt us to begin with. Let yourself feel all of the bitterness and rage. Let yourself be broken. Let yourself fall apart. Let yourself be real. It’s ok to not be ok.

CARRY GRIEF…..Never let someone tell you that you EVER heal whole again, unscarred, unblemished, unfractured, back to who you once were. You don’t. And don’t try. A part of your grief will go with you for the rest of your life. Own it. Respect it. Carry it. You are who you are because of the heartache etched on your heart. Make grief your ally so that, rather than embittering and imprisoning you, it creates a compassion for others you meet on your journey who need to know they aren’t alone. Because no one can walk this road solo. And no one is untouched by grief. And the darkness doesn’t discriminate, but it DOES fade to the corner when we light the path together.

HONOR JOY……There WILL be moments, even amidst the worst of the storms, when laughter will bubble over, the sun will beam bright, and life will kiss you with joy. Don’t downplay it. Don’t sabotage it. Don’t disgrace it. Don’t ignore it. Don’t destroy it. Don’t disown it. Honor it. No matter the cards you’ve been dealt, you’re  bound to draw an ace at some point. Hug it. Enjoy it. Grasp a hold of it. And….even if it’s just the eye of the storm, and the clouds are drawing nigh again, engrave those moments as memorial stones of what can be, what has been, and what will be again. Because the darkness and storms may rage for a night, but even the gloomiest midnight ends. And the sun comes up. And joy…..joy….. joy…. always comes in the morning.

 

 

Matching “Break The Silence” tattoos

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She and I have been like “Thelma and Louise” since the day I knew about her. I remember the exact day I got pregnant, it was a warm summer evening, a rare moment of peace….. Extended family arrived later the next afternoon. And with that, an onslaught of violence delivered “on the down low” in our bedroom, as was the usual case whenever family from either side was around. Only he wasn’t quiet enough that time….. afterwards, his family asked me if I was ok……. I couldn’t say “no, I wasn’t,” because that would leave me open to “asked for” retribution later that night. So I said I was fine, we all nervously laughed, and my habit of living a double life took on a new passenger.

I had always wanted to be pregnant. I couldn’t wait until the time came. But I quickly found out that, for ME, my growing bump meant yet another liability to try and protect, and detract attention from. With every, “you’re adorable”, or “how cute is that bump”, I would be splayed into the limelight, a limelight that only spotlighted yet another hurl of cutting remarks and accusations, never knowing why my pregnancy only drove his jealously and insecurities deeper into the abyss of illogic.

She arrived on a full moon night, three days after her due date. Later, she would tell me she was only being considerate, that she had been due on my 25th birthday, but wanted me to celebrate my quarter century for myself.

The L&D department was packed that night. The doctors were running around frantic.The wolves might as well have been howling in their packs, outside the waiting room door.

I was in hard labor for 18 hours. After the first doctor told me repeatedly that I “just wasn’t pushing hard enough”, a new doctor came on shift, took one look at “us”, and frantically rushed me into the OR, saying that her head was stuck in the birth canal, and that we were both about to have life-threatening issues and/or injuries.

Through an emergency c-section, she was delivered safe and sound. Everyone went home. An hour later, I was rushed into the OR again. My uterus had collapsed, and I was hemmorhaging. When all was said and done, I had to have an emergency DNC, and I was placed in ICU for a week. I had lost almost 5 pints of blood, necessitating numerous blood transfusions in hopes of saving my life….

Her father came to me the next day, threatening to take her out of the hospital away from me. I must have done something wrong, he argued,  in order to have all the trauma happen to me at birth. Oh wait, he said, he decided he knew what the trauma was. She wasn’t his child, but his brothers’. Repeatedly over our twelve years of marriage, he had pretty much accused me of having an affair with almost every person our age in our lives, including his sister, and a friend I taught with. If I had even LOOKED at someone a second too long for his liking, I was accused of being a whore. In fact, he compared himself to the Hosea of the Bible, and me as the one he “saved”.

But for this particular moment, it was one of his brothers. He was so mean, accusatory, and verbally abusive,  that the L& D nurse told him he needed to leave, that my machines were beeping abnormally, because my heartrate was skyrocketing, due to our argument.

It was there, in that moment, utterly physically and psychologically broken, that my heart broke fully in two. I had been hurt and angered and shamed at his abuse before. But this time, after just giving birth to our daughter, I was fractured in a way that would literally take almost two decades to heal from. And it was in that moment that I created a bond with her that was what propelled me six years later to be able to leave him, to protect her and her brother. Because at that point? I didn’t matter for me. I was nothing. All of my life, for MY life sake, left me that night in the hospital, the day after she was born.

But for my child, and, eventually children? With a more urgent burden than I ever imagined parenting to be, because literally our life and death lay in the balance, I decided that being a good and Godly mom would be THE driving force in my life.

So, 16 years later, when she wanted to get matching tattoos, representing all that we had had to fight through in our lives, just to get to where we were that day, how could I ever say no?

“Break the Silence” is an organization that was started to bring awareness to domestic violence, and how, unlike any other crime except for sexual assault, it’s the silent crime. No one talks about it. What happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors. It’s family business. It’s protected by shame and denial and terror. It wreaks havoc and chaos on the one place that you’re supposed to feel safe, your home.

And she and I, we raised each other. She protected me, even getting hit once by her father when she was trying to intervene in a fight between he and I, when I couldn’t protect myself. She was my logic and backbone when I was silenced by fear. She was the fighter when I had no fight.

She was born stoic. I remember watching her as a baby. She would take in everything around her. No nonsense. No fussing. Missing nothing. Her eyes could pierce you with a simple stare. She sucked on her binky with an intensity that belied her calm exterior.

The few times she did let down her guard, and showed vulnerability of any kind, I held her dear to my heart like one would hold a fragile glass doll; the moments were rare indeed.  Little did I know just how important that strength and stoicism would be for her a few years later.

And when we did escape, and start to heal, I had to work hard, very hard, to earn her respect, and my rightful place has her authority figure and mom. We have often been more like sisters than mother and daughter.

But I know that now she can look at me, and model herself after me. If I’ve done nothing else right with my life, I have grown into a healthy, strong, woman, who fights for what she believes in, who protects her children, who speaks for them when they can’t defend themselves, and who holds them when they themselves have been broken in two.

This shared tattoo is about so much more than ink, and wrists, and letters. It repesents a bond between she and I that has been forged by the same molten iron, shaped by the same, unforgiving mallet, and cooled with the grace of the same God that has turned those ashes into phoenixes of beauty.

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And people wonder why I don’t get out as much as I could, or live my “own” life more, why I insist on being there for my kids so much. I remember when it was threatened to me  every day that they would be taken away from me. I remember what it was like for our house to be a war zone instead of a home. I remember what it was like when I had to literally fight for them, with every breath in me, some forty-five times in court.

So to say that I take parenting as my number one joy and priority, and that I’m even fanatical about it,  is to define me exactly as who I am. I will never be a hovering parent, but a warrior parent? Everyday.

Before you can break the silence, you have to have found your voice.

 

Ecclesiastes Tattoo

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I come from a long lineage of very long marriages.

My parents have been married 47 years, and counting. They haven’t killed each other yet    (although they’ve had some doozies over the car AC, especially).  At the height of my parents marital stress level, right after my mom went back to work after being a stay at home mom for nearly a decade, I heard them arguing one night. This was the only time I have EVER  heard a SINGLE uttered swear word in my home growing up. It stressed me out. I asked my mom if she and my dad were going to get divorced. She looked at me increduloulsy and said, ” No. I made a commitment to God to love your father until the day I die. I might KILL him so that day comes sooner, but I will never divorce him.”………ah….my life was rebalanced again….

My dad’s  parents were married 41 years before my grandma died.

My mom’s parents were married a month shy of 70 years before my nana died. 70 years!!! I asked my Boppo one day, if he had to do it over again, would he still have married my nana? He looked at me, ever earthy and blunt in nature, and said, laughing gruffly, “Yes I would; it’s been hell WITH her, but it would be hell WITHOUT her too.”

And even though none of these marriages were perfect, they were what I aspired to. I wanted to be a wife and a mom. Period. I saw life as something less than the ideal if I had to walk it alone. And THAT was coming from an only child who loved solitude and being alone.

My parents were a cross-classism couple, my dad being from a working class, “Oakland flatlands” family, and my mom being from a white collar “Kensington/El Cerrito hills” family. Progressive and all-inclusive was how I was raised. Color and class didn’t matter. All that mattered was whether someone loved God, and respected himself and his family, or not. So to marry someone outside of my given social status was irrelevant to me. Love conquered all. I saw itplay out  repeatedly within the four walls of my childhood home.

When I got married to my children’s father, it was for a lifetime. Come hell or high water. Come interracial couple backlash. Come class conflict. Come parenting challenges. Come financial issues. Come drug addiction……..come domestic violence…….come child abuse………

Slowly my ideal dream of being married for a lifetime, and being a couple like my parents and grandparents, slowly slipped through my fingers like sands in an hourglass. I fought it. Boy did I fight it. Probably 11 years too long. I gave up everything to keep my marriage in tact. Because I believe that marriage is worth fighting for; that the person I pledged my life to, to love in good times and bad, sickness and health, deserved my loyalty, because, if you aren’t supported in your own home, nothing else makes much sense.

Until the day I realized that the refuge I had created for him, had conversely become a war zone, battleground for me and our children. And then I had a huge decision to make. Did I leave my marriage, and quite possibly save myself and my children, literally? Or did I hang out, and go down with the sinking ship, keeping the candle lit until the fierce winds engulfed it’s light?

I went to church that Sunday. The weekend where everything had come to a head. By myself, as usual, at that time. A white woman, in a predominantly black church, carrying a burden about my black husband, where I felt like years of racism and oppression and institutionalized “everything”, had fallen on my shoulders. So many things went through my head. Was his brokenness my fault? Was the fact that I was white push him over the edge? How did I reconcile what I know was a very traumatic past on his part, with how he was traumatizing everyone in his present? How did I extricate myself from an abusive marriage without the expected and judgemental mindsets whispering, “See, you should never have married a black guy anyway,” or, ” What did you do to him, you oppressive white chick?”, or ” He just needs to be understood, he’s  a black man in America. That should say it all.”

I struggled and struggled with this, until MLK’s words came to my mind. To me, how my then husband acted in the four walls of our home wasn’t based on the color of his skin, but the content of his character. And his own demons, black, or brown, or yellow, or white…. were winning, at the cost of all of us involved. It was a pastor at this church who said to me, “Marriage is a very personal thing; and while everything that happens outside of that home does effect the inside, each adult is responsible for what they allow of themselves, and each other, inside those four walls. God did not create marriage to be a punching bag of any kind, for anyone. And the second that you are afraid to be home, is when you need to forget everything that you think should hold you there, and fight for the things that should make you leave.Your children need to have a man in their life who handles himself as a true man, with honor and protection of those he loves, rather than abusing them. And rather than feeling like you are letting a black guy down, look at it as though if this is the only black guy your children will know, what will they think of them? The stereotyping can go both ways.”

The sermon that day was on detours that God puts in our lives. We are going one direction, and all of a sudden, the road verges sharply in another direction. And  those detours are God’s way of recalibrating our lives, refocusing our priorities, and rebalancing the status quo. The passage the pastor preached  from was Ecclesiastes 3, there is a time for everything.

A time to be born, and a time to die; 

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to sew, and a time to tear;

A time to keep silent, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

and a time for war, and a time for peace. 

And just like that, I knew it was time to let go; to release what I had so tightly held; to embrace the unknown of a detoured road; to trust a God who loved me enough to disrupt the status quo, who embraces His people more than His expectations for His people.

And this tattoo was born. Changing Autumn leaves to represent the changing of our lives, and to celebrate the idea that sometimes certain dreams have to die before they can be reborn, that the Phoenix must burn before it can rise again.

 

 

 

 

Beauty For Ashes tattoo

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Growing up,  I fancied myself a dancer, a softball player, an ice skater, and a  news broadcaster. I would spend hours in our family room, LP’s turned up to the max volume,  the only light lit,  being a “spot light” ( it was really a reading light that I could adjust), “dancing” or “ice skating” on the linoleum floor ( I know, this was the late 70’s/ early 80’s people, Pergo flooring hadn’t been invented yet, at least for the common folk)….

Or I would spend hours at the softball field with my best friend, vicariously living home run glory and RBI’s through her.

Then again, you could often times find me creating an entire newsroom, in my living room, where I was the formidable reporter, sharing the evening’s eyewitness news with the world ( probably the start of my penchant for “inquisitiveness” as I call it…. my family calls it nosiness…..).

But, of all my illustrious and grand illusions for hobbies, that I created for myself, I actually DID have some hobbies that I was skilled in and taught. I sang in a choir from kindergarten until age 17; played the flute in the school band for five years; played the hand bells in the church choir for six years; and, most consistently, I played the piano from the time I was five years old until now. While my formal lessons stopped at 17, I have continued to play well into adulthood. I was even given a grand piano a few years ago, so I still have the chance to play at home whenever the whim strikes me.

It is this piano/keyboard playing, that led to my next tattoo, the German “beauty for ashes” tattoo. Somewhere along the year 2009, I was asked to play the keyboard for the “modern” service for a small Lutheran church. My first experience with any kind of liturgical, ritualistic worship service, I was exposed to many aspects of my faith that I hadn’t been privy to before.  As I researched and studied them, it became a “walk down my German heritage lane” as I liked to call it.

I decided that I wanted to get some kind of tattoo to represent my German heritage, although not a lot of positive German “emblems” came to mind. I didn’t want the Swastika, or anything Neo-Nazi, those wouldn’t work. And the German language is a guttural sounding, “down-to-earth” kind of language, so there weren’t any specific German phrases that I was drawn to ( Weinershnitzel? no. Dachshund? no. Bratwurst? no. Lager? no. Muesli? no. You get the picture…..). So what to get that both represented my furthering journey,  my faith, and also my German heritage…….

Right about that time, someone sent me these Bible verses from Isaiah 61, which say,

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,[a]
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
    and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.

They will rebuild the ancient ruins
    and restore the places long devastated;
they will renew the ruined cities
    that have been devastated for generations.

This person encouraged me, saying that God wasn’t finished with my story yet, that God was going to take everything that had been destroyed in my life,  and restore it in a far more comprehensible way than I could ever even begin to imagine; that God was working in ways that I couldn’t see, or even begin to be aware of, but that he was raising me up out of devastation and despair. And subsequently, the entirety of the passage above has become my life’s  motto.

So I decided to take the words, “beauty for ashes” and where it’s found, Isaiah 61:3, and make that the premise for a small tattoo on my ankle, all because I was awakened to part of my heritage while playing and singing in a little Lutheran church worship band, that summer of my German “Soldier”.

“Schönheit für Asche- Jesaja 61:3” 

Celtic Cross Tattoo

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I was raised lower-middle-class, think Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink (except I had two wonderful parents), sandwiched between a predominantly white, wealthy church body/youth group where I grew up and went to church, and a very-diverse, mixed-demographic student body where I went to school. My family raised me to be very proud of my WASP heritage. I can trace my family lineage back to the actual county and towns we are from:  in Ireland (Armaugh, Mullaghmore, Mountnorris), in Scotland ( West Muir, Lugger, Ayreshire),  in England (London, Bristol) and Germany (northwestern countryside, circa 1830)  where my ancestors arrived from. Growing up, I was privy to cornbeef and cabbage, spatzle, haggis, bangers, Beef Wellington, shortbread, and scones (before Starbucks popularized them). Furthermore, I know just how my family arrived in California, from Pennsylvania, via wagon train on one side, and mule-pack train through the Isthmus of Panama, then via ship, on the other. I am 5th generation Californian on both sides of my family.

I understood early on, the concept of classism and discrimination amongst white folk, and their issues amongst each other, both abroad and here on our patriotic soil. This realization came long before Trump decided to use the bait and switch technique of class and race as his platform for his candidacy.

It is this very awareness of privilege and entitlement, and class struggles, that I believe helps me to grasp the bigger dynamics, in our country, of race and class, discrimination and prejudice, and how everyone benefits from getting along, and why it’s so hard for us to do so. Institutional racism has its’  foundations built on the scaffold of institutional classism. The small group of people who have the most to lose, create the greatest havoc amongst those who have nothing to lose, so that the majority doesn’t rise up against the elite. You get the “majority” to fight amongst themselves, seeing each other as the enemy, then all of them miss the target of the real nemesis. It’s been going on for years in our country, purposely woven conflict to seemingly create “self”-fulfilling prophecy;  Native tribe against differing tribe, slaves against poor whites, brown against black, poor men against women, brown and black against yellow; black, brown, and yellow against Middle-Eastern…….the combinations could go on forever. But as long as we see each other as the culprit, the elite remain the elite, untouched.

All of that aside, it was a few months after I was newly separated ( the actual divorce took almost two years to be finalized),  that I came to the realization of the  freedom of being able to watch movies and TV… whatever I wanted to watch, whenever I wanted to watch it…. such a delicious, glorious freedom. When I had been married, sports had been on 24/7. I was never allowed to watch anything else.  I knew the call tunes for every major sporting event, readily accessible in my head, easily identifiable from how many times I’d heard them. In fact, in-utero, my daughter was calmed by the song of the Master’s so much so that, years later, the tune STILL calms her.

Anyway…. I started renting movies. I would rent five or six at a time, sit in my own, comfortingly empty apartment, and zone out, escaping for a few hours from what would turn out to be an absolutely abhorrent, lengthy custody and divorce battle ( that story being for another tatto). Two of the movies I rented were Far and Away and Braveheart. All of a sudden I had two story lines to tack onto my fervent pride in my heritage. And I further fell in love with Celtic designs; their origins, their history,and their beauty.

So, on a dark wintry night in 2005, I drove myself back to Berkeley, and had the same tattoo artist who did my first tattoo, give me my second one; an ode to my heritage… who I am,  and why I am the way I am…..a celebration of the pride I felt for being a Scotch-Irish, German, English,  American protege….. and also the “Family” I’ve been adopted into.

My faith in God started at a young age. My mom would read me Bible stories every night before I went to bed. My favorite story was the one where Jesus would tell the little children to come unto Him, Matthew 19:14  I had my mom read it over and over again. And again.  And then, at age 4, I decided that I wanted to live my life for Jesus…. that I wasn’t my own, I was His. And while that faith has been challenged drastically, and molded and shaped into many new forms, many different times, my identity remains. I am not my own, I am His. And the cross is a constant reminder that He gave His life for me, and so I now choose to life my life for Him.

In the adage of the old world hymn, the one where my grandma would sit beside me on the piano bench, melodiously testifying to her OWN faith in Jesus, the hymn that would later become my all time favorite, ever….. my tattoo is a visual reminder of the lyrics found below:

“So I’ll cherish the old rugged Cross
Till my trophies at last I lay down
I will cling to the old rugged Cross
And exchange it some day for a crown. ”

story of the Old Rugged Cross

Tattoo 2, Winter 2005.