Tattoo at 59

a raven companion for the 60s and on

Tattoo at 59

I have always said I would never have a tattoo. I love tattoos on others’ bodies, but I just didn’t feel I wanted one. Until this year. There’s something about the approaching milestone of turning sixty that feels important to me. At 46, I almost died, and I commemorate my survival date, November 12, 2009 every year. I don’t usually make a big deal over my date of birth or my age, but turning 60 seems to be a milestone. I’m still here! I’m very grateful to have made it this far.

It wasn’t just a tattoo I wanted, it was a tattoo of a raven.

I started to see ravens everywhere. While I was waiting at the bus stop in late December 2019 to go to Carleton to tour the Athletic Centre facilities for a program called the Senior Ravens for people over 50, a raven flew right past me.  It felt like a sign. I signed up to be a Senior Raven and in January 2020, started taking fitness classes three times a week, but stopped during the lockdowns and wasn’t all that disciplined about it once the classes moved to Zoom, but still I did them when I could.

At the end of March 2022, I was diagnosed with diabetes. I knew I had to up my game physically, as well as change my diet. I began to do the class the full three times a week and I walked as much as I could. I was a Senior Raven again.

I feel like the raven represents a turning point for me. It represents change, intelligence, resilience and a wild, wily nature that I think might be necessary going forward.

I knew right away, when I made the decision to get a tattoo that I wanted to go to In Bloom Tattoo Collective, a local shop run by Becky D., the child of a dear friend of mine. I had heard great things about their practice and I like rejoicing in and supporting queer spaces.

Grimm, a tattoo artist from Toronto, was going to be a guest artist at In Bloom in late-July-ish, so the timing was perfect. I booked my appointment and tried to calm my nerves.

The experience was beautiful and empowering. Not only is Grimm a skilled and talented tattoo artist, but they are calm and responsive. I had a few questions ahead of time. Ok, I had a lot of questions. Both Becky and Grimm responded quickly and helpfully every time.

The space itself is welcoming. It is a safe space, and that is very important to me. In Bloom is on the third floor of a beautiful old house. There’s a ramp leading up to the building, and an elevator. In Bloom also has an accessible bathroom. It felt like an extremely welcoming space.  I had a chance to talk to Becky and their apprentice Theo as well. It was a comforting and friendly atmosphere.

I was nervous about the pain possibilities, assuming that getting skin carved and etched with ink might be painful, but it wasn’t at all. Not on the inner forearm for me anyway. I enjoyed the sensation of the needle and the changes in sensation from lines to shading.  Despite some of the horrific descriptions I read ahead of time online: a thousand bee stings, hot cat scratches, etc, my sensations were more like a really close shave and maybe the feeling of eating spicy food. I enjoyed it.

I was comfortable, had a great conversation with Grimm while they were working. It felt very intimate, and I loved the connection that formed while we worked together to create this wonderful permanent artwork on my body.

Before my near-death health crisis in 2009, where I was in ICU, and intubated, I always enjoyed a little sensation and impact play, but after my health crisis, I associated pain with medical experience, and I found it traumatic.

I continue to deal with severely painful and life-threatening bowel obstructions, having to go to ER fairly often (once or year, or sometime less, if I’m lucky). Getting a tattoo makes me feel like I’ve taken control of pain somehow. I made the decision to have it, even though I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. I didn’t know how I would react.

Last week at the local Art House Café open mic, which is a wonderful community of musicians and writers, I read a poem(ish) about the pending tattoo. As usual, the audience was made up of very supportive people. I share it with you here.

Raven Tattoo[i]

Iceman, a 5200-year old frozen mummy had small dots and crosses on spine and right knee placed to alleviate joint pain.

Tattoos on women from Ancient Egypt marked them as prostitutes, concubines or served as permanent amulets for their health. Older women of the community marked the younger women.

Performed with seven needles tied together.

Soot rubbed into their pricked skin.

Smoke black from wood or oil was mixed with breast milk.

Guardians, ornate tattoos of mythical creatures on shoulders and wrists on women, geometrical shapes on men.

Ancient Britons had beasts on their bodies.

A man with a biomechanical leg tattoos his other leg. Vibrant flowers conceal a breast cancer mastectomy scar. A flock of birds in a line embellish a top surgery scar.

Soon a raven will adorn my arm. Its midnight black wings folded, head turned, intelligent eye, long sharp beak and pointed tail. I have never felt the urge to have a tattoo even though I’ve loved the art on other bodies. What has changed? Why did you get yours? This is a personal story for many.

A lover whose arms were covered in fierce-looking orange, yellow and red demons with sparkling eyes told me that once he was tattooed with devils, no one beat him up anymore.

When I share the news that I plan to get my first tattoo on the cusp of sixty, many presume I have a high tolerance for pain. I am not so sure. One says for fifteen to twenty minutes, you question why you’re doing it, then the endorphins kick in. Another with a back covered in runes, says it’s a spiritual experience. A web site likens the process to hot scratching. Some people faint. Afterward the wound may ooze pus. Another dear friend with many tattoos says slapping is better than itching. This all sounds unbearable so why am I doing this?

I am not sure, but in early summer, a yearning came over me, for this raven to be on my body. The urge came just before my seventh or eighth trip to Emergency. I’ve lost count.

In the Bible, Noah sends a raven from the ark to find land.

Ravens fly to me at turning points. One sat on my balcony, another croaked loudly in a plant box. They pass me on my walks to fitness class in the winter on early snowy mornings. My fitness class is called Senior Ravens.

What am I celebrating when I turn sixty? That I have survived this far? What do I know? Remember when you were a kid and every small mishap felt like an unbearable disaster?  Mostly everything is outside my control. I have made decisions more than once (as a child, as a young woman) to leave my so-called home. I have felt alone.

When the pain comes during the eighth or ninth emergency visit after one a.m., I try not to whimper. I close my eyes and curl into it, but still I cry out softly. There are tears on my cheeks. 

They say that ravens can make tools, mimic the sounds of human voices. They display the ability to think ahead and understand the concept of death. A good companion as I fly into my sixties because I don’t know what I will face.

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[i] with notes from https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/tattoos-144038580/

Beast Body Epic, my poetry book provoked by my near-death health crisis will be out this fall. I’ll keep you posted!