The first, I chose decades ago: a tiny pink rose, low on my right shoulder-blade. Secret, to be seen only by a lover.
The next I took from the Wiccan Rede: ‘When misfortune is enow’ (a very old word for enough) ‘wear the blue star on thy brow.’ Therefore not permanent, not indelible – drawn rarely, only when badly needed; removed again whenever it no longer applies.
Recently, I decided on some animal totems: my left-hand guardian the owl, my right-hand guardian the serpent. One of each, on the correct forearm, in fine outline. A reward to myself for getting through all that hospitalisation and surgery, a little over a year ago.
Today I looked at my wrinkly 86-year-old arms, picturing how that surface would spoil the artwork, and thought, ‘No. Too late.’
The pink rose never happened either. (Tattoo parlours got such a bad name for such a long while.) I have no lover now, and no plans to find one.
The blue star happens occasionally, yes – by visualisation and intention, not with actual ink. Not even a blue biro. On my forehead, unable to be fully hidden by my hair, that would be too visible, too weird.
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I only need look inside my mind and memory to see my tattoos. I dwell on them. They are beautiful. I love them.