Tattoos and Pursuing Passion

When I was eighteen, I got my first tattoo. Twenty-four years later, I got my second. This happened a couple of days ago. A client of mine pulled some strings and got me set up with a nationally respected artist (thanks, Universe.)

Come to find out, the tattoo artist is named Christian. In making small talk with him, I learned he collects oddities and macabre artifacts. Inside his shop were plenty of bones and skulls. Some of them were real. Others were artificial.

One in particular caught my eye. It was a creature with an elongated neck and an oval-shaped head. I pondered what it could be. A baby giraffe, perhaps? He informed me it was an alpaca skeleton. “Oh yeah,” I said, trying to save face, “that was going to be my second guess.” Christian cut me a break since I’m an author - not a biology major or an alpaca farmer.

I asked what was the rarest item in his collection of oddities. He said it was a lion pelt. And not just any lion, but an eight-foot-long juvenile that killed some poor soul over in Zimbabwe. The village deemed it open season on the killer cat. Up stepped countless hunters willing to pay any price for a chance to hunt the beast. Some crazed big game hunter from the U.S. paid $150,000 for a permit. He shot the cat and brought its pelt back home. Later, the hunter died. The lion pelt (head still attached) was purchased by Christian’s friend at an estate sale. Christian then acquired it from his friend.

I had so many questions. First of all, if a juvenile lion is eight feet long, how big would it have grown by adulthood? Secondly, what kind of madman pays $150,000 to shoot an animal? Maybe I’ve grown soft, but if I had that amount of cash lying around, I’d rather donate money to a cat shelter instead of hunting a lion. Thirdly, I asked how Christian’s pets responded to the lion pelt being in the home. “They love it,” he said. “My dog curls up and sleeps on it each night.”

A dog sleeping soundly on the pelt of a murderous feline? I didn’t have that one on my bingo card. I couldn’t help but wonder if, at some point in the future, he’ll acquire a wolf pelt for his cat to sleep on… you know, for karmic balance. “Well,” I said, “I can’t say that hunting in Africa appeals to me. But clearly, it’s a passion for some.”

We then started talking about passion. Christian agreed that some people feel drawn down a certain professional path. Call it passion. Call it fate or a “calling” of sorts… but certain individuals come into the world destined for a head-on collision with a chosen field.

For Christian, it was art. He said he’s been drawing since he could hold a crayon. Drawing allowed him to keep his sanity while navigating high school. It gave him purpose, kept him out of trouble, and gave him a reason to get out of bed each morning. He said he began working with a tattoo gun at age fourteen. And on his eighteenth birthday, he delivered his first tattoo on human skin. For Christian, art isn’t something he does. It’s not just a hobby or a job. It’s who he is. It’s the life raft that keeps his spirit afloat.

As always, my mind wandered toward past lifetimes. Christian and I talked about reincarnation. I said it wasn’t a stretch to imagine him as an artist in his past lifetimes. For some, mastering a skillset is more like remembering how to do it, as opposed to learning from scratch. In terms of past lifetimes, the brain can’t remember, but the soul never forgets. This is apparent when we see child prodigies demonstrating talents that leave us speechless.

Before entering this world, perhaps we are permitted to bring a “weapon” of choice. For Mozart, it was a piano. For Michael Jordan, it was a basketball. Christian wields a tattoo gun. And some people only require a unicycle, a Darth Vader helmet, and flaming bagpipes - like the guy I saw in a viral video.

As for the tattoo I got… it’s an old-fashioned typewriter. Writing has long been a passion of mine. I still have journals I wrote in 1988 when I was just seven years old. Somewhere along the line, I figured this habit of writing would eventually go away. But it didn’t.

I suppose it’s not surprising. I feel in my heart that my last lifetime took place in prohibition-era New York City. I was an aspiring author who never reached the level of success I desired. Undeterred, here I am again, sitting at a keyboard and pushing letters. I intentionally wanted a vintage-looking typewriter tattoo as a nod to this past lifetime and a passion that followed me into the present.

Writing is an addiction that holds me captive. It’s a tangible extension of the thoughts that walk through the corn maze of my mind. My soul is at peace when my fingers are fluttering around a keyboard. And here, as I write these words, my forearm is wrapped in cellophane… as though it’s leftover meatloaf. It allows the skin to heal and moistens the tattoo for a few days.

I can live with that. It’s a small price to pay. I’m now left with a permanent physical reminder of something that makes my soul happy beyond belief. Writing is not something I do. It’s something I am. I am a writer.

As fate would have it, the timing of this tattoo coincides with the realization that I’m now a full-time writer. Soul Discovery sessions are a written form of psychic reading that I’ve been offering for a while. It’s now keeping me so busy there isn’t time for much else. And as they say, if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.

Tomorrow, I turn 43… the age my dad was when he passed away. This tattoo is my way of telling the Universe that my journey here is far from over. In fact, I’d like to think I’m just getting started. With a bit of luck and help from my spirit guides, I plan to take many more spins around the sun. I have more writing to do. More stories to tell. More words that need to be read.

I can’t say I’ll ever hold a tattoo gun. I can’t dunk a basketball like Michael Jordan. And I’ll certainly never shoot a lion in Africa. But I can push letters on a keyboard until words turn into (mostly) coherent sentences. It’s what makes me happiest.

Wherever you are and whatever your passion might be, I hope you put your heart and soul into it. And if you haven’t yet discovered your passion in life, fear not. Perhaps your passion is out there looking for you. When we lose track of time doing something we love, it’s the very definition of Heaven on Earth. After all, tattoos are only skin deep. But passion finds its way to the very marrow of our spirit.

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