The Ugly Duckling and The Pink Swan

 It has come to my attention, that if one is inclined to name their blog "Nine Kids & Ink", there should be at some point an explanation of this title. I hope it's not as hard to explain it as it was to come up with it in the first place. Although it may seem obvious to those who know me, given the fact that I have nine children and the slightly more obvious fact that I have a rather large amount of skin art, it took me a while to pull these two facts about me together as the defining force of my blog. 


Having all those kids has been a catalyst for so many more life lessons than I could have ever imagined, in so many realms, and on so many different levels. While things that I write that pertain strictly to motherhood I have been and will continue to post in my other blog, "On Being a Mom", the things that I discover and get inspired about that I simply learn as a result of living with all these amazing people who are my children, well, they will get posted here. 


But while my maternal status is first on the inspiration list, I pondered at great length the other leading role in the drama of what makes me tick. My wheels are turning nonstop. I will never run out of things to think about, or write about. In fact, I am quite sure 99% of my thoughts will die with me. I simply can't type that fast, nor do I have adequate time. It's all I can do on any given day to just open the brain valve a bit and let it run down into my fingers and out into print. Whatever comes out, comes out.  And I'm given to analogies, and word pictures to get some points across in 3-D technicolor. But there are times when words utterly and completely fail me. Especially at times in my life where it was about all I could do to just scribble in a journal. Or draw a picture. Or paint a mural. However,  when life comes up with some sea-monster of a lesson, that lurches out of your calm seas with tentacles flailing and teeth snapping, leaving you gasping for air, in terror and swimming for all your worth toward anything that even looks like safety - well - there was nothing left to express that.
Until I rediscovered the tattoo....

April 28, 2009

The Pink Swan

I woke up today to a pink swan. I rolled over onto my right side, and my Swan reminded me or her presence.

Yes, my rather large Avatar I have placed on my right leg – my constant and permanent reminder of who and what I really am. And so, I wince, and sit up and regard her.

Just yesterday, I sat patient and still while my artist did his level best to color her white; to highlight her wings and graceful neck. I just watched while he colored with all the passion of a kid with a crayon – over and over with the needles, dipping them in the ink, coloring in little circles, accenting the edges. And after each square inch was colored, my skin threw up what seemed to be the red, serous flags of surrender. And when the liquids started to become a mixture of pink plasma, ink and blood, he’d stop briefly, and wash it off with a soothing soap and a soft paper towel….and then start the needles again.

What price, this vanity? What cost to this permanent portrait? What on earth for? I’m sure there are a host of people who understand this desire to stain the skin for a purpose that goes beyond just “Hey…cool!”  And while these marks can be insanely cool, that was not my intent.

I have lived a life that is the epitome of mistaken identity. I was born a part of a large brood, living life as a classic underachiever – but truly not for lack of trying! No…I signed up for it all! I wanted in! I wanted to be the one that went for it – maximized my potential. I had big dreams and aspirations. I wanted pitch baseball.  I wanted to be a rock star – for real!! I researched it! I honestly did the Bryan Adams thing and played my guitar until my fingers bled – I wanted it that bad. I played my piano clean through the healing time of a destroyed finger. I wanted to be a gymnast – and practiced every day twice a day for literally years, remembering the headaches from the diving forward rolls even as I type.  I wanted to be a model. I wanted to be an equestrian. I wanted to build parks and develop land (yes…at the tender age of 10). I wanted to be in politics – never made it past 7^th grade class treasurer.  I wanted to be in sales.  I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to be on Broadway! I wanted to be in and make films! I wanted to paint murals. I wanted to be a nurse. No, I really wanted to be a doctor – a surgeon! I wanted to be a midwife. I wanted to be a paramedic. I wanted to sign for the deaf.  I wanted to be a pilot. I wanted to travel. I wanted to teach. I wanted to be a farmer... the list goes on.

But for every childhood and quasi-adult goal…I fell woefully short. I ran up against road blocks, barriers, pot holes, box canyons, and sometimes, just came face to face with the facts that I did not have the “right stuff” for some of the goals I set for myself. Sometimes, it was simply because I did not have a set of clearly defined goals. But I think most of all, I never felt that I had the backing. I never had a cheerleader in my corner. I never had that person or people that believe in you, even when you doubt yourself. When I bumped into self-doubt in the mirror, there was no one to change the reflection and tell me, “Yes…you CAN!”  No…there I was, contemplating the one who was better, faster, stronger, more talented….and the reflection said, “Yeah….you’re right. You might as while quit while you’re ahead. Bit of an ugly ducklin’, aren’t ya?”

So with reactions ranging from copious tears, to a mere shrug of the shoulders, to profound relief for being able to spit out the bite that seemed much too much to chew, I left each and every dream behind. Each one I held in my hand, turned over and over, admired – but in the end, when I questioned myself – I found that the world agreed – “Silly Rabbit… Trix are for [other] kids,” – and I dutifully set it down and walked away.  There you have ME – the poster child for what I cannot have. Hmm.

And thus, 44 years have come and gone, and I have survived them in somewhat of a bewildered daze of children and people and alone and depressed, and relationships that did not pan out, and a few that did but fell woefully short of any grand expectations I had about them.

And then one day…I sort of woke up.

I’m not sure what precipitated the awakening, but perhaps it was realizing that all the pillars in my life were made of either salt or sand. That my Twin Towers were just as vulnerable as any ever made, and they came crashing down around my life.  The debris was something else, and I will forever remember the dual earth shakes that came with their fall, the mental and emotional collisions, explosions and fires; the betrayed feelings, the bitter disappointment and the heart break.

And I realized that I am, indeed alone in this life. But it was not such a bad thing – even Christ said, “You shall love your neighbor as you love yourself.” I suppose I had primarily missed the “as you love yourself” part. Without a love of self – a realization of who you really are and what you are truly worth, your love towards others is anemic at best and rather codependent at worst.  A lack of self-love in my life merely fostered a reliance on others to define me – and of course that changed with the mood, circumstance, the person, the day, and the hormones!  

But no more. Opinions of others no longer mean anything to me. My first obligation is to know me, to love me, and to define myself by myself. Only when this is accomplished can I proceed forward, to love others, to be who I was meant to be.

To know joy in life, George Bernard Shaw said, "This is the true joy in life: The being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”

And so, I marched myself into the tattoo parlor, and laid my vision on the artist there. I needed a reminder. I needed a visual validation for my new-found self. And I learned more about how to function as me in the process. I learned about trust, and how to selectively place it in the hands of others. In time past, I had placed my self-worth, my self-perception and my heart in the hands of others. What followed has been a life time of awkward maneuvering in a pond too small, with birds too little, and birds too competitive; a self that could not properly identify the beauty in me, and a heart neglected and shattered, resigned to living out my life feeling hopeless, helpless and trapped in a world not designed for me. But in the wake of the crash of my Towers, I reclaimed my life. I picked through the ashes, and found as many pieces of me that I could, and finally knowing the truth about me, I put them in a basket and brought them to the artist and asked if perhaps he could reconstruct this picture for me. I explained to this stranger what it was supposed to look like, and he was able to reconstruct it for me, and the picture not only exceeded my expectations, it has validated the fact that yes – I was right. Not knowing any of my life before, he was able from my description (the pieces of the wreckage of my life), to reproduce the portrait of who I really am.

I initially told him that there should be an arrow in the wing of the Swan – representative of the wounds and scars that would presumably show up on the portrait. But that never materialized. It came up in conversation – he forgot to add the arrow. But I realized at that moment, that no…there was no arrow. It’s not in the reconstruction, because it was never there to begin with. Nothing can hurt or maim this being – she is impenetrable. But by the same token, she will never be completely white either. We will continue to try to lighten her up – but she will forever be the Pink Swan – a reflection of the flesh that she is and the blood that runs in her veins. A reminder that she had to stop fighting and come to a peace within to finally fly away from who she is not. A reminder that she is alive, and seeking her nobler purpose – becoming, as quoted above – a Force of Nature, and not a victim of it. And like the Velveteen Rabbit, my quest to become real has involved having my “white” rubbed off, a loss of innocence in the quest, the stain of living hard.