Part 1 of the Tattoo I Now Wear

During a recent visit with friends in Idaho, I got a tattoo. In today’s posting, I’ll share with you the background of that tattoo, which I’m now wearing on my right forearm. It is and will be until I die, a reminder of a Presence that got me through an emotionally difficult time during my childhood—a time of despair, desperation, and loss of the idyllic security of my first five years of life.

 

In August 1941, my carefree childhood ended. My parents and young brother disappeared from my life; I didn’t know where they’d gone nor if they’d ever be back. 

 

My grandmother, angry at her son’s precipitous escape from her dominance, used me as his scapegoat. Every Saturday, during my weekly visit, she’d pummel me with the same harsh words: “You’re naughty, Dodo! That’s why your folks left you behind. They’re having fun without you. But your little brother got to go. They’ve deserted you.” 

 

I learned not to cry. Or ask why. Or whimper. I knew what would come next. Each visit she’d wallop me with the same litany of abuse.

 

“They don’t love you. They’re never coming back. You’re an orphan now. And I’m certainly not going to let you live here. Not with me. You’re just a bother.” 

 

 During those months of kindergarten, I ceased to be happy, carefree, spontaneous. I became, instead, somber, downcast, silent. For the next three years, I remained so. When, at the end of my kindergarten year, my parents returned, my 180° personality change distressed them. Daily they queried me: “What’s wrong, Dodo?” “What’s happened?” “Where’s your smile disappeared to?” “Where’d my little girl go to?”

 

But Grandma had done her work. Fearful, I said nothing. I could trust no one. 

 

No one except Arthur, who was known only by me.

 

I met Arthur in September 1941 as I walked the path through a corner city lot of wildflowers and weeds. Emerging from the plumed grasses, he padded toward me. I felt no fear of this approaching lion with his brown ruff and swaying tail. What I did feel was a sure knowledge that I could sink into the loving depths of his eyes and be happy, moment by moment, breath by breath.

During the next few days, I realized that only I could see and hear Arthur. On our way to school that first day, he’d purred that he’d be with me always, loving me no matter what I did or said or didn’t do or say. “You are my Beloved,” he said. 

 

I did not know what that word meant, but I trusted whatever he said. His words were not razor-sharp as Grandma’s were. The tawny quilt of his being wrapped me in an all-embracing peace. He became my shield against the “slings and arrows” in my grandmother’s quiver.

 

Arthur got me through the hard days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

Twenty-seven years later, in September 1968, while visiting Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, I found a ceramic figurine of Arthur. While browsing in the college’s gift shop, I looked down and there on a table was the figurine. I recognized him immediately. 

 

For fifty-three years, from that day until last year, his figurine was always near: on my bedstand in Ohio and New Hampshire, on my office desk in Minnesota and here in Missouri. Always, I was just a glance away from the security that Arthur so graciously and gleefully had given me on that September day in 1941.

Moreover, for all those years, whenever some persistent emotion overwhelmed me—fear, happiness, panic, gratitude, anxiety, joy, exhaustion, glee, jealousy—I would pick Arthur up and hold him. His rump pressed into my left palm; his snout into my right. Then, seeking the depth of abiding peace, I’d let emotion flow down my arms and into Arthur. And he, a seemingly boundless vessel, would take what I was feeling and leave within me the breath of Oneness.             

 

Last April, I visited Elisa—my adopted granddaughter—in Idaho and spent five days with her in Salt Lake City while she did radiation for her Stage 4 melanoma of the bone. I’d carried Arthur’s figurine from Missouri to Utah, knowing that he’d always watched over, comforted, consoled, encouraged, and delighted in me.

It was time, I realized, to give his presence, represented by that figurine, to Elisa. I trusted that just as he'd protected and watched over me, so his presence would enfold her and what she was going through.

 

She knew his story and was touched by the gift. However, when I returned home and looked to the left of this computer, to where he’d once stood, I missed him. Greatly.

His eyes; his ruff; his sturdiness; his steadfastness; his humor.

 

And so, in my next posting—hopefully two weeks from now—I’ll share with you the tattoo that now blesses my life. I’ll describe the tattoo experience and the delightful tattoo artist who gave me the gift of Arthur in a new and quite wonderful way. 

 

Peace.

PS: This has been, I know, much longer than my normal posting of 600 words. However, Arthur and his steadfast presence in my life deserves no less from me. I hope you will return in two weeks to discover the story of the tattoo that is now emblazoned on the very skin I wear.