I woke up yesterday morning- a Sunday- and decided it was finally time to get my first tattoo. I always knew I would get one, and I knew what I wanted, but much like my NOLA-influenced nose piercing (oh heyyyy, Bourbon Street, what up??) it wasn’t necessarily “pre-planned.” It was something I knew I would do when I was ready (liquid courage or not). It’s barely bigger than an inch in length, and it took the artist approximately 100 seconds from start to finish. And I lamazed my way through 95 of those seconds because I am a wimp and I hate needles.
But also, I don’t know what to say right now. And I hate that feeling even more.
Over the past two months, there’s been some pretty crushing news from friends in various circles- some I never saw coming, and ones I hoped would never come to fruition. A few that- quite frankly- make me question exactly why I would ever set out to build my brand around hope.
But if you are about anything for any length of time, there inevitably comes a point when you have to decide whether you’re actually smoking what you’re selling.
I knew this was coming. And I know that this is all part of the process of existing- that to experience the Divine, I will also have to endure the frequent and painful reminders of my own humanity and it's precariousness. It's just that sometimes, the desert of that disparity seems a little too vast.
So while I'm camped out here, in the meantime, there’s this: my own placeholder, of sorts. Because I've decided that maybe the most sacred thing I can actually do is to hold space for someone, or something. Even hope. And even when it appears to be on hiatus.