Divining Goddess: Tattooed Sawbonna & Serpent by Margot Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks/Heyoka

Tattooed upon my body. Residing in my soul. Sawbonna. Serpent. Snake. SHE who is. Was. Always will be. Like waking from a solemn sleep. I walked with the intention of heading to my home where I have been building houses. Papier-mâché mansions and tiny, tiny shacks. Sheds too, that speak of shelter. Of warmth. Of community.

After time with Jess and Benn in Emma’s office, heading in the direction of my cozy cave of light. My sanctuary. Where silence rarely slumbers. I looked up.  Above me there, right there, blue, blue, sky. Fat potent clouds. One errant, silent-speaking breeze redolent with hope. Reeking of Sawbonna. I knew that the time had come.

I knew what I had do.
I did not return home.
I turned left on to Hunter Street.
Wended my way to Simcoe Street.

After conversation with Nelson at Henry’s Barber Shop, Riverside Tattoo and I became acquainted. It was mid-afternoon.

What a full morning of rich-raw conversation. Politics. Paradoxes. Possibility. A recognition that the promise I made to my Father that his murder would not be in vain, spoke to me. Newly. Divining from and through me. Telling me in no uncertain terms that another way of speaking Sawbonna was being invited. A new languaging. One with which it was my time to become acquainted. 

Like an untrained diviner, my newly chosen willow wand in hand, I sought out the place where sustenance would speak another articulation of that promise.  A place of wisdom-keepers and artists. A place where, a new dance with Word and words of, my promise to Theodore would be birthed. A literal translation of voicing of that promise. Voice inked onto my flesh. Speaking the language of and to and for his Great-Grand-Children. My “Great”-Grand-Children.

An articulation, indeed, a re-articulation that would cement my promise. Embedding my very own meaning-making. Linked inextricably to my Daughters and my Sons-in-Law. Potent. Unshakable. Justice and joy twinned in the crucible of Sawbonna. The heart of home. The home of heart. Of truth. Of reconciliation. Of resilience. Of transformation. Shedding over and over again. Old skin. For new. New beginnings. As death ends. So then life begins. Afresh. The circle. The cycle. Snake. Serpent. Song of Songs.

After conversation with Cole at Riverside Tattoo, I learned that Joseph Baker knew calligraphy. Knew how to pen words upon flesh. How to bring to life that which the flesh was calling out to speak. Inviting ears to hear. To lean in to. To listen.

Raven Speaks/Heyoka became more myself, when after two hours of precious, potent, poignant, life-affirming experience I walked out with Sawbonna marking my meaning. Returning shortly thereafter to have Python speak HER Wisdom too upon my flesh.

Texting with my teen Grand-Children:

“I just got tattooed.”
“You did?!”
“Really?!”
“Yep.”
“Send pictures.”

My Grand-Children understand this inked language. Sawbonna and Python spoke with ease. Five texts exchanged. And my promise multiplied. Grounding continuity. Spelling the language of lineage. “Dad! I promise. Your death will not be in vain.” You will be remembered. The bones. The blood. The body. Bullets have not ended you. They have begun a new way of knowing. Of narrative. Of resurrecting the dead. The poetry that is creativity. In this new form, Dad. The tattoo in my heart. Now translated to my flesh.

We each have our own tracks to make on the body here of: Gaia. Daily sniffing out the scents and indeed the sense of our worth, of our meaning. For me since I was the age of sixteen, forty-seven years ago, I have been seeking. The liminal has been calling. Slithering snake. Sashaying serpent. Kicked out time and time again, for many a Garden of Eden. Bitten more than one apple. Fear-full. Timid. Terrified. Glad. And gladder still. For my skin has been shed. My soul strengthened. My heart freed. Over and over and over again.

Sixteen is the age of my eldest Grand-Child. The day I learned that my Father wore two bullets, and would never again return home, I was sixteen. Theodore, my Dad, and I would never again share our love of words and sky and early, early morning. This inked flesh speaks another tone.

The mystery that is the birth of meaning invites acquiescing with purpose-full steps to the call to plough through new narratives. Narrating newly. Consumed and consuming. Laying bare long-lost legacies. Trodding upon new lands of light and learning. Taut teachings unravelled.

Tattoos. The devil’s doings. For whores. Bitches. Bastards. Lost souls. Thousands and thousands of tawdry tales about tattoos and serpents, snakes. Vile. Vicious. Violent.

That day. The day I sat and heard of Jess’ Great-Grand-Mother. Another murder. That day the scent of thyme and crab-apples assailed my soul. I knew what I had to do.

I walked in the front door. Up three flights of stairs. I tapped the bell on the wooden, art-saturated front desk. Of a sudden Medusa freed to spill HER song. No matter how patriarchy continues to try to define and destroy. Every day a crucifixion. Every day a resurrection. Written on the body. Memorialized in the soul.

Negotiating and renegotiating how to live. Slithering. Soaring. Ravenous with pain. With shame. Urgency to wretch. To vomit. To vent.

To re-new.

We continue to learn to reinvent. To reinvigorate. Each and every waking moment. To surrender. Shedding happens. Language alights. We interpret. Translate. Ears. Hearts. Near the ground. Grounding. Grounded. Roots and wings. Snake and Gaia. Python and Mother Earth. Eternal dance. Eons past. Into our beckoning futures. We learn the steps. We teach.

We are the dance.

Papier-Mache House with Python & Shawzy’s Snake

by Margot Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks/Heyoka. Now living at https://riversidetattooshop.com/