From the Inkwell
Stories inked on canvases of all sorts.
Most people (myself included) would characterize me as a rule follower. Further confirmed as a Virgo Rising, I thrive with structure and discipline. It would shock no one that I used to read grammar books for fun (think: The Elements of Style and Eats, Shoots & Leaves). So if you were to tell my adolescent (and extremely risk adverse) self that I would, as an adult, opt to sport some permanent ink, I would laugh incredulously, insisting you stop yanking my chain. Well, joke’s on me!
Picture this. It’s early 2017. I was fresh from recovering after serious spinal surgery, furiously planning our upcoming wedding in mid-September. These circumstances had me thinking a lot about my late father who had passed not long after I had turned thirteen. Our nuptials were set to take place at Bobo, a quaint West Village townhouse turned cozy French restaurant. Fortunately, this meant no dance floor for me to lament a foregone father-daughter dance. While I happily prepared to have my mom and my dad’s sister Cynthia walk me down the aisle, something about it didn’t sit entirely right with me. Somehow, it felt incomplete, deficient. How could we ever compensate for my dad’s absence?
As my mom and I had spent a significant portion of my pre-teen years visiting my ill father at the cancer wing of NYU Medical Center, my association with needles is of him with countless IVs and endless draws of bloodwork. So despite all this and a serious case of trypanophobia1, I had decided during my thirtieth year on Earth that I would get a tattoo.
Grief is a tricky beast. A beast that can lean friendly at the best of times, or wicked at its worst. Those who have weathered this road know it is never a straight line (nor should it be). What’s more unfathomable is this year will have been 25 years without him, accounting for nearly two-thirds of my life. I didn’t really start working through my grief until 2012, at which time I began baking a pecan pie on the anniversary of his passing and every year since (expect a Substack post2 on this next month) — something positive and delicious on a day that would normally be so full of sorrow.
This outlandish mission to get a tattoo was finally something just for me and my grief — lemonade from a real sh*t situation. It fit the vision I wanted for everyday as well as the wedding. The tattoo was to sit on my inner wrist, as a way to “carry” his spirit with me. Then more notably: he, too, could “walk” me down the aisle on the big day.
My dad was a no-nonsense minimalist, and my tattoo would reflect that. While I believe he would’ve absolutely hated the idea of tattoos (let alone me getting one), I’d like to think he still would’ve appreciated its thoughtfulness — all of which makes this grief more palatable, even funny. I decided on a pilcrow (¶), the typographical character commonly used to denote individual paragraphs. My desired design required superfine lines, so I sought a tattoo artist who specialized in that kind of precision. I landed with Kevin King at Bang Bang Tattoo.
A symbol that is seemingly simple and banal, a pilcrow / ¶ poetically depicts many things that matter to me most. On the surface, it represents my love of writing and typography. On a much deeper level, it’s multifold. It represents “P” for my dad Phillip. It contains “π” (which commemorates the anniversary of his passing on March 14) and “11” (which stands for his place as the eleventh sibling). It embodies new beginnings and recognizes all of the adventures that await — in the case of 2017: celebrating “Stefie 2.0” having fully bounced back from having major spine surgery nearly a year prior; toasting to the big 3-0 (three simple strokes); and marrying my best friend later that fall.
I totally love the way my beloved pilcrow turned out. Now when I look down at my wrist, I’m reminded of these things and experience all these emotions, separately and then all at once. I remember to always be brave and not to sweat the small stuff, just as I had when I found the courage to get inked. Eight years in, my pilcrow may appear a bit weathered, but the message is still clear.
I think of the stories we’ve shared and the ones we have yet to write. Mileage and medium will vary. Anything can be a canvas for storytelling. A word, sentence, paragraph, symbol, art, experience — on paper, upon skin, in the cloud, under meditation, through the senses. My interests may evolve, but one thing remains resolute. Building stories has invariably become my calling, whether imprinted on my skin or bottled in tastings. Read between the lines wines, and you shall forever uncover what sits close to my soul.
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Cheers,
Stefie aka ‘Two Bottle Stef’ 💁🏻♀️✌️🍾
Fear of needles. Eek!
Absolutely beautiful writing, Stefie. I'll never tire of reading! You honor your dad with your joie de vivre and how you shine 🌠 and share your light with those of us lucky to know you.