bryan peña

It’s an eagle. WAIT, WAIT! THERE’S MORE!!

I woke up one dismal, winter morning in 2021 with a fervent desire to get a tattoo. It was out of nowhere and unusually obsessive. I’ve reviewed my journal and nothing in my life relating to tattoos precipitated that day nor did I have any illuminating dreams. Years earlier, there was some talk amongst college buddies about getting tattoos after we graduated but none of us had the cojones to follow through and I never thought about it again.

This type of fixation was new to me, so I relented out of curiosity and affirmed to myself that I would one day get a tattoo. But a tattoo of what? I felt like I was doing this backwards and was annoyed with myself for not already having some inspiration. The unconscious mind moves at a glacial pace, so I fostered patience and trusted that the universe would send me a sign which is as hippy as I get with my life. 

Days passed, then weeks and I still didn’t have a design in mind. The only thing I knew was that my future tattoo would go on my right bicep. First, so I could see the thing whenever I wanted and second, because that part of my body is usually covered so most people would never know that I had one. It’s not in my nature to be flashy and draw attention which is why I never grew past five-foot-six. 

Months later I read a book called Indian Boyhood written by Charles A. Eastman. The book, published in 1918, chronicles Eastman’s early life growing up in a nomadic Sioux tribe in the late 1800’s.  Indian Boyhood enthralled my inner child (okay, TWO hippy things…) and I became particularly attentive to Eastman’s descriptions of what eagles signified to the tribe. They thought the birds were spiritual because eagles could fly so high that the Sioux believed eagles could communicate with God. I researched and learned that eagles were also associated with strength, wisdom, and courage—all attributes I strove to embody. Eagles were also believed to be all-seeing as they have amazing vision but in spiritual terms it referred, I thought, to one’s ability to see inward.

When I went online to review drawings, I mostly found eagles designed to inspire patriotism. Eagles with intimidating stares that made you want to crush a beer can against your skull and scream out ‘MERICA!’ to no one in particular. I considered my aesthetic which, for years, had been wanna-be-minimalist: the less, the better. After a bit more searching, I discovered simple line drawings that were understated and more my style.  Eventually I found the possibly-copyrighted-image that I finally had tattooed on my arm at the end of August 2021. 

I love my tattoo. I see an eagle and have always seen an eagle. Some people can’t see it which amuses me. My father, for example, wondered out loud if it was a flower. Then there are those who don’t see it at first but after a sudden flash of insight, shout out “eagle!” and point to my arm. If you have a tattoo, you will not be surprised to learn that I want another one. Actually, two more. Just as the tattoo artist was finishing, I had a feeling that I should get a tattoo on my left forearm. Later, the thought came to me that I should also get a tattoo on my left bicep. I have no designs in mind but, now with experience, I know that I just have to sit back and wait for inspiration to arrive.

At some point while I was traveling through West Virginia, I began to feel isolated and detached. Not in a sad way, but in a way that was familiar from taking on tasks that necessitate solitude—like writing. This trip is like that: a journey that I have to embark on, mostly alone, for reasons that are not yet entirely clear. Or maybe I’m romanticizing this experience because I’ve always wanted my own hero’s journey; an adventure to test my mettle and reveal my character.

The desolate landscape didn’t help and only served to remind me how far from the familiar I had traveled. Passing through long stretches of wood, interspersed with ramshackle cottages and no one in sight, made me feel like I was out of reach of a helping hand should I need it. I nervously eyed my cell phone at times feeling comforted only when I had at least two signal bars. Modernity!

I arrived late to the campground in Kentucky so it was dark when I pulled into my site. I heard campers somewhere in the distance but there was no one else in my immediate area. Ever the courageous man, I walked briskly into the night towards the bathrooms which were mercifully close by and well lit. 

I slept in my car that night because it was the easy thing to do. A passing thunderstorm hours later pelted my car with rain, pushing me deeper into REM. I recalled a time in childhood when I made a sword out of scrap pieces of wood I found under the porch. This was the eighties when it was acceptable for children to wander from their parent’s watchful eye to explore their environment. Of course my parents didn’t know that I was crawling under the house, in the dirt, and around rusted nails–but they also never asked.

The wood came from pieces of an old fence and were perfectly suited to make a pointed blade and hilt. I used nails, wood glue, and a hammer that I found in my father’s shop to forge my weapon. I was so proud of my work and would wander the neighborhood, pretending to be a knight slaying imaginary dragons or, sometimes, just being He-Man. I love the eighties!

My sword disappeared sometime later when I was away on vacation. I assumed someone stole it but never properly investigated because this was before my Sherlock Holmes phase so I didn’t yet have the skills. I was heartbroken but, for some reason, never made another one. 

I slept well that first night in Kentucky and, when I woke up, I no longer felt isolated or detached. Sometimes I forget that feelings—good or bad—don’t last forever. Solitude, it seems, is in my nature. Whether I’m facing down the threat of tetanus under a porch, writing for this blog, or exploring the country on a road trip. I’m still not sure about a hero’s journey but I definitely have an adventurer’s spirit.