Echoes

I am tattooed with snapshots of who I have been: A naïve Zionist teenager with her Hebrew name on her back; a granddaughter of Holocaust survivors with a memorial etched indelibly on her arm; a girl with the ourobouros, the snake eating its tail, ancient symbol of fertility, tradition, growth, change, twisted into an infinity symbol on her shoulder; a woman growing into her skin with a declaration of self on her wrist. It shows vines twisting down my forearm and culminating at my wrist in the hebrew word “Hineini,” here I am. It is the response of powerful Biblical characters when God calls their name; not cowering, not fear. It represents the most important kind of strength, the strength to retain a sense of self in the midst of things much bigger than you. The strength not to be afraid of failing, to know that even if you can’t do everything, you can do something. Facing sexism, facing racism, facing poverty and greed and inequality, I can do something. Every time I shake someone’s hand, the word Hineini faces up from my wrist, a joyful reminder of my heritage, the tattoo and the history reclaimed intact. It is a reminder to be mindful, to not take time for granted, that wherever I am in life, to enjoy being there, in that moment. Hineini, here I am.