Filed: July 8, 2025, The Reveal
Thanks to my wife, and the deep ancestral roots she carries into this part of the world, I’ve experienced things most people only brush against in dreams. Soul-level things. Things that defy language, because language was never designed to hold that kind of truth.
There’s an occurrence in the book—in Scene 9—where a sacred tattoo ceremony is revealed. Like much of the story, it actually happened. Maybe not exactly as written. Maybe not in that order. But it was always going to happen. The writing just got there first. My wife made sure the rest caught up.
There’s a Phram—a highly respected shaman—who lives about 40 minutes outside our village. Remote doesn’t cover it. You drive until the road forgets it’s a road, and then you go a little further. This Phram performs the ancient Sak Yant ceremony—a spiritual, Khmer tattooing ritual that dates back over 2,000 years. He’s not a novelty. He’s the real thing. Generational. The kind of teacher who gets summoned to Hong Kong, Taiwan, Japan—and sometimes, after traveling all that way, simply refuses to perform the ritual. If the energy is wrong, if the intention is off—even by a whisper—it’s no deal. No drama. Just no.
People wait years. Travel thousands of miles. And get turned away.
My wife asked. He answered. And so we went.
The sanctuary was a shrine to everything that came before—relics, bones, photographs, incense smoke still curling in the air. You could feel it before you entered, the presence. Not a metaphorical one. A felt, physical thing. The room vibrated with memory.
He circled outside, then entered silently. Then sat.
With a gentleness that felt like electricity passed through silk, he spoke to my wife a while. He turned to me, held my arm and rubbed it as he continued speaking softly to my wife. I stood still. Reverent. Wordless.
He began chanting. Praying. Then he began preparing my right inner forearm.
Using a traditional Khem Sak—a long, metal, needled rod—he began tapping the design into me. The pain was searing and strange: fully present, but somehow beside the point. I let it happen. Trusted the rhythm.
Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes in, my wife turned to me. Her voice was flat, direct, intent.
“How much do you believe?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “All.”
She said something in Thai. The Phram nodded. And after a time, he finished. Chanting and prayers resumed. It was over. Or, so I thought.
Without a word, he took my left arm and began preparing it as well. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t care. I had surrendered completely. This second tattoo went deeper—down into my wrist, nearly my hand. The pain stayed, but it felt like it belonged there.
And then came the final chant. Deep. Layered. Guttural and light at the same time. He blew across my neck and head, something primal and ancient and unfamiliar. A kind of pressure wrapped around my skull like a blessing disguised as a storm. Then, suddenly, quiet.
He rubbed my arm, patted my back, bowed slightly, and then disappeared out the door.
It was over. And I didn’t look. I didn’t need to. I just felt… gratitude. I knew something rare had happened, and that was enough.
Outside, my wife said, “He is connected to you. He said you’ve been journeying to find him for a thousand years. He gave you a gift he’s never given before, and never will again. Never to a foreigner. He said you are brothers.”
That was it. No applause. No ceremony. The teacher was gone.
Only when we were leaving did I finally look.
My eyes welled instantly. Not from pain. From the knowing.
Whatever fragments were left inside me—the hollowed out, half-dead pieces—left me in that moment. I felt it down to the marrow: I was free.
My wife saw it too. She felt it. We didn’t speak much after. There was nothing more to say. Not between us, and not about us. Something else had deepened.
The love, sure.
More thank that, the life. Our life.
It had imprinted itself into the soil of this place.
And it was never going to leave.
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