Garden statues were meant to be out in the sun, not standing in a living room, like the stone angel I’d bought. I sat on the couch, staring at my angel, too exhausted to move. Lyme disease, with a coinfection of babesiosis, had depleted me.
Normally I kept busy with painting classes, a writing group and my garden. I enjoyed all my hobbies after retiring from teaching. Now my energy level—both physically and creatively—was at an all-time low. But I was determined to finish painting my garden statue.
Time to get off the couch. I squeezed a dollop of burnt siena onto my palette and dipped my brush. The porous stone eagerly drank in the paint, as if it wanted to come to life. As usual, it wasn’t long before I felt drained and had to turn in for the night. Tomorrow was another day.
After my morning dose of medication, I unscrewed a tube of cobalt blue and started work on the angel’s gown. I took a break around lunch, but then, instead of napping, I returned to my project. I was getting to know my angel. She seemed to prefer bold, bright colors.
Mixing crimson and white created the perfect pink for her nails and lips. I used rich brown for her harp. The colors deepened as I added second coats. I felt better with my angel to focus on, but I still felt ill—like a faded version of my old self. Maybe I’ll never truly feel well again, I thought.
After several days working at a snail’s pace, I saw that my angel was nearly complete. Only her wings remained unpainted. Yellow would suit them nicely.
I stroked the color on, but against the stone the yellow paint took on a greenish cast. It didn’t suit her at all. I tried a coat of pure white, but the result was an unpleasant gray. I put my brush down and moved back to the couch. I was out of ideas.
If only I was still taking art classes, I could ask my teacher. I could go back…. I hadn’t had any such desire for a long time, but for my angel I could do it!
I drove to class that very night. I was alert for every minute of instruction. How I had missed attending my class! Afterward, I approached the teacher and explained my problem.
“A nice shade of orange will probably work,” the teacher said. “This sounds like a great project.” Back at home I opened a tube of orange-yellow and applied the paint to the wings. My teacher was right. I added shimmering gold to the wing tips and made delicate arches for the eyebrows. I stepped back to take it all in.
My angel had come alive—and so had I. As I sat in on the occasional art class, reacquainted myself with my writers’ group, and even did some gardening, my symptoms slowly fell away. For me, proper treatment started with a doctor’s prescription, but I believe my angel was the perfect home remedy.
