Wings of Transformation

My mother walked into my room, a large, dust-covered painting cradled in her arms like a rescued treasure. "Found this," she said, a hopeful smile playing on her lips. "Fifty cents. Thought you might like it." The painting was a religious scene, a faded 18th-century lithograph depicting Jesus, with his exposed Sacred Heart, radiating compassion and love. The colors were muted, almost ghost-like, and the once-ornate frame was crumbling at the edges, shedding flakes of gilded wood like ancient, dried tears. Despite its dilapidated state, something about the image, perhaps the gentle sorrow in Jesus' eyes, tugged at me, whispering a forgotten memory.

I carefully laid the painting on my bed, my makeshift workspace. The brittle frame felt fragile under my fingertips as I began to dismantle it. The lithograph itself was thick, like aged parchment, surprisingly intact beneath a layer of grime. As I gently cleaned the surface with a soft cloth, the faint outlines of the scene became clearer: the compassionate lines etched on Jesus' face, the poignant detail of the Sacred Heart, encircled by thorns, yet glowing with an inner light. A wave of nostalgia, tinged with a bittersweet ache, washed over me. This depiction of Jesus, with his outstretched hand, a gesture of both blessing and invitation, seemed to embody my childhood, my years spent in Sunday school, learning the familiar stories and hymns, a past that felt both distant and deeply ingrained.

The frame, once I'd painstakingly repaired and reinforced it, felt reborn, solid and strong, ready for a new life. I was able to use acrylics to bring the lithograph more into my space, choosing hues that resonated with my own palette, vibrant and full of life.

Then, as I was reading "Black Elk Speaks," immersed in the Lakota holy man's visions of interconnectedness and the power of nature, the image of an eagle, a creature of profound significance in Lakota spirituality as well as a symbol that had always resonated with me, began to take shape in my mind. The eagle's ability to soar to great heights, its sharp vision, and its connection to the Great Spirit felt like the perfect complement to the painting. This was it: the missing piece. I picked up my brush, dipped it in burnt sienna, and began to paint. The eagle would perch on a sturdy, windswept pine branch, just above the head of Jesus, its back to him, its gaze fixed firmly on something unseen, beyond the confines of the frame. A sense of exhilaration filled me as I painted, each stroke a declaration of independence, a step towards self-discovery, mirroring the journey of Black Elk.

Adding the eagle was like breathing life into the painting, awakening it from a long slumber. The painting was no longer just a restoration; it was a transformation, a metamorphosis. It was a visual representation of my journey - from the familiar comfort of my past, represented by the figure of Jesus and the echoes of my religious upbringing, to the exciting, uncharted territory of the future, symbolized by the bold, independent eagle, poised for flight. The act of restoring and altering this old lithograph had done more than just create a piece of art. It had given me clarity, helped me reconcile with the foundations of my past while embracing the limitless potential of my future, a future now intertwined with the wisdom and spirit of nature as exemplified by Black Elk's teachings. It sparked a fascination with the power of symbols, a fascination that would weave its way through my future artwork, forever reminding me of the fifty-cent treasure that helped me find my wings and take flight.