My first day of school in Belgium would have been terrifying, if it weren’t for a painting. Standing in the lobby of a football-field-sized hall filled with shouting, excited children, I was frozen still. Not knowing the language, I couldn’t speak, only mustering enough strength to look over my shoulder at mom, who was quickly disappearing into a void of indigo-laden morning darkness. She was worriedly waving at me, her shoulders hunched in the chilly dawn air, but I couldn’t process what she was communicating; fear occupied my mind.
My anchor of peace was a picture on the other side of the hall. A laminated mounted print, about 4 feet tall, featuring a naturalistic illustration of a young girl in a field. She had a pretty outfit on, like the upper-middle-class kids in paintings by Manet. Her hand gently brushed the soft ochre reeds, with her head turned away from the viewer, facing a path cutting through the field. The path narrowed to a dark point in the horizon, and once the eye settled on that spot, it evoked feelings of doom, terror, uncertainty.
Though I couldn’t see her face, I could somehow feel from her body language that she was steadfast, unafraid, ready to explore, even though she felt the same fear I did. And she was a kid, a bit older than me, but a kid just the same, naturally inviting me to endow her with that magical deference that kids tend to give their slightly older peers. I felt that while I might be scared, while I might be alone right now, I have the strength inside me to get through the dark, uncertain path laid before me. For a long time after that initial turbulence, I would look to her for comfort, even though I began making friends and enjoying school quite a bit, with its intoxicating scent of Play-Doh. God knows if the purpose of the image aligned with my reading, maybe it was a warning to stay out of unfamiliar situations, but I still catch myself thinking of her as an icon of strength, even though I’m now old enough to be her father.
