My senior class recently took a trip to our local art museum. The museum was a big brick building; it seemed to be one of the oldest buildings in our small town. The main entrance contained several odd paintings and a staircase. The staircase, which would take my class to our second floor destination, was old and creaky. The second floor had several rooms, each one containing a different style of art. As I wandered through each room, I looked closely at the many pieces, unsure of what artwork I wanted to write about for our upcoming class assignment. I walked slowly through the rooms, examining each piece of art as if I were going to write about every single one.

As I began my second trip around the museum I noticed a classmate sitting on the ground writing about a picture on the wall. I hadn’t even noticed that picture on my first pass through, but as soon as I looked at it there was something about it that enthralled me. I walked through each room once more looking at the artwork; I couldn’t get my mind off of that one piece. The piece that seemed so mysterious and cold, yet somehow relatable. The piece that I now know is “After Ivan Shishkin,” by Megan Vossler.

Looking at this artwork, I could tell that the artist invested a great amount of time into the piece. Many little details went into making it look so realistic, from the dark shadows on the ground to the rough texture in the trees. I felt like I was in the painting. Standing in the middle of a forest, a forest that was perhaps once thick and overgrown, but now has become thinned by humans cutting down trees. The bareness of the trees makes me believe it is a day in the late fall, where the snow falls from the sky in little spurts, but doesn’t manage to keep its place on the ground for long. If I were to walk across the cold dew covered grass, careful not to trip over chopped trees, I would feel the fallen leaves crush like broken glass beneath my feet. The crisp air would chill my bones making my whole body shiver, yet somehow the beauty of my surroundings would keep me warm. If I were to stand in this spot I would hear only silence with a faint sound of a chainsaw running in the distance.

The dark gray coloring of the trees initially filled my heart with sadness, but when mixed with the faint yellow coloring of the sky, I am left feeling somewhat inspired. The gray represents all of the hard times that we go through as humans. The yellow is the glimmer of hope that remains beyond the darkness.

The stillness of the forest made me long for a place just like in the painting. A place where I can escape to, when the realities of life are just too much to bare. A place to go to when my eyes feel like a rain cloud waiting to burst open at any moment. A place where I can let loose and be myself without worrying about what anyone else has to think about me. A place to scream until all my frustrations wash away. A place where no one else knows or goes. A place to call my own.

I want my own place, when my mind cannot stop going, when the stress of schoolwork and sports overtake every aspect of my life. A place to go when the constant frustration, of chronic pain, I face becomes too much to handle. A place where I can clear my mind, examine the important aspects of everyday, and have the courage to continue on. A place, as in the painting, where light is found within the dark.

The trees start out bold and tall but shrink and lighten as they get farther away. The trees are the memories we hold within our hearts. To me the trees represent the memories of my Great Grandma. My memories of spending time at Great Grandma’s used to be so vivid, but as the time passes the details of those times start to slip away. Grandma was my babysitter, my teacher, and one of my biggest supporters. As the days go by without her, I fear I’ll lose the memories of her, the way she smelled, the way she talked, laughed, and smiled. I fear the little details will fade just like the trees, but I can tell the trees don’t completely disappear they keep going as long as I can see. My memories of Great Grandma may be fading with each passing day, but I will always remember some little things such as the way she husked corn and the way she asked me to sit on her lap and speak German. As long as the memories of her remain, I will be able to find a place of light within the darkness.

Looking back to the painting I realize there is a shadow on the ground beneath the trees. It speaks to me; I feel as though it is me. It is me when I am down, when I am riddled with fear, lost hope, or anxiety. It is me when I am struggling to see the joy in life. It is not alone though. It is surrounded by the trees. The trees are my family, friends, and teammates. They are all different. Some are dark, some are light, some are close, some are distant, some are broken, some are bent. They may all be different, but they are all there to help bring light into the hard times.

I never knew how much impact charcoal on canvas could have on me. It made me realize that life is not always bright and cheery, but there is always light that can be found within the dark.