She is walking forward like she just won a mighty battle, her shoulders back, her robe rippling across her hips, her heart open, leading the way. This is no fearful wilting wallflower, oh no, this woman is exultant. I was visiting the Louvre in 1998 with my dear friend, Eric, when I turned a corner and saw her standing in triumph at the top of the stairs. Chills ran up my arms, as I stopped in my tracks and stared.
Winged Victory is a 2,000-year-old marble sculpture of the goddess victory, Nike, which has been given a place of maximum impact at the Louvre, on top of an enormous stairway. Many people were standing at the bottom of the stairs, and Eric and I joined them, gazing in awe. I heard whispers next to me, and when I glanced over, I saw a young blind boy with an adult next to him, describing the piece of art. Without even thinking, hot tears spilled down my cheeks and a swirl of emotions made my heart feel like it was fluttering around my chest, trying to break free. What would it be like to walk through the greatest art ever created by humans and not be able to see it? What kinds of words was the adult using to describe this stunning 2,000-year old sculpture? Was she able to paint a picture with her words, capture the wonder? The child looked like an ordinary boy, but as he listened to her whispers, his back grew taller and his shoulders rolled back, almost like his own invisible magnificent wings were spreading behind him. The woman linked arms with him and kept whispering while leading him up the stairway.
As my eyes traveled back and forth between the boy and Winged Victory, I felt my own invisible wings start to spread. This was twenty years before losing my father to cancer, my marriage to infidelity, and my best friend to suicide in the same year. I didn’t know then how much I was going to need those invisible wings to get me through these staggering losses, and the many more that were headed my way.
Experts speculate which ancient battle Winged Victory was created for, but does it matter? We are all fighting our own battles in our own way every single day. The fact that we are here, out in the world, celebrating the majesty of the human spirit through art, creating our own art, walking through these treasured creations, letting their astonishing beauty wash over us, is a winged victory in itself. I wiped my tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and walked on, with my shoulders rolled back and my dress rippling across my hips.
Now twenty five years later, if I happen across a photo of Winged Victory, I remember that boy. I lift my head higher, straighten my back to make room for my wings, and breathe steadiness into my shattered heart, reminding myself that I’m still here.
And no matter how broken and bruised, my heart stays open and leads the way.
