In my mother's garden
I am thinking of Alice Walker's (The Color Purple) In My Mother's Garden. It is an essay about the way un unempowered people (poor african american women) created things of beauty, like gardens and quilts, out of a need to empower themselves and leave a lasting memory.

My mother's garden was her children. She tended us diligently. She may have pigeon-holed us a bit early and somewhat stereotypically, but in her defence, there were so damn many of us. I, of course, was the "artiste" from very, very early on.

My good friend of many, many years lies dying unable to move or talk, and I sit with him. A person shouldn't die alone. But as I sit, I think... What is the meaning of this life? What is the meaning of my life? Will I end a collection of stuff that will be fought over and pilfered? Will people who love me know me well enough to know what I would want in-extremis? When I am dead, and the ones who know me are dead, what will the meaning of my life be?

Is that why I paint? Is all this scribbling just more stuff that will be fought over, pilfered away, but, have some value that will last longer than the memory of me?