The garden is lush, a sanctuary of emerald and breath, yet the air carries the weight of a storm that hasn't arrived—but is always felt.

​

In A Mother’s Vigil, the peace of meditation is a fragile thin veil. While the surface suggests stillness, the "back of the mind" is painted in the harsh, jagged language of the world outside. Here, the soft curves of nature collide with the cold geometry of graffiti-scarred walls and the haunting silhouettes of a military presence. Even in prayer, the glint of steel and the rhythm of boots echo against the quiet.

​

She clutches her child not just with love, but with the desperate gravity of a shield. It is the visceral reality of motherhood: the realization that to love is to have your heart walk around outside your chest, completely exposed to a world that isn't always kind. The birds act as nature's sentinels, restless and alert, mirroring the intuitive hum of a mother who knows that "safe" is a relative term.

​

This piece is a quiet, poetic protest—a lament for the tenderness we must maintain while bracing for a reality we cannot control. It asks us to look at the shadows lurking behind the flowers and wonder: How do we nurture life in the shadow of the machine?