Committed to blog, committed to share, to spread ideas, to dialogue. But where do the words go and how do we connect the dots? I blog on my website, alone and solitare. Then, I post on Facebook where friends like, share and comment. So the stream of communication flows outward. In the climate of politics today, I am inspired, I am motivated, I am impassioned to scream out, to rise up, to join forces. Artists have a responsibility to speak out against oppression, to cry out against taking away funding for the arts and humanities. So today I move past posting about the process of loss of a mom, even though that mourning still haunts me everyday, to move towards a new mourning...a mourning of a world I thought I knew. Yesterday’s world, people cared for each other, women had earned respect and honor, not stifled and told to sit down. Our bodies mattered, they had marched and choices were left to freedom, supremely passed in past generations. Yet here I march, not alongside those in the past, but today alongside my daughter in fear, in anxiety. We marched to denounce locker room banter that diminishes our bodies, and we marched to find hope and gain control of our spiraling emotions. My work continues to express the necessity of connection of mind of body and of spirit. It retains the power of healing, not just on itself but on the whole. But here, I covered her hands, our hands with the layers of gold, to shield the memories of what was as I detach and let go, I grasp onto what was before we lost.