Hello all. Thank you so very much for sending all your hands. We are getting ready to send them to Sweden for an exabition. So please keep sending them and we are also getting a Non-Profit going for Sarah and others that are in her place. I will have the bank number soon and anything that you or your friends can send would be a blessing. We want to help all that we can, but Sarah comes first. Please keep sending and praying if you pray and Thank you so very much for every thing that you do.
Thank You all Bonnie
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Just to let every one to know , we are extending the hands for Humanity. We are also setting up an account so that is any one wants to send money, it will go for Sarah first for an attorney to see if we can get her home. Than after that, we will raise money for others that have been wrongly accused and need our help. We will try to help all those that we can. If you know of a way to make money for the fund, it is called. Fair Justis. I will give the bank number as soon as I get our EIN number and have an account.
We need you help and prayers for all that have been wrongly accused. Thank you for all your help and God Bless one and all.
Sarah's Mom Bonnie
We need you help and prayers for all that have been wrongly accused. Thank you for all your help and God Bless one and all.
Sarah's Mom Bonnie
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Thank You All
I WANT TO TELL ALL OF YOU, THAT I WISH I COULD HOLD EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOUR HANDS. YOU ALL HAVE A PLACE IN MY HEART FOR ALL THAT YOU DO. THANK YOU FROM THE VERY BOTTOM OF MY HEART.
BONNIE PROSSER
SARAH'S MOM
BONNIE PROSSER
SARAH'S MOM
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Origin of Hands
The inspiration for these Hands projects bloomed from acts of Love.
The Art of Holding Hands
In 2009, while I endured what would become years of torture in solitary confinement, my friend Bobbi Dillman-Holman's body was invaded by cancer. Chemotherapy poisoned her, mutable surgeries transformed her body, and potent medication obscured her once vivacious personality, but never hardened her tender heart. She wrote me loving, supportive, sometimes illegible letters and on the last page traced her hand, the one with a stubbed finger we nicknamed " Nubby". I traced my hand in return and this became our physical connection. Bobbi died in March 2010. When I miss her, I place my palm on hers and for a moment we can still hold hands.
Will you extend your hand?
What's your Story?
I have lived in solitary confinement since 2008. The only hands that touch me are medical personnel or prison guards when they clamp handcuffs around my wrists and walk me from my concrete cell down the hall to a shower cage or to the visiting box. Each week that my mother visits, a guards hands search her body, inspect her shoes, and lead her through a metal detector and into the visiting box. Before we pick up the wall phones we press our hands palm to palm against the glass, the closest connection we can make.
I look at her hand. From the dirt wedged under her nails, I can see that she has been planting flowers. I point and ask what "happened"? She tells me the story behind a scratch: a malnutrition kitten she rescued from certain death. A cracked callous: to many dishes, not enough lotion. A blood draw bruise. A bacon grease burn. I realize how many stories are told by her hands, how much they do, and what those actions indiscriminately say about who we are. I think about Bobbi's nubby finger, Kim's chewed nails, Jamie's callouses, Dad's nicks and cuts. What stories could my hands tell? And what would they say about who I choose to be in life?
What's Your Story??
The Art of Holding Hands
In 2009, while I endured what would become years of torture in solitary confinement, my friend Bobbi Dillman-Holman's body was invaded by cancer. Chemotherapy poisoned her, mutable surgeries transformed her body, and potent medication obscured her once vivacious personality, but never hardened her tender heart. She wrote me loving, supportive, sometimes illegible letters and on the last page traced her hand, the one with a stubbed finger we nicknamed " Nubby". I traced my hand in return and this became our physical connection. Bobbi died in March 2010. When I miss her, I place my palm on hers and for a moment we can still hold hands.
Will you extend your hand?
What's your Story?
I have lived in solitary confinement since 2008. The only hands that touch me are medical personnel or prison guards when they clamp handcuffs around my wrists and walk me from my concrete cell down the hall to a shower cage or to the visiting box. Each week that my mother visits, a guards hands search her body, inspect her shoes, and lead her through a metal detector and into the visiting box. Before we pick up the wall phones we press our hands palm to palm against the glass, the closest connection we can make.
I look at her hand. From the dirt wedged under her nails, I can see that she has been planting flowers. I point and ask what "happened"? She tells me the story behind a scratch: a malnutrition kitten she rescued from certain death. A cracked callous: to many dishes, not enough lotion. A blood draw bruise. A bacon grease burn. I realize how many stories are told by her hands, how much they do, and what those actions indiscriminately say about who we are. I think about Bobbi's nubby finger, Kim's chewed nails, Jamie's callouses, Dad's nicks and cuts. What stories could my hands tell? And what would they say about who I choose to be in life?
What's Your Story??
Thank You All
I would like to say that all of you have been so great for sending your art and I would like to meet all of you. But since I can't I just will tell you Thank you from the bottom of my hart. Sarah thanks you to. God Bless you all.
Thank you Bonnie Sarahs mom
Thank you Bonnie Sarahs mom
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