Ed. note: Utne editor-in-chief, Nina Utne, was arrested during the Washington DC antiwar protest on September 24. This is her mostly unedited account of the event.

It is hard to type right now because I have a huge open blister on my right middle finger, from tying pink balloons. My son, Oliver, came from college to DC for the march so I conscripted him and his friends, Zan and Ezra, as well as my niece, Ingrid, and her friends, to inflate and tie and beribbon almost 2,000 balloons with me in an assembly line. If, in any of the meager coverage of the march, you saw those highly visible and festive spots of pink, my blister is worth it and my accomplices will feel gratified.

I also have a large bruise on my right wrist from getting arrested, but I'll get to that.

I have never considered myself an activist, but, increasingly, I find that I can't not act. So I felt compelled to show up in Washington DC, to contribute whatever I could, and to experience the power that comes of knowing that we are not alone. I figured I'd do whatever CodePink needed me for, whether tying balloons or running errands or tracking down details. As it turned out, I ended up spending a lot of the weekend at the epicenter of the action -- with Cindy Sheehan -- doing whatever needed doing. At one moment I was grabbing likely looking women in a hotel lobby, trying to find someone who had decent looking black shoes in Cindy's shoe size -- and was willing to loan them on the spot (I found someone) and the next taking notes on precisely what a high level politician had said to Cindy so that he could be held accountable and then rubbing her shoulders in the car. I learned a lot about her -- her shoe size, the sound of her voice when she's talking to her children, her eating habits, her deep connection with her sister Dede, her stamina and her vulnerability, as well as about her adaptability, her common sense and quick mind and her salty and almost omnipresent sense of humor. I see her sitting with wet hair and a towel on her head, after yet another night of almost no sleep in a new strange bed, about to embark on an endless day of being the focal point of an exploding movement. She is eating an egg sandwich, watching the discussion about herself on Meet the Press, and trying to fathom the icon she has become, with a wry disengagement. Meanwhile, she spreads love and truth as best she can where ever she goes, with total authenticity and dedication.