The shift. The turn. The changing of the guard from red ruminations of regret and denial slowing the world down and turning the veil on holding space for the trauma in its wild unruly ravenous tunnelling through my guts, to a pitch dark room wretched and wrecked each and every time a thought of being loved arrived and then here in this presence I notice a space of fragility open clean pain rearranging the window of a new gratitude which I had bet my life would no longer hold me close. The shift The claiming The very book of naming what is no longer True but held such depth of truth in a love story where even Love could be proud. Reality can not be fought. I tried. Keeping my eyes shut though my mind wakes up and I bargain and plot remembering what was what on the morning my life shattered. Let me go back, I spattered through tears. And then and then poor little Me must be held by my tribe while I cannot feel another feel or take another breath. I believed I would not survive. The shift The glow There is only this unknown. What is here and then here and then here? Now. What will I choose inside and how to create something to weave together these shards of time before the thousand little cuts grow stronger than I? One. Then another. Milliseconds tied and trained after every patch comes untamed to find a quilting of patterns renamed so that I can finally understand why God left me here suffering like the pleas in Gesthimani. My blood wasn’t enough to keep death at bay. Today. And then another and try to love each other. That’s all I’ve discovered so far on this trepidatious path. The he’s journey just blasphemy. The shift The flow. Somehow Ive grown new muscles to carry the gifts of grief across town and into new fields where something magical wishes me to sing again with no promise the opening will keep me from harm but asked me to do it anyway. ~Mira

My left hand clenched in a fist, the grip around my love feverish. This cliff of presence with my experience skillfully jabs into my chest wrestling my heart forced to persist by the hope promised me. Promised. Me. My right hand stretches out as far as it can, waving up and down mocking itself with images of magpies and dreams I can fly. These legs peddle, paddle as waves unpredictably cast shadows changing just as I start to understand. My back arching cat-like against patterns revolving around my memories, while thousands of pure white puzzle pieces taunt my command, beckoning wholeness though I don’t know this design. My eyes, long for a God who refused to show up because the longing only occurs in the assumptions there was an absence. So I can see it when I believe in it but then I’m caught in a storm only salved by the trust I lost a long time ago. The mind. Oh fuck. There’s a terrible cost when the body’s tormented by broken promises while visions of trust get tossed into quicksand. But my feet seem to be getting what it needs from me. One step. Another. Back step then forwards. The cool grass wiggles between tired toes and then this shattering aloneness and practiced panic has something else to show. Walking around the darkest forest, open to the ghosts who wanted to have me, singing through the birds above me, hopes of spring already wondering what the winter will want from me next And though I can’t quite feel it yet, I believe in the coming warmth of summer. Still, these morning musings while the lake quits its freezing, cool breezes take over the fire of this year’s grieving allowing the steamy dreams of peace to touch my face as I continue to pray for grace. ~Mira photo by Darshan Stevens

Remember me, dancing, imagining the way the whole world would love me, silly little periwinkle flowers in my eyes reflected by the wonders of my imagination but so afraid to fly, unprepared, unaware. Remember me, so pretty. Cleaning the burgundy trail made from minutes that defined my understanding of love. Bruises branded on a tiny throat. A little voice choked as my innocence woke while I am only witnessed by my baby brown bear burned with bedtime stories you’re not suppose to tell. Remember me, limping from your room the first time your buggery bloody the back of that crinoline dress daddy picked because he loves me best. Sanity happily snapping at this rainbows end and I learn to imagine. I am Doris Day, Sophia Loren Marilyn Monroe breaking the bow in a new beau as if his love could cure the curdled pages of my happily forever after. Remember me sisters. Broken bones building empty homes eyes closed more afraid to cry than hide. The way of it scraping virgin flesh made whorish by knifepoint with words I used to cut myself. Presence foggy and abandoned in the rain. Remember me brothers. A juggernaut boring through powerless pink pyjamas to drink the drama like a bottomless dirty martini. Like you could save me. I can't even hear the poetry whispering as the deafening dream clouds over as I’m pretending I'm OK every time I take off my clothes. The smell of my self loathing perfumed by breakfast kept secret, separate, festering underneath Disney bedsheets. The idea of me out of focus as I numbly chase the dizzying voices of God. Who was that who witnessed that who said that and then that who is that in my mind? The sacred left it in the chamber like so many bullets. I can’t remember when I began this tragic game of roulette. My most delicious dreams sent to me by angles cooing, “patience, patience you are loved”. And though I hate them, I heard them, and memorize the melody they call to me nightly, “Sing. Sing! Sing to me.” Remember me flying past surviving. I Am victorious. The tests of fire bring whole again my puzzle pieces perfected before I was born and then I am showed a new painting. Colours free all across that once retched sky while I shake them awake with my Grimms lullaby. They want to hide from the dark, want to justify the ugly slugging round my belly but I will show them anyway! I’m protected by those ancient poets placing saffron in the moonlight to make fragrant this fight for truth. I am merely collateral light, in case She is gazing at me looking for proof that love can win. We can stare together at the stars and pray for a prize, a clue, a rescue, for the ancient wounds wound around a girl like me.

When I was a kid, the fat, roly-poly, insecure kid in class who was always picked last, I wanted a dancers body. Sleek, lean, strong, proud. But now I can see those women who fought for their dreams of dance, nurturing their broken toes and battered knees, bounded breasts, made to stay skinny. I hear the ache in their bones, unwound, *what could have been?* bursting at the seams of best intentions. When I was 20 there were these flirty, confident girlies, dancing on stages that terrified me. And speaking their experience so deeply, eloquently, that I longed to know their pain just so maybe I'd weight in the same rank as they. I got sick with envy. Then my 30’s noticed these soul sisters, longing to be misters, who came to feel the world in their fingertips and notice every movement like nobody was watching. Telling the Truth a mortal fear but doing it anyway. They had to. I wanted to be different just like them. They might have understood the crazy that boiled inside me. But now I see the struggle, the beatings the political muddle, their fight in the muggle mortal world rejected where I stand so comfortably cis. When I turned 40 I wanted to find myself in the body of a younger girl. I’d give anything in the world for the skin in their prime. Unencombered by time. So much left ahead. The freedom to redefine again and again. The freedom to change their mind. Change the bed they'd made. But now in my 50's I long for the wisdom of my elders. The freedom of those sisters who show me compassion for my angst in the chaos of a wild woman. They know the shadows that show up in the fires of menopause, understanding the hights of the mystic in the knowing of who they are really are. I think my 60s will show me a path of God so bright it could shine through the dark to all the little girls who don’t know their own beautiful, powerful beating heart . Love Mira

I've been studying for my Child and Youth Care Counsellor Certification after 25 years of working in residential and shelter treatment centres for kids. I'm beefing up my application for acceptace into a Masters degree program. Something I read this morning hit me personally. That is to say that I've been reading for over an hour about all the traits and concurrent or co morbid disorders like "mental health & addiction" and the research, unsurprisingly and generally, speaks to the function of healthy consistent and postive relationships being the first line of defense and recovery for survivors. So, there's the thought I took sorta personally. As a survivor myself #metoox11years as well as a mental health worker, I can see that all of my intimate and dare I say even most of my closest friends, all have a history of trauma. Abuse being so very prevalent in a society which believes itself to be informed while perpetuating ignorance combined with my own specific spice and type of abuse history and healing modalities.... Well, I just don't date happy go lucky, trauma free, conscious since birth due to solid family and educational systems, well adapted simply happy shiny people. I like me some broody artisitc deep philosophical slighty damaged friends...because they GET ME. It's a very specific kind of passion and energy and art and conversation when survivors who dedicate themselves to recovery get together. It's an exclusive club of several billion. And yet, even in the health care system there is a stigma about survivors. Our brains and our genes evolved or withered in accordance to the abuse, especially trauma occuring before the age of 4. "We" developed differently. And yet. How do we break this cycle? Not just *me* and *my* family but globally? Why do the kids addictions wilderness camp funding become the first to be cut, again, when we shift governments? What hashtag actually changes systemic toxicity? Why do high school teachers make less than .0008% of those who put a cylander inside a basket for a living? Where is my rainbow parade? Do you know how long it takes to be given addictions and mental health treatment in an average Canadian hospital post suicide attempt? You don't get mental health support once you are medically stabel. They send you home with a referal for some group treatment or other which in Alberta has a waiting list of 3 months to 2 years depending on how valid and functional the treatment. Unless of course you are psychotic or homicidal in which case..lithium and an overworked under paid social worker's telephone number, then they send you home Do you know what education is required to work in a kids crisis line? None. What experience and training is required to get a job as a relief worker for a Youth behavioural treatment or addictions centre? High school - it's generally a minimum wage job. What formal degree is required for someone in Canada to take on and offer treatment to clients with a history of violent sexual trauma of more than a decade? None. The complexities and limitations and separateness of humanity is to blame in my humble, albeit vocal, opinion. We are arrogant and selfish and how I raise my child is none of your f'n business. It does not take a village so piss off with your perspective. We worry more about our social media algorythms and bank statements than we do about the next generation of leaders who are currently hiding in treatment centres for annorexic 11 years olds or drug detox. Oh. Not You of course. Not me. (yes, you and also me) And so what can *I* do other than complain and make a post that ten people will read? I do not know. Keep healing myself and supporting the healing of others. Vote very carefully. Volunteer and donate resources to mental health and social support agencies as best I can. Continue to speak my truth even if unpopular. Keep my own learning, mental health practices and tools sharp. Forgive them for everything. Love with all my heart.  Thank you for listening. Love, Mira Mira Black #mentalhealth #recoveryispossible #survivor #LoveChallenge #traumainformed #trauma #strengthbased #wildwomanrising

OMG. For the last several kms a police car has been following me. I noticed it three cars behind me but as I took my exit Mr policeman took it too placing him right behind me. My mind pulled the fire alarm, “Do I have any weed in my car??!! Oh wait, weed’s legal. And I’m on a cleanse so haven’t bought any for over a month.” I changed lanes. Police car changed lanes. Mind scrambling for the correct answer, “I’m not speeding. Used my turning signal. Seatbelt on. Didn’t cut anyone off. No lights or stop signs to run. Registration is paid. Licence clear. Pretty sure no warrants out for my arrest…” My heart was pounding as I turned off the main road onto a side road which would lead to a gas station. Police car turned onto the same side road and now very close behind me. “Wtf did I do wrong?? Oh God I can’t afford a fine! Please don’t do this to me!” Turning onto the Shell station lot, police car also turned into the gas station and remained on my tail. “I took a deep breath and then another and surrendered, a bit, mentally although my heart was still fighting to leap out of my chest as I parked next to the Shell convenience store. But where was my hounding cop about to send me into some nightmare fate unfolding in my imagination? What if my mother was hurt and needed me and the hospital sent a car to find me? Do they do that? Oh mommy! Okay copper, come and get me. Oh. Seems he needed gas too. Breathe. Good grief Mira Black.#authoriphobia #drama#queen#mindsetiseverything 😳 LoL

#weshouldtalk photo of Jason McLean author of "One drop of Water"

Story Time Stopped at a red light after a very long and seemingly fruitless day, I noticed a dishevelled looking man standing on the sidewalk with a sign that said "homeless and hungry". I quickly averted my eyes, habitually perhaps, suddenly riveted by the car in front of me. Discomfort spread across my brow and I felt a shadow of resentment pointed at this man who contributed to my already furrowed brow. I disconnected. Too easily. I thought about the coins near my radio sitting in what would have been an ashtray if I still smoked cigarettes. But, well that's for emergencies especially since I often forget to bring change for the old school parking meter outside my yoga shala. As my stealthy avoidance reminiscening reminded me of my yoga practice, I felt how grateful I am for the privilege and opportunity to train. My heart opened. Then I noticed a guilt rise like a slow burn up my spine and I bowed my head fidgeting with the car radio I never use. Hidding in plain sight. Looking down, anywhere but out though somewhat in, I saw my lunch bag and my mind recalled the freshly roasted, organic, grain fed, humanely raised chicken leg and thigh fried with fresh herbs which I had packed up this morning for work. Such a conscious, healthy meal good for me! But I'd just had a large Tim Hortons double double coffee so wasn't hungry. That's when it hit me. Like a slap across my face: I'm not hungry. I've never been truly heartbreakingly unavoidably hungry. Never. I pulled out my freshly roasted humanely raised, grain fed chicken, rolled down my window and beckoned the homeless man over. He stood up and walked towards my now smiling face with trepidation. "Would you like some freshly roasted chicken? I cooked it myself." He walked towards my car still idling at the red light and stopped an arms length from my open window, careful, I noticed, not to get too close. This was a gesture obviously for me with the practised boundary He's honed. He took the chicken gently from my hand, stepped back again and with a ragged but clear voice he looked into my now unhidden eyes and said, "Thank you, yes. By all means yes! Thank you." I felt good. Of course I did. Was it because I released the guilt by taking action as I took my foot off the break and memorized this man now sitting back with his sign, devouring my chicken? Sure, that makes sense. Was it because I wanted to act like a good person, to be liked and post my good deed on Facebook? Why not? Was it because I wanted this Other, this Man, with his own story and suffering and lessons and grief and obvious loss to have some reprieve even for a moment, even with what ever barriers and pummelling Life has given him to face? Certainly. Arrogant of me to think this tiny contribution will be oh so very important, but certainly a factor in my good feels. Truth is though, it was the contact. The moment he took the food from my outstretched hand there was a connection between two souls. Seems maybe the connection actually occured the moment my heart opened. A common place between us where this human experience can be salved and goodness might be validated. Nothing else. A moment of true contact between brothers in arms on this earth plane. He bowed his head slightly backing away to the sidewalk and I placed my two palms together in front of my chest and silently blessed him. Neither of us will recognize each other in a crowd. But we had an intimate moment of open hearts. Gratitude from both of us pointed at the other. Our eyes were locked in a brief moment of grace. And it changed us in a micro m oment of shared experience here on the street. It strikes me now, driving off to my cozy little apartment sublet, heading home from my sustainable job, full belly, cold coffee and a voice memo of love from my best friend saved on this phone I'm writing you from, that I had just been given a great gift. The gift of remembering with gratitude the Truth of Who I Am when I choose Love: I Am That.  I Am Love.

It's days like today when the sun shines too brightly for what the heart is finding inside the moments I'm not sure I've said I what I need to say. Looking in, instead of back the forward seems to lack a fullness and it keeps holding on to what's gone. And yet all along the way I can paint the smiles which warmed me in the darkest corners, surround my self with that which calms me in the space between honest friendship and love. You know who you are. But have I told you the passion your teachings invited, or of the wisdom which ignited a flame now wandering through the halls of my Life? Have I mentioned the boisterous laughter echoing through this minstrels mind meandering across the miles between us? What if I’ve got it wrong and all along you’ve held onto the things that needed clearing and sharing and loving? I'm ready to hear your wanting. Would you tell me your heart if I had asked from mine opened by the days we held each other through the night dark? It's plausible the cause of poetry I have written you will frighten the kind of child running amok in us both while running harder towards the rift memorized by God. It doesn't matter. If I never see you again my friend these lives left behind or yet to become a binding thread, the blood line of depth created a death defying connection between the authenticity of who we are beyond the ideas scarred in the mind. And still, here in the infinite Divine distance infested with resistance and all kinds of scary bedtime stories but there is no worry or miscommunication even inside the cryptic way I say this, because I know you know and I remember that dazzling smile unconsciously spreading across that wizened body telling me how proud you are of me and I holding you tightly opening your heart around you in a way neither of us knew existed. Who knows when our eyes will lock again but then will you remember the Truth of me when the fears in me collide with those things in you wounded through the very core while this sentence might go on and on and still not find the point of connection required to convey how much I love You. But I do.