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I spent years trying to outrun the darkness. As though healing were a race. Then one ordinary morning I noticed my attention. How it kept returning to the same abandoned house. The same hand unwound from mine. Naked intimacies with fire, ignoring the burn. As though love were something I had to earn. The same cup where your lips last touched it. The same wound begging to become my only religion. No one told me then I was never responsible for the darkness laid upon me. Only for the quiet miracle as my attention remembers to love me as I am. Not to force. Not to run. Just... stay. The kind that sits beside the dark without becoming it. The kind that remembers there is more sky than storm. The kind that notices a bird improvising her song even while the heart is still breaking.  Perhaps awakening is nothing more mysterious than this. Love looking so gently at suffering until suffering forgets to follow me home. ~MIRA

Dedicated to a beautiful Soul walking beside me from across the veil.

Do not call me unattached because I have learned not to beg at every closing door. This heart has not become clean. It has become weathered. There are names I no longer say out loud that still change the temperature of my body. There are hands I have released that still arrive in dreams as if the soul keeps its own appointment book. I know how to pray without building a prison around the Beloved. I know how to open and still let the river move on. This did not come from holiness. It came from loss. From repetition. From standing in the aftermath with my nervous system on fire like a city skyline bright with lightning I have mistaken longing for prophecy. I have called absence care. I have watched my body reach for what my spirit had already surrendered. So no, I am not untouched. I am touched everywhere. By grief. By beauty. By the unbearable intimacy of being human with no guarantee that love will stay where I place it. Still, I refuse the immaculate heart. Let me be marked. Let tenderness leave evidence. Let love ruin the small false self that thought safety meant never opening again. At three in the morning when memory walks through me wearing someone else’s voice, I do not call it weakness. I call it proof. Something entered. Something mattered. Something sacred found a door in me and left it open. ~MIRA #brave #canadian #poet

#griefjourney

 Do you ever hear God? I mean truly hear the voice of silence louder than the ruckus across the street. Like thunder Like proof Like God is simply sitting next to you? Do you ever hear God whispering more loudly than the storm? Sometimes the depth of love inside your own heart shining, breaking opening, folding, smashing, like a lake against the rocks under the full moon torrents days before the rain? Do you ever hear God say your name? Not the one you were born with, nor the one your parents claimed. The other one. The secret one. The name only your Soul remembers when the world stops. Please tell me when you notice magic rising suddenly to kiss you for no reason except that you are here. I used to hear God. I used to feel warmth gather around me like I was the most cherished daughter, swimming in clear water, certain of the song singing to the wind. I used to know the words by heart. When magpies landed at my door, I knew they were for me. A certain melody mystical messengers made for me from my Beloved. I knew the veil was thin enough to let the dead kiss me sometimes. I knew the world was speaking in riddles and rhymes I could understand. Some call darkness failure demanding light when I am also mud, blood, hunger, river, ash, and a new moon sky. I have listened too long to people who fight over God as if God is a house only they can afford. And when I ask them about God, they laugh like I have said something only children do. When I ask them about God, they turn away afraid of demons, while I burst into a million pieces of light, realizing I’d been listening to God all along. ~ MIRA

I am ready to loosen my grip on the illusions I carried though these arms grew strong dragging every fear that named itself love Still something ancient calls me to make room for the tools a crone requires She asks me to set down that carbon-copy collection of who I was supposed to marry refuse the costumes I was taught to tally seductress saviour silenced witness whore the scorned woman still sharpening her sword against herself But these hands now forged through fire and blood hold a softer thing a soul stitched from silk and mud called from dark rooms where grief learned how to sing Still the maiden asks why this path chose her  the mother bleeds without a child to name the longing woman still trembles at the rescuers song But no one is coming now and strangely that truth has become holy because the story keeps unfolding beyond romance beyond survival into something vast enough to hold all of me Last night I dreamt in full colour birds everywhere winged messengers crossing impossible skies gone were the men who betrayed me gone were the women who vanished when I needed them most I stood alone among rot ruin and medicine Then the great white bird came massive silent radiant it stepped toward me without fear as if it already knew me You are free it said without speaking You are clean You are ready And then the bird bowed slowly deliberately to me My body filled with tears old instinct reached outward searching for someone to witness this holiness but something wiser returned me to the feathers to the moment I fell to my knees not in shame in recognition And the great bird still bowing gave its final breath as though surrender itself had come to feed me and suddenly I understood some things must die so the soul can start kneeling before its own Mastery -MIRA

It's always been a lot of work to be me. To carry the terrified little girl inside my head who still will not listen to a word I have said. A vigilant, visceral witness holding on to every bit of business this chaos called Life has handed her. Forgiving broken men. Taking the blame for the ways they came to abuse her. This morning, while storming the terrible castle I built for her, I noticed something new. I noticed how easily I pet the demons drawn to my lap, how tenderly I feed them, even after they attack and leave me bleeding on whatever floor they abandon me on. The same floor I swept every day, mopping up the footprints of my father muddying the face of my lover. Forgetting I was never meant to save any of them. Today, I gave back the guilt I swallowed. I told that little girl she was done holding on to that evil. I got this, I told her, and knew it was Truth. For the first time, she believed in the proof of my presence. You do not have to fight for love anymore. Let go of the fever forged in the darkness, the one that left you alone as if your only choice was to be used for your magic until your witchery dried up with nothing left for you. Stop hurting yourself for a muse. I found you, dear one. Fifty years following crumbs from the table of Love, calling it enough when it never was, and here you are, still alive inside me. Nothing broken. Only buried. Nothing taken. Only carried for far too long. Set down the old idea that you do not belong. I am here, my love, my daughter, my best friend, my song. Turn away from the lie that you are lost and alone. I Am here. ~ MIRA

 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