Death Defying

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 like I’m squeezed into a box I didn’t chose. I get grief is something to surrender to but this place remakes the very fabric I’ve clung to since I was child dreaming of music. I’m a certain kind of creature. Cut from the molds of bards and mistrals. Troubadours. Shining light in the shadows. Sound medicine spreading wisdoms down the path through ancestral vibration which connect you. Word smiths of culture we are your shamans and such the healers, magicians and the muse but . though I do this for my Soul but mostly I do this for truth. I still get surprised that I’m surprised at Life unfolding without my permission. No hero jumping through my door. So much never comes to fruition even for the very best of Us. And yet we still get right back up. No control here. Lessons made to grow me. Making me face that sticky place I know well. See, my heart’s still bent from that last good beating. She must have her own say. Ignoring the brand new way new love waits for me to show up completely. But I am addicted to the tears. Then I am suddenly groundless, singing out into the silence alone in my room and these days without the freedom to be with all of You seems to be burrowing through my soft underbelly which someone else has carved into. The governmental through and through. And still, more than anything, I forge new work in the dark, seeking a new spark, anything to warm the virus of separation doing my part. this hopeful little heart, send out a wish You are still listening. Humanity glistening in my memory locked in the scene of my best slow dance. I find tender salves in the moments I notice how we all find our way back to each other time and time again. Then how quickly to get lost in the game. We’re survivors after all and above all the same. Somewhere inside beyond the things easily named. At the cells our energies dwell between your inhale and mine. Energy entwined if only for the time of this song. What’s even stronger than war and greed and loss and desire: the fundamental principle and absolute fire inside all of us? *Love. We just keep forgetting. ~Mira #inthistogether #lockd 

CENSORED *an opinion piece Trigger warning: authentic communication “ I think because we are forced to focus on covid 24/7 for over a year there is a hyperventilating on all fronts. Fear breeding fear. Not a new aspect of humans but certainly a pointed energy with each and every human being made to focus on this one thing all the time. I’m doing it right now. If we as a global tribe talked about the science and facts about anything that is killing us we would see this degree of fear pushing us together and then we exert individuality, and externalizers, we implode and fight. We seem to do that again and again until one side overpowers the other. Some are tired of the conversation. Fear and a ‘power over’ mentality is in fact happening and it’s happening around something that one “side” feels should not have this much focus and money poured into it. The other side dismissed and foolish children. Neither truly, actively, reflectively listening to each other. Some are huddling towards elected leadership and traditional beliefs around science and media structures with trust and adherence to what overtly or inadvertently we agreed upon as a society. I pay my taxes and enjoy most of the benefits. I can’t take only what I want and refuse that of what my people want or need. Democracy doesn’t work that way. I do not have a “right” to do say or act in what ever way I, I, mine, me, my wish. It is the most powerful current conversation trumping all others. Covid. I get both sides. I really think I’m getting both sides. I, like most, long for balance. That’s not new of course. The need for Balance. We could have chosen to focus on the death toll from sugar and we could have banned it or socially punished those who disagree...those who choose to feed their children very little else. And there are sides here. Those who believe it is our right. Those who ignore the facts over industry. Those who chose one scientific journal over another. Those who don’t care and fill in line “oh live a little, it’s a special occasion” and those who start organic raw food gluten free vegan groceries. And about the shit in Splenda or Aspartame we feed each other and our kids? I mean pick a global catastrophe and make the world ...the whole world ...focus directly on that all the time for a year? Cancer. Rape. Indigenous rights. Domestic violence. Read the science there and tell me we ought not be hiding in our homes in protest! All the fuss about this *one* is confusing for some when there are actually much more deadly issues. I am sad for those who’ve lost loved ones from this disease. Also for those killled from being beaten to death or from starvation or religious persecution. My heart truly truly breaks for all the grieving. And yet. Have we stopped talking about human sex trafficking or the massively rising death toll of men over 50 by suicide, or the human rights atrocities of pharmaceutical industry, climate change,black lives, Asian lives, lgbtq2 lives... #musicianslife “Pandemic” all day long. Some are trying to be heard around the trillions of dollars being made by some others, directly related to this pandemic...and think specifically about which aspects of culture are morphing to its ultimate extinction. Which one do you prefer to have thrive? Okay, I’m trying to have balance but I guess there is a bias towards, something fishy’s going on in the castle but us villagers are too tired and being rated by dragons to fight back. I do not wish my 70 something mother to die. I really don’t. I love her viscerally and will be lost without her for a long time. But I’m truly not certain that this global lockdown and culture fear mongering pointing trillions of dollars towards the purchase of an indispensable corporations chemicals while so much goodness withers, is worth even her beloved and precious life. I do not know. Im not making a statements for or against the vaccine here. I wear a medical mask and sterile gloves and special protective goggles and sometimes full medical smocks for 9 hour shifts. And then masked to the store on the way home, may as well keep on the gear, then mask to do my laundry or meet a friend. I do the do’s. I’m worn down by the cultural expectations and will get the vaccine myself. Even if it’s a horrid long term thing or the only way to get some sense of normal connection again. I certainly don’t want to be left behind either way! This is only an observance from my personal study and perspective. No scientists or anti maskers were directly harmed in my contemplation even though I have often been told my words and questions are “killing someone’s grandma” I do have to note that humanity are making choices inside elements of torture (isolation, restrictions, loss of culture and mandating or denying spiritual gathering, negative messaging and fear battered across a blue screen designed to create dependency, rationing of resources and financial ruin for some etc). Lock the doors to the police and social services but open the mall. Forbid live music and nurture Facebook. Walmart and Amazon over local anything. I can sit in a large room full of people without a mask while I eat and drink and laugh but most can not, even in full medical coverings, visit their frightened or injured parents. Masked children growing up without the smiles and cooing and social teachings of their tribe. And yes. We will evolve and we can live and re create and we do. We adapt. And some still spend their days helping each other. I get we have been fighting for a covid vaccine since SARS and we have cured many many things w the right drugs. Insuline, methimozile, antibiotics and on and on drugs can prevent imminent death and suffering. And yet there is a way in which we too often do not do the harder work underlying the disease but flail around with toxic responses. Some are asking if this might be one of those times where we are missing the point. I do not know the absolute true. Of course I can’t yet know. But all of it does give me cause to question. Most pointedly the current disallowance to question. Censorship is deep right now. There are of course those who need a cure and some semblance of a return to the world of connection and commerce. Some kind of felt normalcy perhaps. Some way, any way of stopping this shift weather it be a massive loss of humans or of spirit or of music or of...or of...loss loss and change. So hard! Longing and craving and loss on all fronts. I also want a fix to be realized and activated ASAP. Still, there are those who feel freedom and personal choice over ride even death. War. Genicide. Police and military brutality. Alcoholism. Misogyny. We kill each other. We do do that. The question now might be ..could be...what is truly where we, as a global race, are focusing all our resources towards and is that fundamentally the correct choice. We tend to fight for the quick fix; the short term salve, rather than choose to do the hard work for a long term collective solution. We also have a deep capacity for great love and compassion and connection. How do we focus the whole world on that? I feel from my witnessing, from my corner of the world, that talking about the down side and potential long term effects while we are in the act of putting the chemical inside peoples bodies across the planet is a worthwhile conversion to nurture. It’s about the freedoms to question and disagree and make educated informed consensual choices. Can we do that while in the elements of crisis, trauma and distress? I’m not yet clear on that. The hardest part for me I think is the *logical* integration of information while there is so much conflict and contradictions and false news. Even what looks to be real is not and all sides feel “there” side is the right and just and real and factual scientific and philosophical stance. But only a very very small portion of humanity have and understand the absolute Truth and even smaller portion of those might be acting altruistically and the very best they can with what they’ve got. I am not one who knows the actual truth about this yet. I do not think anyone on my page is either. So what’s the point of this letter? I guess all I can really ask is that you speak to me and my mind offerings here with gentle respect. Refrain from assuming I am just like anyone else who has done you harm and give me the chance to be me, and to communicate and question and to listen to your respectful communications even if we disagree. Especially if we disagree. All I can do now is fight for authentic connection in what ever way is offered. I’m not allowed to sit with you or sing to you or hold you and often there is no tone or eyes or heart beat to guide our connection. My intention is always pointed towards love even when that love feels flaccid, impotent or so tried I need reminding of my capacity to Love even when bleeding beside you in the trenches of Life. Thank you for listening.” Love, MIRA BLACK

COMPOST There's something forced in the smile I once flaunted taking for granted the movement of love through the notions I once held to my chest, light as a feather. Rooms full of chairs filled with ears eager to hear what I have to say the music magic medicine in those moments we were together. I remember singing you to sleep resting in my arms to awake to the words getting under your skin. There's a new kind of hardness in my eyes this morning blinking in the mirror ever since the world turned inside out. The easy rhyme next to my mouth as no one seems to understand the Truth of my guts opening wide to this unnatural hiding in my room. And too soon someone will shame me to say something happy because my grief is too close to their own or maybe the sun that shone on their day isn't the same as mine today and it's time to take a different side of the fork sharply carved between us. That's fine. Just don't try to shut down the vein bleeding out as the poison must be lanced. Someone else will understand and then neither of us have to be alone. The sombre tone mistaken by the masses as they shout at me to dig for happiness and do what they do to get through what only I know how to hold onto. Like I don't know how to love myself as I do what I do to love myself you curse me for the loving of myself with words that burst forth from my hurt. And so as I open my heart to my needs I must take care of their need for how I take care of my needs. It's exhausting. Maybe it's foolish. Trusting the forces of humanity to take care of me like the child rising inside to see if it's safe. To take a great leap back into a place I have not known since I was a kid and make the woman in me pretend I know what I'm doing in case I need to help another through it. Because that's what I do. And hear me. I do it. Front lines and barb wired minds unfold in my arms everyday. Death tolls rise inside my tribe and it's on me to hold the children as they cry. You can't know the sound of a youth moving through the news that their brother has just died. Like something wild tearing at its own bear trap confused and screaming "why?". Bravery comes in all sorts of colours but I bet you didn't know the end of each rainbow has its own daggers digging into the ground. Underneath the jagged edges are shades you've never imagined oozing into your garden. It's amazing to taste what grows in the unknown when I can open to what the Gods want to show. I have no answers though. Not really. I can only try and meet another morning warning me to keep getting up before I atrophy succumbing to another catastrophe. I'm getting old in this pandemic watching the majestic echoes of music squash into a tiny metal screen. I'm waiting for wisdom to glean while I go deaf in the silence between us. Everything changes, yes, but the silly assumptions I just have to mention is that change isn't necessarily sweet. And I know you want me to end this with something glittery and soft just because it's too much to hold onto the flame. And that's okay. You can pray for a better day while I stay witness to decay cleaning up the mess that's left when the compost of life is left unchecked under the bed waiting to be planted in the flowerbeds next Spring.