Womb, She Who Loved Delius, Untamed Evening
She creates us, the known,
in unknown’s name.
From chantries of her womb,
whales descant, renewing
old season’s tune. Pebbles
rolling on beaches are
rubbed and rounded, as judgments
reduce to unmarked mind.
When She is absent, we keen.
When present, we are speechless.
She who loved Delius
(in memoriam Jude)
When black bird comes close and with beady eye
gazes unwaveringly, you know the gate
has been opened for memories to walk through.
Past encounters present in the hedgerow.
In one hand you hold a brush, the kind
Chinese calligraphers use,
in the other a small Buddha in need of dusting.
“I have not used this brush in years, and you,
needing to mind lenses, will make good use of it.”
Said the stooping artist to the man, who in his youth
grew his hair long because he was a cinematographer.
The artist had a daughter who played Delius on
a grand piano. She schlepped it wherever she lived.
When friends freaked out, she talked them down,
calmed protestors at political rallies, paid taxi men
with bottle caps. The young man married, had a son,
forsook his camera, that made a record
of the world out there, and looked within,
finding a small Buddha in need of cleaning.
The brush now found itself being used
for a purpose never anticipated by its Chinese maker,
the hunched artist or his serene daughter.
Sweeping gently dislodged a cloud of dust that had
accumulated on Buddha’s ear lobes, on head whorls,
on soles of lotus feet. Where there is action, there is also
counter-action, traction at the cost of raising dirt, karma
awakening awareness for those who have been hurt.
Daughter who loved Delius, forgive my neglect.
From the other world, sense my thoughts of you,
that arise with love, and not from regret. There may yet
be more encounters in hedgerows, and on hill tops
where circles of pines sigh in sudden wind.
Harvester spirals cornfield. Rooks fly
to hilltop pines. Surely a call from past lives
has impelled our encounter; how else
could we experience ourselves as perfected
aromas blended in flasks of desire?
We embrace like wounded veterans,
like teenagers flushed from kissing.
Harvester continues to cut the corn,
gears and belts whirring, coming closer
and moving off by turns.
Wide wings of evening archangels
dissolve into immensity of sky.
By Misha Norland
Mishaâ€™s legacy is immense, his footprints carved in stone in a myriad homeopathic nooks and crannies. He left a wealth of riches for every student, every homeopath, for every school - and so he will be remembered with the greatest of ease. Above all he left his sons to carry on his healing traditions.
Misha was our father, our grandfather, our beacon. Misha was the last bridge between the old and new eras of homoeopathy, yet always a pioneer. Misha was the founder of our schools. Misha was the face of peace and tranquility, the heart of love and poetry, the mind of metaphor.
Misha had a magical way of bringing joy every time he walked into the classroom. No one who met him could forget his smile. And I'll never forget the advice and the lessons he taught me. His wisdom will forever guide me in my homeopathic practice. Misha was a man who set a lasting impression on everyone he met. His deep laugh and kind eyes warmed the room and brought life into the most boring subjects in the class. He was a great teacher and a dependable friend.
Dear Misha, Dear old friend, So vital So full of Love, So curious, So good friendship, So loyal. Thanks for being in my life since 1984. 36 years. We connect sure in the next realm.