Roar, Arranging Flowers, It is You



Every experience, however judged, benefits

from deepest immersion, it is that which brings

significance and meaning. Wisdom is

carried by the heron flying towards

the setting sun, and offered to our rebirth.


The untameable roar of life, swift

as melt water, is resolute as faith.

Life unites inner and outer, integrates

better and worse, merges

above and below, until mind shines


reason on experience and distinguishes

the incident from the experiencer.

Then ephemeral revelations

of ambiguity fill our

impermanent sentience with knowledge of itself.

From the stump of confusion, we watch

limbs of regeneration touched by light,

see the details of this world with the clarity

of a bird’s gaze, and appreciate beauty

in all things magnanimous and mean.


Red flower


Arranging flowers

Being older I love simple things

like picking blooms; each bunch

a mix of tame and wild.

When I do not know what

to do with my hours, I step out

with secateurs totally beguiled

by the sanity of flowers.


Tiger lilies push out of pots; black spots

upon unbridled orange, petals flung back

like scarves cast aside in a flush.


Purple of artichoke, scent of Sierra,

intoxicates the bumble bee; yellow amidst

anthers it is a giddy galleon at sea.

Butterflies on buddleia, a ballet, while

in stately pace, lupins as if frozen, rectify

their collapse with dignified grace.


A pride of poppies could be riotous in

a cultivated English vase where

discrimination dictates restraint.


I am ripened and unruly; I shall

put together an arrangement

as would make a youngster

clap hands and scorn the folly

of age. I boast. There is calmness

in gardens: evening sweet

of honeysuckle, feral scent of sage.


It is You

Amidst the ordinary,

I have been seized by

divine anarchy. I am here

under the shimmering sky

and seasons have changed.


There is fragrance of apple mist

when bright fruits are bitten,

of fresh champagne

poured into crystal.

God and I are ablaze

under the night.


Our hands clap the giddy

rhythms of planets.

Our feet kick stars scattering

their rainbow light.


It is You, drunk with reality,

who’s dancing in my heart,

dissolving, in an instant,

the mortal and solid

boundaries of self.

By Misha Norland

Misha'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.

Miranda Castro
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.

Jeremy Sherr
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.

Farokh Masters
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.

Alize Timmerman