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Roar, Arranging Flowers, It is You
Roar
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.
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