In the beginning a religion creates a problem, like the myth of the Fall. Then it provides a solution: salvation through its God. What if there were no problem, no myth, no Fall? To renounce thunderbolts, grails, meteorites, scrolls, may be to see that a path taken is someone else's journey home.
Approaching a road, I realize I had made a wrong turn, finding myself miles from where she throws back her head, opens her full lips in an ecstatic breath, and begins to dance. She dances the old way, Connemara style, the way the Irish danced before anxious priests forbade the movement of anything but the feet. Her feet flash, right enough. But her shoulders also sway, her breasts heave, her arms rise lightly from her sides. Her hips swing to the quick tempo I had planned to walk today, sojourning through so many forms and possibilities that, "simply by asserting its own correctness, science has come to stand directly in our way."
An old man, legs heavy as bags of wet rice, Bashō was lifted onto a horse's back. He had raised the hobby of haikai into the high art of haiku, by transmuting the mundane into words that emerged from the brush like an animal drawn in an other age.