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    many years ago I read a passage with an image that struck me so powerfully that I've carried it in my imagination ever since. just recently, I connect it to my practice I carry on in this busy, raucous life.

    in his book "confessions of a mask" yukio mishima describes how once, as a child, he witnessed a shinto procession, taking place in a "confused tumult" and "purposeless uproar" on a brilliant summer's day, near his home. the centerpiece of the procession was a portable shrine, carried on poles on the shoulders of young men whose "eyes were not looking upon things of this earth" as they carried it through the crowded streets. the procession passes by and finally the shrine itself, the omikoshi, comes into view.

    . . .within the thick scarlet-and-white ropes, within the guardrails of black laquer and gold, behind those fast-shut doors of gold leaf, there was a four-foot cube of pitch-blackness.

    This perfect cube of empty night, ceaselessly swaying and leaping, to and fro, up and down, was boldly reigning over the noonday of early summer.

    thanks for your indulgence. I hope you find the passage beautiful and apt, as I did.
    Last edited by Oheso; 02-14-2013 at 07:06 PM.
    and neither are they otherwise.

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