within this temporal body composed of a hundred bones and nine holes there resides a spirit which, for lack of an adequate name, i think of as windblown. like delicate drapery, it may be torn away and blown off by the least breeze. it brought me to writing poetry many years ago, initially for its own gratification, but eventually as a way of life. the above is by basho in the beginning of his "knapsack notebook" as translated by sam hamill. they are my sentiments exactly.