After dinner with my friend Daphne the other night, I had some time before my train. I love having open time to let something nice happen. It didn’t take long. In front of the Boston Public Library, I sat and listened to Aisling Peartree who was singing, singing, singing – singing for the pleasure of letting one’s soul vibrate, so it can shimmy on over and touch another’s. She was great. She was just so happy singing. I felt happy too.
People love to be invited into an open space. People stopped to discuss if, in fact, it was okay to sit in it. They climbed in, had their picture taken, swapped places, leaned between the legs of their sitting lover, popped their kids up to have a turn. They smiled and laughed. They had a relationship with the art. Invitation is, perhaps, the oldest technology around.
I climbed in too, and meditated. It was brief sit, but a great perspective-shifting experience. Inside the globe, sound and vibration changed. It was a little bit like what happens when you’re underwater, and it created the distinct feeling of being acted upon. I went from being part of experience in the world, to having the experience of the world happen to me. The rumble of the truck felt like is was running over me. Sound, especially deep sound, like the the bass of loud music, left me feeling a little bombarded. And just by tucking in and closing my eyes, I immediately became an object of an “other” category: oh, she’s in there…, as if there wasn’t right here, together.
I thought, this is what the earth feels like. We rumble all over it, we drown out it’s sound in favor of our own, and see it as distinctly different than ourselves. I felt deep compassion for our planet, and humility at how much perspective I lack 99.999% of the time. That’s a successful piece of art.
Sound is especially important, because it’s so hard to find any true quiet, once you’re listening. We can close our eyes and still our bodies, but sound is very difficult to control. When I got off the train and it pulled away, it drown out every other auditory signal, and I realized how vulnerable I felt, loosing – even just for a moment – and entire sense. Coming up into the Back Bay concourse, it was a blur of noise – announcements, people talking, fans, echos – and I realized that maybe part of why we are so tense, so subtly fearful, is we’ve lost our ability to consume the natural queues in the world around us. Our instincts are injured – literally deafened – and we feel less connected to our environment as a result.