Today I went to see the Kusama show at David Zwirner.
There was a long line to get in, and of course it was a 30 degree day that I chose, with brisk wind coming off the Hudson.
I spent 5 seconds of my allotted 45 with my camera in front of me. Those were the only ones that were grounded to my present experience. As soon as I widened my focus to take in what the installation actually was, I got lost. It was not my own repetition that moved me, but that I was so insignificant in the light of it all. The less I saw myself, the more that opened up around me.
I would go again tomorrow if I could. To feel my mind drop and my heart open. Isn't that what all of the yoga and meditation practice and reading and research is about? Three hours is nothing for 45 seconds of tear-streaming bliss. How many hours of my life have I spent trying to learn how to let go of enough to feel the beyond, the larger consciousness that has nothing to do with me and exists whether I am aware of it or not? My problem is that there is still someone knocking on the door, telling me my time is up, asking me to come out... and not only knowing that the knock is coming, but wondering how much longer I have until it comes, why I can't I stay here forever...
My toes have regained feeling and hot tea has warmed me from the inside out, but the buzzing, tingling ecstasy is still with me. And I am grateful.