i do?

This past summer, I went to a meditation retreat center to practice for several weeks together with my community. At dinner on the first evening, I struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He looked to be in his early 60s and I found out that he was a longtime student of Buddhism. We told each other a bit about ourselves, including what we did for work, if we were married, had a family, etc. He was wondering about moving in with his new girlfriend—much younger than he, more enthusiastic about living together than he, hoping, he feared, for what we all eventually discover is impossible—to stabilize a relationship. He was also concerned about giving up his solitude and really didn’t know how long he would want the relationship to continue. Given all this, should they live together, could this work, he asked? I was totally ready with “I have no idea” when a voice popped into my head and said, “Of course it can work. As long as you don’t expect it to make you happy.” So I reported these words and we had a moment. We knew it was true. Then we were kind of embarrassed—yes, though we were Buddhists whose practice involved riding and releasing the waves of feelings, obviously we still believed that a relationship could make us happy, if only we could get the circumstances just right.

My new pal and I talked about this, how relationships can blind us to the dharma quicker than anything. As we said goodbye and I watched him walk away, I wanted to call out “don’t be afraid to tell yourself the truth about relationships.” And then I wondered, well what is the truth, exactly? Do I really believe they’re not supposed to make you happy? When we long for a lasting relationship (as most people I know do), what are we wishing for again?

It was almost 10 years ago that my husband and I began talking about getting married. We covered lots of topics: who would marry us, who to invite, what to wear, whether or not we would be able to convince our favorite Cajun band to learn “Hava Nagilah.” (We were. Shout out to Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys.)

Then the most important question came up: what would we say to each other to mark this commitment? What were our intentions and which words expressed them best?

We spent time reading various liturgies and talking about what we liked and disliked at other people’s weddings. As we read the words thousands and millions of other couples had spoken to each other, I became increasingly uncomfortable. Most of them ended with the words “I do.” I do…what? Marriage is a commitment to love, have sex, and try to stay together with this one person, right?

Well maybe, but I couldn’t promise to do these things. I knew I couldn’t say “I do” to love—feelings change and keep changing, etc, etc. I also knew I couldn’t say yes to wanting to have sex with him for the rest of my life—desire is unpredictable. And ask him to commit to me? Which me? I couldn’t commit to remaining the same me. I wouldn’t. So if you can’t say yes to love, sex, or remaining the one each fell in love with—what are you agreeing to when you commit to a relationship?

It’s just now, 8 years later, that I’m finding out what I said yes to, apparently.

I said yes to the unfolding, impenetrable arc of uncertainty. I guess I thought that finding love was an end point, that some kind of search was over and I would find home. We would leap over the threshold together into whatever we imagined our ideal cottage to be. But really we stepped through a crazy looking glass. No matter how hard we try, how crazy in love we may be, or how skillfully we plan our life together, there is complete uncertainty about what the connection will feel like from day to day. You can give all the love you have (with great joy) and get back a blank stare. You can wake up as your crankiest, most sullen and narcissistic self, roll over, and greet the face of unconditional acceptance. Or not. The vibe between you is akin to weather: you can read the signs and guess about atmospheric conditions, but really any type of front can blow through on any given day. This is how it works. I have no idea why. And like listening to a meteorologist explain why it’s going to rain, I think “who cares why? I just want to know what I should wear today.” You can still love each other, no matter what the conditions. But you can’t actually promise each other anything. The relationship never stabilizes, ever. It can’t. Somehow we forget this principle when it comes to love, or at least I do.

It seems that I committed to a lifetime of inseparable delight and sadness. Every time I look into my dear one’s eyes and feel how deeply we’re connected, that moment disappears and I have to watch it do so. It’s excruciating. Now I get that I have to repeat this until the end of my life. It’s much easier to do this with your thoughts on a meditation cushion then with the feeling you get from his breath on your shoulder as you fall asleep.

I wish I had known that when you live with someone, there is continuous, mind-blowing irritation, (Actually I did know this, but I had forgotten.) Sadly, this irritation serves a purpose. It beckons you time and again out of yourself. Usually the irritation arises when you have replaced your partner with a projection of a partner. And they always figure out a way to tell you how unlike your projection they really are, which gives you yet another opportunity to choose between who this person is and who you sort of hoped he was. No matter how many times I prompt my husband with the correct lines for one in his role, he does not get into character. This irritates me. Then I have to throw away the script and just begin to improvise. You’re playing you and I’m playing me. Go.

I didn’t really understand that true love, deep love, does not arise, abide, or dissolve in connection with any particular feeling. It has almost nothing to do with feeling. (Nor is it an action, a commitment to stay, or the intention to be nice, honest, or whatever else I might have thought I was supposed to do in a relationship.) Love has become the container in which we live. Through time and riding mysterious waves of passion, aggression, and ignorance (and boredom), I think we began to live within love itself. At least I did. Each time I opened up, dropped the script, extended myself, accepted what was being offered to me, stepped beyond my comfort zone to embrace him, the structure was reinforced. I no longer have any idea if I love my husband or not. I can’t imagine what the feelings I have for him could be called. I’ve even given up trying to give love to him or to our relationship. Our relationship is what gives us love, not the other way around. This is how it is.

And of course you’re saying “I do” to goodbye. This relationship will end. Hello can only mean goodbye. Nobody wants to suffer in relationships, but some are just mistakes. Or people grow and change. Relationships can crater and nobody knows why. And, if all else fails, certainly at death we will part. Saul Bellow once called this acknowledgment “the black backing on the mirror that allows us to see anything at all” and isn’t that just the key to whole thing. The deeper our connection gets, the more passionately I feel the reality of its ending and the more intense his touch becomes. It feels this way even when I hate him (and he can enrage me as no one else can), and when I love him so much that I hope we can be married for all our lifetimes. Each time love expands by a molecule, it’s accompanied by a same-sized molecule of pain. I think this is one reason it’s so hard to be happy in relationships. The better it is, the more it hurts. The better it is, the more I get what the Buddha was talking about with the third noble truth. (The truth of impermanence.) For most of us, it’s just too unbearable. But if you’re looking for a crucible in which to heat compassion, this is a really good one. In some way, isn’t compassion the ability to hold love and pain at the same time? So at least we’re learning something, which is what I tell myself. It sort of helps, but not really.

Maybe everything I’ve said is wrong; that’s totally possible. It’s just what I’ve learned. And here’s something else I’ve learned about relationships: OK, so it’s not what you think it’s going to be, the feelings are always changing, and you’re going to have to say goodbye someday. But when you find your true love, there is something inside that simply and inexplicably says “hello” to him. Yes to him. Of course to him. Certainly. Obviously, it’s you. There is no choice. I do.