A Buddhist struggles with impermanence vs. marriage
BY: Susan Piver
This past summer, I went to a meditation 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 sixties and I found out he was a longtime student of Buddhism. We told each other a bit about ourselves, including what we did for work, whether 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 were kind of embarrassed—yes, Buddhists are supposed to know that craving creates suffering, but I guess we still secretly hoped that a relationship could make us happy, if only we could get the circumstances just right.
My new pal and I talked about this, about 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? And when we long for a lasting relationship (as most people I know do), what happens to the second noble truth? Why do we forget that craving creates suffering?
When my husband and I first started to talk 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 Nagila.” (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, Buddhist and otherwise, and talking about what we liked and disliked about other people’s weddings. As we read the words that other couples had spoken to each other, I became increasingly uncomfortable. Most of them ended with “I do.” I do…what?
Marriage is a commitment to share 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. 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. 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, eight years later, that I’m finding out what, apparently, I said yes to.
I said yes to the unfolding, impenetrable arc of uncertainty. I guess I thought that finding love was an endpoint, 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 tried, how madly in love we were, or how skillfully we planned our life together, there was complete uncertainty about what the connection would feel like from day to day. I could give all the love I had (with great joy) and get back a blank stare. I could wake up as my crankiest, most sullen and narcissistic self, roll over, and greet the face of unconditional acceptance. Or not. It’s like the weather: you can try to read the signs and guess about atmospheric conditions, but really there’s no telling.