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 it 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."*

I

Tuco was reading the magazine essay
and stopped, dumbstruck,
at "Of course it can work.
As long as you don't expect it to make you happy."
Somewhere in the back of his mind,
"solitude" rustled and shifted position.

The horse stood, patient,
more so than usual.
Tuco dimly noticed
as the the feather of a thought threaded through
the back roads of his mind.
Arlu had said what? the last time they sat face to face.
It was something like
"I don't think I know how to be happy with you
or without you."
That was over a year ago.

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 would make us happy,
if only we could get the circumstances right.

II

Tuco climbed down, tied the horse to a mesquite
and turned toward the stream hidden below.
He thought about how he tried to balance
solitude and partnership.
A tough, ongoing conversation.
Not unlike struggling through the mesquite bosque hiding that stream.

He turned back to the essay.

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....

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?

...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?

III

Tuco sat down under the mesquite, dust rising slightly.
This year was dry, the grass scant even under the tree.
He spoke it, "It can work.
As long as you don't expect it to make you happy."
A key had turned, vast doors, weighted and rusted,
move toward
moving.

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 uncertaintiy.
I guess I thought that finding love was an endpoint,
that some kind of search was over and I would find home....

As far as I can see, the relationship never stabilizes, ever.
In which case you can't actually promise each other anything.
This is how it works. I have no idea why.

IV

He thought, "Craving causes suffering.
And it needs no presence to make it so."
Tuco looked out from under the mesquite's edge.
He kept rereading, "Of course it can work.
As long as you don't expect it to make you happy."
This key turning, the vast doors, weighted and rusted,
moving forward. Arlu's scent brushes the breeze lightly.

No matter how many times I prompt my husband
with the correct lines for his role,
he does not get into character. This irritates me.
We have to throw away the script
and just begin to improvise.
You're playing you
and I'm playing me.
Go.

V

The horse is bored, nudges Tuco's shoulder.
Tuco stares across a vast distance.
The horse nibbles, rakes teeth on shirt
to make its point. Tuco shifts, pats the nose nudging.
"Of course it can work...." Sometimes.
This suffering key turning, the vast doors, weighted and rusted,
moving forward. Arlu's chuckle in this gust of wind.
Tuco turns his head, quickly scans for movement,
finds none beyond himself, the horse, the breeze and a lone jackrabbit
under a palo verde to his left.

He reads on.

Here's something else I've learned about a relationship.
Okay, 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.

VI

"There is no choice." Tuco rubs his shoulder lightly.
He turns toward a faint sound behind him.
A horse with rider, far away, coming toward him.
Too far to see who, but he knows, the hello forms.
There is no other choice. Tuco murmurs, "I do."

*quotes are by Susan Piver in her essay
"I do?" in the March 2006 issue of Shambhala Sun