In the last few weeks, I’ve been contemplating putting my house on the market. Untethered to the world of blood and bones, the candidates for my affection drift out of my mind like balloons on a windy day.
The analogies to the dating process are unavoidable: clearly, before holding any open houses I should consider some major renovations—and perhaps a professional stager—to increase my curb appeal. “You’ve received a Smile on dharma from Siddharthe Gotama! I forget what I’ve said to the Zen priest and what to the jazz musician.
(Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that I was still wearing nursing bras.) And at this point, I’ve been around long enough to know that a romantic partner is not a guaranteed ticket to a dukkha-free life.
Well, if it is I might just as well go to the local bar and become an alcoholic, smoke cigarettes, and associate with big furry women who grunt when they talk.
And what do you think might be the karmic consequences of being responsible for my demise? I will politely decline correspondence with anyone who doesn’t live within easy driving distance of me.
Love, it seems to me, is a combination of serendipity and hard work. It just goes to show: as human beings, we’re hardwired for connection.
Wouldn’t I be better off using my time and energy rooting out the cause of suffering—craving—at its source? ”—the first thing I discover is this: There are apparently a lot of thoughtful, attractive, spiritual singles out there. Of course, our practice helps us dissolve the illusion of a separate self and know that we are supported in every breath by the whole universe. population is single, according to the New York Times, up from 28 percent in 1970.