On the morning of Valentine’s Day, the monastery bells echoed across the valley, low and steady, dissolving into mist.
At the edge of a small town near Chiang Mai, lanterns shaped like red hearts were strung between cafés. Young couples walked past the temple gates carrying roses and sweets. Inside the gates, however, the air carried a different fragrance—the faint scent of incense and rain-soaked earth.
In the meditation hall, a lay practitioner named Ananda sat quietly before a small image of the Gautama Buddha. It was Valentine’s Day, and her heart felt heavier than she wished to admit.
For many years, she had secretly believed that loving-kindness—mettā—would one day bring her the right person. She had practiced sincerely, offering silent blessings:
May you be safe.
May you be happy.
May you be at peace.
But on this particular morning, she realized something subtle and uncomfortable: she had been offering loving-kindness like a trade.
“I give,” she whispered inwardly, “so that I may receive.”
The thought startled her.
The abbot entered quietly and sat beside her. He did not speak for a long time. Outside, laughter drifted faintly from the street beyond the temple walls.
“Venerable sir,” she finally said, “is it wrong to wish to be loved?”
The abbot smiled gently. “To wish to be loved is human. To cling to being loved is suffering.”
She lowered her gaze.
“Today,” he continued, “the world celebrates love that belongs to two. But the Buddha taught a love that belongs to no one and therefore includes everyone.”
He recited softly, words from the ancient discourse:
“As a mother would guard her only child with her life, even so should one cultivate a boundless heart toward all beings.”
Ananda had heard these lines before. They were from the Metta Sutta. But this time they entered her differently—not as poetry, but as instruction.
A boundless heart.
She closed her eyes.
At first, she pictured someone she loved easily. Warmth arose. Then she pictured someone neutral—the elderly vendor at the market. Then someone difficult—a colleague who had once spoken harshly to her.
Her chest tightened.
The abbot’s voice was quiet: “Loving-kindness is not romance. It is courage.”
She breathed slowly and continued.
May you be free from fear.
May you be free from resentment.
May you live with ease.
Something unexpected happened. The warmth she had tried so hard to direct outward began dissolving its boundaries. It no longer flowed from her to another. It simply radiated—like sunlight that does not choose where to fall.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, not from sadness, but from relief.
She saw clearly then: the heart that demands to be filled is always anxious. But the heart that gives without bargaining discovers it was never empty.
When the meditation ended, she walked outside the temple gates. The town was glowing with red and gold decorations. A florist handed a rose to a shy young man. A child ran past clutching a pink balloon.
Ananda paused and silently offered her practice to them all.
To the couples in love.
To the lonely.
To the grieving.
To the joyful.
To those whose love was returned, and those whose love was not.
For the first time on Valentine’s Day, she felt no lack.
That evening, as the sun set behind the hills, she lit a single candle in her room. Not for a partner. Not for a future promise. But for the simple, steady flame of goodwill itself.
And in that quiet glow she understood:
Romantic love binds two hearts together.
Loving-kindness frees the heart from all boundaries.
On Valentine’s Day, the world celebrated love that says, You are mine.
In the stillness of her practice, she discovered love that says,
May you be free.
Link: https://wisdomtea.org/2026/02/12/the-heart-that-needed-no-one/
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