Two days ago, out of the blue, someone who I really respect (but had never met) called to say he thought my work was awesome, that I was a “rock star,” and basically he just really appreciated my work.

Amazing. Ridiculously cool. So affirming.

My response?

He must be psycho. That didn’t just happen.

Then I burst into tears and took a nap.

Self-doubt is vicious. It amplifies when I get closer to what I long for—in this case, simply to be seen, and not just for anything, but for that which I hold most dear: my creative work. Why?!

Well, I have no idea. But when I slowed down (more easily accomplished after crying and napping), I saw that rather than being in the realm of the impossible, my self-doubt was actually a sign that I had entered the realm of the possible. In this moment, things are unfolding. No more thought. Time to just swim. Although it’s scary in one sense, in another, it is actually something cool.

So from now on, as my self-doubt ramps up, I’m going to reclassify it from “perhaps I suck” to “perhaps I’m experiencing a moment of fruition.” You try it, too. Please report back and know that I’ll be thinking of you and hoping that you can meet your longing head-on, hold your self-doubt as a sign of self-cherishing, and, most especially, when you see others in the grip of that particular fear, that your heart will open without any thought at all.

Looked at this way, you could actually enter into your own longing and find it to be a place of joy rather than one of grasping, a source of vitality rather than, well, a reason to nap.

I’ve spent a lot of time in my life trying to force myself to do things. Really good things. Things that are important to me. Things like meditating, journaling, going to the gym, and so on. I set schedules over and over. (I will rise at 5. Meditate, 530-630. Journal 630-730. Breakfast 8-9, and so on.) I fail way more than I succeed, which makes me really, really upset. I get angrier and angrier at myself, curse my lack of discipline, shame myself for watching Battlestar Galactica (again) instead of writing, delve into my psychology hoping to unearth the seeds of this self-sabotage. It spirals out of control until I either give in to lying on the couch or somehow manage to squeeze in a day of discipline according to schedule, whereupon I exhale a half-sigh of relief and immediately begin bullying myself to repeat this tomorrow. IT SUCKS.

Yesterday, I finally realized that this method would never, ever work. I was shocked. But it never, ever has. I’ve been after myself on this score for, what, like ten years? Had it ever worked once in that time, I asked myself. No! I said immediately.

Now what?

I knew I had to give up trying to be disciplined in any conventional sense. It doesn’t work. And since the definition of suffering is trying the same thing over and over, expecting a different result, I had to put myself out of my misery.

Right away, fear swept through me. If I’m not vigilant about making myself do stuff, I won’ do anything. And my commitment to meditate is critical on every level. Every writing book on earth says you must work at the same time every day, or words will never come. “Inspiration is for amateurs,” says painter Chuck Close. “The rest of us just show up and get to work…” I want to be like Chuck! There has to be another path to spiritual and creative discipline…what could it be?

The answer I came up with? Pleasure. Pleasure! The last thing I usually think of when planning my day. Once I get all my work out of the way, maybe I can do something fun or satisfying or just cuz. I never do stuff just to have fun. Never. I am so not built like that. However…among the most pleasurable things in my life are the things I’m committed to doing: spiritual practice and writing. I love those things! I remembered that they make me happy. Maybe I could just jump into them for their own sake, for the joy of doing them rather than the obligation and it’s possible the whole thing will roll out just fine. Once I remembered that my motivation is routed in genuine curiosity and that my tasks are in complete alignment with who I am and want to be, my office suddenly seemed like a playground rather than a labor camp.

So I didn’t schedule myself at all. Instead, I asked myself, what do I feel like doing? What would be fun for me? Write? OK. What is fun about writing? Oh, it’s so cool when it just starts to flow and plus I really enjoy thinking about things like dharma and love and creativity simply for the sake of doing so. So start there. When you’re done, ask yourself what would be fun to do next.

And I did. And you know what? I did all the things I yell at myself to do. My day looked pretty much exactly like my days do when I succeed in being “disciplined.” Only this time, it seemed effortless. I had such a light heart.

So, yes, discipline is critical, just like all the teachers say. And there is definitely stuff that needs doing that is just never going to be fun like paying bills and cleaning the cat box. But I suggest that instead of being disciplined about hating on yourself to get things done, try being disciplined about remaining close to what brings you joy. It takes a lot of courage, actually. See what happens. Let me know!

How do you know if you’re Buddhist?

I knew I was a Buddhist the moment I read a book by Chogyam Trungpa called The Heart of the Buddha. This is how I already think, only I didn’t know it, I said to myself. I must be a Buddhist. From that moment, the fates conspired to place me firmly on the path. I began to practice in the Shambhala Buddhist lineage, found an amazing meditation instructor, and immediately saw my life begin to change, even out, take shape. Rarely has anything in my life been so clear-cut.

After about six months of practice, I asked my meditation teacher what steps one takes to formally become a Buddhist. He told me that it’s called “taking refuge” in these three things: The Buddha (the enlightened one, but also in the fact of enlightened mind in everyone, including yourself); the dharma (the teachings—which range from the sutras, tantras, and their commentaries to any and everything that teaches you), and the sangha (or community—of fellow practitioners certainly, but also, as I understood him, in the community of fellow humans seeking happiness on planet earth. Or wherever.) His explanation was really good and encouraged me further. I wanted to do those things. Also, when he said the phrase, “take refuge,” I started to cry. I longed for refuge in this crazy world and none of the traditional options seemed viable, things like career, relationships, money, knowledge, do-gooding, and what have you.

I want to do it, I told him, but how do I know that I’m ready? I didn’t want to take this step in a half-assed way. (I mean, I’m the person who, when thinking about getting married, wrote a whole book called The Hard Questions: 100 Essential Questions to Ask Before You Say “I Do.” Romance shromance. I’m anti-making lifelong commitments on the fly.) My meditation instructor said, “you know you’re ready when becoming a Buddhist is simply a recognition of something that has already happened.” Genius. (And not a bad benchmark when it comes to marriage and marriage-like commitments, I might add.) I knew that it had, and so I took refuge on March 10, 1995. It was definitely one of the most moving days of my life.

Now, in addition to practicing it, I write about being a student of Buddhism. Sometimes people muse to me about their connection to it. (It’s not like I’m an expert in telling Buddhists from non-Buddhists or go around saying things like, yeah, you probably are, but you—no way. Ha! For one thing, I have no idea. For another, you could make a very real argument that there is no such thing as “a Buddhist” anyway.)

Many, many people are deeply touched by the dharma and have a profound ability to naturally understand it. You know who you are. It takes up residence in your mind and moments of recognition ding repeatedly, whether on the spot or two years later. You simply notice that your mindstream and the dharma flow together easily, surprisingly, terrifyingly, joyfully, and so on. What a person does from that point forward is utterly individual. Some people, like myself, benefit enormously from a traditional, proscribed path. I’m already spacey and self centered enough. A path grounds me within and without and I’m grateful for it. Others, though, may be too rules-based and the strictures of a traditional path could provide perfect hiding places for ego. Maybe they should throw off all rules and figure it out on their own. Ultimately, we all do a combination of these two—learning from masters and figuring it out on our own, making a personal connection with the dharma over and over, hopefully until the end of our lives.

Into this very creative space of figuring it out for yourself can creep all sorts of distractions, otherwise known as spiritual materialism: Looking, not at reality, but at ways to blur reality by using spiritual tactics. The phrase was coined by Chogyam Trungpa. (To learn more, check Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism.) It’s so easy to think you’re a Buddhist and that it means something conventionally comprehensible and/or offers you something to cling to as a way of escaping the sorrows of samsara. Which would be awesome, but oh well, it’s not.

How to know if you’re a spiritual seeker or materialist?  Some thoughts:

First, think that you are probably definitely both and that taking a fresh look at this question every day (or more) is a very helpful thing to do.

Second, and this is the failsafe, if you can, find a genuine master and study as hard as you can with him or her. I definitely believe in this way; the guru is the root of blessings. Personally, I have found this to be true.

Third, have complete confidence that you can figure it all out. You can. You are the only one who can. On some level, the most realistic level, you already have. You possess Buddhanature right now. Therefore, you can have confidence.

For each of us, the way will be utterly unique—if not the path itself, then the way it is arrived at. There are no guarantees and we have to keep figuring it out until and beyond the day we die. But if along your path, the only thing deepening more rapidly than your capacity for love is your confusion, if what you are learning convinces you more and more that you actually don’t know anything, and if your sense of humor is completely intact, then you’re probably on the right track. Perhaps you are “a Buddhist.” Maybe not. In any and all cases, I hope our paths will cross.

Perfect advice from 16-year old reincarnation of Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche.

“…If your mind is going all day, I must tell you frankly that is not something you should be worried or upset (about), because that really happens all the time.”

“The more often you listen to your discriminating awareness, the more easily you will be able to change your negative moods yourself, see through them, and even laugh at them for the absurd dramas and ridiculous illusions that they are.

Gradually you will find yourself able to free yourself more and more quickly from the dark emotions that have ruled your life, and this ability to do so is the greatest miracle of all.

The Tibetan mystic, Tertön Sogyal, said that he was not really impressed by someone who could turn the floor into the ceiling or fire into water. A real miracle, he said, was if someone could liberate just one negative emotion.”

Hiro Boga, Jennifer Louden, Mahala Mazerov, and I have taken it upon ourselves to write on the same topic, and publish our work on the same day. This is the second time we’ve done this; the first time, our topic was writing. Today, it is home. Click on their names to read their lovely pieces. It is an honor to co-create with them!

When I was a little girl, I used to hide under my desk with a blanket and a book, pulling in the chair to erect an unseen gate, hoping against hope to go unnoticed for as long as it might take me to think my thoughts. (One day I heard a cough and realized that my brother, on the other side of the wall, was also under his desk…) This, I now see, was my first attempt to create a home, one where I could be who I actually was, although I would never have described it that way at 5 years old, or 8, or 12. This was just the beginning of longing for a place where the gate would swing open and I could safely emerge. By last count, I’ve tried to find a home in 20 domiciles in 6 different cities.  The last attempt was made just a few months ago when my husband and I moved from a house in the suburbs to a big loft in an industrial artists’ building.

This space suits me more than any I’ve ever lived in and so my desire for home is at a high pitch. If I can’t make it work here, then where? I like the big sweep of open space. The enormous skylights. The community of painters, sculptors, designers, and those who love them. (Or rent a room from them.) Most of all, I relish feeling the presence of others while being able to maintain solitude, which is a dream come true for one who loves people beyond all reason but is an inveterate, incontrovertible introvert. Given all the choices in the world, I will pick an apartment every time. I am a city person, there is no doubt.

I left my parents’ house in the suburbs when I was 16 and from that moment searched for a place for myself, with no frame of reference whatsoever. The only thing I knew was that it would probably be outside of conventional life—that I wouldn’t find it in an education, a relationship, or any lifestyle I had ever seen. So I didn’t go to college, didn’t create a household with another until I was almost 40, and have ended up with a job that requires/allows me to be alone all day long. (I really, really, really like being alone. I didn’t even live with my husband for the first 3 years of our marriage.)

From the outside, people look at my life and tell me how “brave” I’ve been for undertaking this search, for the risks I’ve taken, the stands I’ve made, the adventures I’ve been on. But I know the truth. I know exactly what has motivated me and it’s way more about fear than courage. I’m terrified of walking into my own home, showing exactly who I am, and not being embraced or even noticed; that the inner and outer noises will be so loud that I won’t be able to hear my own voice—and that if I am seen, am heard, I will not be loved. I’m terrified of finding myself in a place that looks like home but doesn’t feel like it, where the only spot that feels right is under my desk, unseen and not looked for, sunk in silence and not listened to, unrecognizable.

Today I sit at my desk not under it, but my posture is the same: I am poised in silence, listening for the opening of the secret gate. It is so easily missed.

Since The Wisdom of a Broken Heart came out, I’ve had the honor of speaking with many people who are meeting this incredibly difficult life passage with courage and tenderness. We talk about the endless waves of grief, fear, and rage and how one could possibly weather them. We talk about the valuable, hard-won heart opening that can arise. And invariably, we touch on the possibility of loving again. Many believe they will never be able to do so and, if the possibility arose, would never, ever be able to trust it. When you know love can be lost at any time, how on earth could you try it again?! I’ve heard this question time and again. And time and again, I’ve sat down at my desk to see if I have anything useful to say because I really, really want to help. I’ve probably made a dozen false starts, trying to come at the question from all sorts of angles. Frankly, I did not come up with one thing worth saying.

Today I told myself I was going to sit in front of the computer until I could figure out what to say—because I know that it is possible to open to love again, even if your heart has been broken under the most egregious circumstances (which usually involve some kind of betrayal). It happens everyday. It happened to me. I’ve studied Buddhist teachings on compassion and wisdom and have every confidence they can teach you how. So why haven’t I been able to put something together?

Here’s why. All this time, I have been trying to figure out some kind of advice for how to leave your broken heart behind in order to enter a new relationship with confidence.

For better or worse, those two things—a broken heart and having confidence in love—are actually interdependent.

When most of say we’re looking for love, we really mean we’re looking for safety. When your heart has been broken, you realize that love can never be made safe and, in fact, efforts to make it so are related more to self-protection than opening yourself to the unpredictable, impossible-to-mandate waves of passion, confusion, joy, and disappointment that accompany love. To love, you have to be receptive, vulnerable. In fact, it is through vulnerability alone that we come by true love. So in one sense, when your heart is broken, you are ahead of the game. It makes you permanently vulnerable and thus is actually teaching you how to love. You learn how deep your longing for love is, and how much you have to give. You realize that love is by far the most important thing in your life. Your heart is not just broken, it is broken open and so you feel everything—your own joys and sorrows, but also other’s, unquestioningly. These attributes make you uniquely, outrageously suited to love—if you can learn to stabilize your heart in this state of openness. The traditional practice of loving kindness teaches you exactly how to do this. Please try it and see how it works for you. It is the balm that soothes all wounds.

Plus, there is one thing that makes it absolutely certain that you will be able to open to love again. That thing is love itself. When it comes to you, from you, through you, it is unmistakable. It chooses you, you don’t choose it and, like it or not, you open, unquestioningly. Of course, there is no telling how it will all turn out (there never, ever is), but when love is present, it quells outer, inner, and secret obstacles and you are reminded that your heart is absolutely indestructible. Over and over, it can refill with love on the spot. It never forgets how to do this. Love is the rising tide that lifts all boats, those of despair and those of shame, of rage, of terror, and of longing—to cast them once again upon the waves, heading who knows where, you and your beloved along for the ride. This is how it works. I have no idea why..

So definitely do your work: Explore the nature of your wounds. Develop methods of extreme self-care. Extend the hand of kindness to yourself as you work though these overwhelming emotions. Please do this for yourself. And as you do, don’t worry about how you’re ever going to open to love again. Love itself will do the work for you.

In the meantime, here’s what you can do to help: Relax. Relaxing here means stepping off the self-improvement treadmill and, instead of trying to change yourself, allowing your feelings to be just as they are without attaching a narrative to them. Make room for them and what you now consider as obstacles will reveal themselves simply as facets of wisdom. The practice of meditation is exactly this act.

I created a special version of The Practice of Tranquility (the practice suggested in my book), for those times when you feel that your heartbreak will never end and you are intolerably fragile..

And here is a good rule of thumb. When in doubt, sorrow, or despair: do less. Over and over, accept yourself on the spot. From this gesture of gentleness, great space opens and your deepest wisdom arises to guide you. This is guaranteed.

Writers’ retreat participants talk about the retreat experience:

Have I mentioned how much I love to teach writers’ retreats?! It is like my favorite thing to do. For the following reasons.

1. I get to help people say the stuff they’d like to say.
2. I get to teach meditation.
3. I hear and see writing take shape.
4. I get to write, too.

You may be thinking: OK, awesome, great, sounds cool. For you. What about me? Perhaps I have no talent. I might be intimidated by all the “real” writers. I have never been to a meditation retreat center and it might be creepy. I could be the worst writer there, or in the world.

What do you say to me?

Writers’ Retreat FAQ
How long is the retreat?
They are usually about 7 days long. You could come for the whole thing, or just the weekend. You could come for the weekend, change your mind, and stay for the whole thing!

I’m not “a writer.” Can I still come?
Ahem. Yes. The retreat is for anyone who wants to write, anyone. Attendees have included:

• People who have never written anything–ever
• People who like to journal and want to spend the whole retreat journaling
• People who like to journal but might like to try another kind of writing
• People who have no experience writing, but have a story they’d like to get down on paper for a variety of reasons
• Writers who want to begin a new project
• Writers who crave the time and space to let their writing unfold
• Writers on deadlines
• Published writers
• Unpublished writers
• Poets
• Songwriters
• Screenplay writers
• Essayists
• Business writers
• Memoirists
• Novelists
• Self-help writers
• And word lovers of every ilk

All are welcome. The retreat environment can support any kind of writing, as far as I can tell.

Do I have to share my work?!?!? Cause if I do, I’m not coming.
No, of course not. However, we gather in the evenings to hear 2 or 3 people read an excerpt of something they’re working on so that we can give them feedback. I bet a million bucks that once you see how it goes, you’ll totally want to share something. But you never, ever have to.

Here are the rules of engagement:

The writer can read anything he or she wants–something written that day, 10 years ago, 2 weeks ago. It can be a finished piece, a work in progress, or a mish-mash of sentences that may be something, maybe not. The piece can be up to 2000 words long.

After the writer reads his or her work, he or she is silent during the ensuing discussion. We don’t call the person by name, but refer to him or her as “the writer.” We pretend the person isn’t in the room, giving them a chance to be a fly on the wall for the conversation.

When the conversation is done, the writer is invited to request clarification or respond however he or she would like.

We are not reading as literary critics, but as readers. We don’t comment on structure, grammar, spelling, or form–unless the writer specifically requests. Instead, we answer such questions as:

What does it feel like to hear this work?
How would we describe this writer’s voice?
Where do we imagine the piece might go from here? (If applicable.)
Where did the piece really touch us, and where did we become confused?

And the like. In other words, we are letting the writer in on what it feels like to be a reader of this work, as mentioned. Most people dread this part of the retreat, but end up thinking it was the best part. I’m not saying you would feel that way, just reporting the facts.

How much meditation is involved? What if I’ve never meditated before?
We meditate for short periods throughout the day. I give thorough instruction and attendees have ranged from long-time meditation practitioners to those who have never, ever tried it.

What is the daily schedule?
Something like this:
9-10 Meditation and journaling
10-1230 Personal writing time
1230-230 Lunch, break
230-3 Meditation
3-500 Personal writing time
500-530 Tea break
530-6 Discussion
6-730 Dinner, break
730-9 Hear each other’s work

Every day is exactly the same schedule. This allows you to sink into the pace and really relax into your work.

I notice you teach at Buddhist retreat centers. Will I have to do Buddhist things (like chant, sit in full lotus, be recruited into the dharma or subjected to any creepy cultish vibes)?
I am a Buddhist and I teach at the places where I have gone most to practice and study. But no one has to do, say, think, or be anything religious in any way, shape, or form. Our meditation practice is a basic breath-awareness practice and involves no idolatry of any kind.

Is it OK if I sign up but sort of make up my own schedule while I’m there? I may want to write at different times, go on some hikes, or catch up on my sleep.
In this case, you should sign up for a personal retreat. I don’t want to sound bossy or mean, but this program is scheduled very particularly to relax the mind, enhance creativity, and help you meet your own voice. It is important to hold to the schedule so that each and all of us can find our groove. If people pop in and out at will, the vibe goes flat.

Is there time to do other stuff while I’m there?
Yes, during the afternoon there is a 2-hour break and that can be a good time to hike, nap, read, dilly dally about.

When and where are you teaching these fantastic retreats?
I’m so glad you asked. I’m only teaching a few more in 2010:
Oct 15 – 22
BARNET, VT
AUTHENTIC INSPIRATION: A RETREAT FOR WRITERS
$675
Karme Choling Shambhala Meditation Center

Oct 29 – 31
RED FEATHER LAKES, CO
AUTHENTIC INSPIRATION: A WEEKEND RETREAT FOR WRITERS
$325 -$605, depending on lodging
Shambhala Mountain Center

Oct 29 – Nov 4
RED FEATHER LAKES, CO
AUTHENTIC INSPIRATION: A 6-DAY RETREAT FOR WRITERS
$710 -$1505, depending on lodging
Shambhala Mountain Center

You didn’t answer the most important question.
Uh-oh. Definitely email me and I’ll answer it.

Seriously, check out the awesome participants in the video (from the most recent writers’ retreat at Shambhala Mountain Center in the Colorado Rockies).

I recently spoke with Ronna Detrick of RENEGADEconversations. Ronna hosts a members-only, online forum for women called A CONVERSATIONAL SPACE. Included in that space are monthly MP3s of Ronna’s conversation with women from all over the world. And this month it’s me. The MP3 of our conversation is usually exclusve to her site-members only, but by clicking here you can listen in. Enjoy!

This post recently appeared on Huffington Post. Check it out to see the amazing comments.

I have been a student of Buddhism since 1995, and the study and practice of dharma inform my actions, friendships and creative focus. When you become a Buddhist, part of the commitment is to take off the training wheels and do your best to put the dharma into play in all situations. It’s no longer theoretical. It is your life. It’s a fun, scary, and noble challenge.

When the Buddha became enlightened, the first thing he handed out was the four noble truths and upon becoming a Buddhist, they are your benchmarks.

1. Life is suffering. (Doesn’t mean “life sucks,” by the way. More like, “life changes.”)
2. Suffering is caused by attachment. (Wanting things to be other than they are.)
3. It is possible to stop suffering. (Phew.)
4. There is an eight-fold path to liberate yourself from suffering, which includes such things as Right Speech, Right Action and so on.

There have been countless words written on each of these four and you could definitely spend a lifetime in contemplation of just one of them. To apply them to everyday life means to accept that things won’t ever quite work out (at least not in any conventional sense); that when you hold on to anything too tightly (even the idea of not holding on to anything too tightly), it backfires; you can definitely figure all this out and, finally, that there is a step-by-step explanation for how to do so, via practices, insights, devotion and so on.

Okay, all very well and good. It’s not like I can do any of this, but I am fairly diligent about trying to in every area of my life. Well, every area but one. Work — check. Money — check. Family — check. Society — check. Romantic relationships — check NOT.

When it comes to love and partnership, I definitely try to wiggle out of the four noble truths. I can halfway toy with accepting that everything changes, even that I will die and this body will be a corpse. But when it comes to love — I need that to be permanent. There, I said it. When my husband tells me he loves me, that cannot change or I’m going to be very, very upset. When we make a commitment to share our lives with each other, that too must be rock solid. When he disappoints or angers me, I have every right to expect him to change. And when it comes to acknowledging that one way or another, this relationship will definitely end, well, I just need that not to be true. Otherwise it is simply unbearable.

(I believe that this, by the way, is why most relationships fail, because to come to terms with this last truth is just too painful. It’s easier to break up with someone because they don’t make you laugh/take you seriously/earn enough money/eat dairy, but really I think it’s because, at some point, we become unbearably precious to each other. But I digress.)

Even among deeply practiced and skillful Buddhists, I can’t help but notice that it is difficult to apply the dharma to anything that involves love and medically unrelated nakedness. When it comes to relationships, we believe our version of reality is absolutely solid and correct. There is no oxygen when you feel neglected, dismissed, suffocated, or enraged by the one you love. Oddly, it is our intimate relationships that most challenge our ability to be open, non-judgmental, compassionate, and kind.

The hardest people to love are the ones you, well, really love. What is up with that?

Unfortunately, I don’t know, but I still think about it all the time. It may be useful to take a look at the four noble truths again and try really, really hard to language them to apply to relationships. I’ll go first. Let me know what you think.

1. Relationships are uncomfortable.
Right? Whether you’re on a blind date, worrying if you’ll like each other or have been married for 20 years, groaning yet again “why are you doing that thing that I’ve asked you eleventy billion times not to do?” there is a kind of discomfort. Of course, there are also times of sheer delight and deeply gratifying intimacy, but even in the sweet moments, there is the shock of dissolution.

I’ve come to think that the most deeply loving gesture I can make within my relationship is to tolerate my own discomfort — to recognize my feelings and leave the story behind; to cease & desist threatening my husband with consequences should he fail to be the person I need him to be rather than the person he is. There are only so many times you can choose your make-believe husband over your real one before he balks. Hard.

Too, there is something magical, yes magical, about this discomfort. You’re right there, never quite in your comfort zone. Always a tiny bit on the edge, like you’re trying something new for the very first time. Which, when it comes to love, is not such a bad approach. Brilliance and inspiration and everything fresh is discovered on this edge, including how to open your heart beyond what you ever thought possible.

2. Thinking they’re supposed to be comfortable is what makes them uncomfortable.
It is pretty hard to get away from the idea that love is supposed to make you happy. No, wait, it is supposed to make you happy — if happy means alive, open, giving, and touchable. When it’s defined as safe and predictable, getting what you want, or finding the perfect man/woman, we might run into a few problems.

When we say we’re looking for love, most of us really mean we’re looking for safety, a way to get comfortable. We’re looking for someone to love us first, and then we will love them back. (99.9 percent of relationship self-help books are about how to get love, not how to give it. That’s kind of odd, no?!) “Relationship” is equated with a protective cocoon. It’s understandable. Loving is so vulnerable, maybe the most vulnerable thing you can do. Love is not for sissies.

There is nothing less safe than love. Love means opening again and again to your beloved, yourself, and your world, and seeing what happens next. The moment you try to make it safe, it ceases to be love. Believe me, I’m not saying you shouldn’t be very smart, practical, and skillful when it comes to your relationships. But relationships and love are two separate things.

3. It is absolutely possible to love and be loved unconditionally.
You know this is true. You know it from experience. You are in the house of unconditional love every time you are touched beyond thought by the beauty of your fellow human beings, and every time one has been touched by you. Even something as simple as the smile a stranger gives you when you hold the door for him or her qualifies. Or when you are moved by the success of someone you love and feel it as your own. When you are touched by someone’s sadness and want to help. When you open your eyes, you see that such moments are taking place all the time. These agenda-less instances of opening to another are, IMHO, unconditional love. I mean, they are unconditional, right? You’re not putting any conditions on things when you simply feel them spontaneously. I rest my case.

4. There is a path that teaches you how and it really works.
You can practice becoming comfortable with discomfort. The sitting practice of meditation teaches you how, exactly, directly, perfectly.

You can practice letting your dear ones — and yourself — off the hook for not being perfect. The traditional practice of Maitri (also known as Metta or Lovingkindness) teaches you how — exactly, directly, perfectly.

And you can practice letting life in, allowing people, circumstance, your own brilliance and your own foibles to touch you deeply. When you know how to navigate from discomfort back to equilibrium through the practice of meditation and can extend yourself to others fearlessly by cultivating loving kindness, you can stop looking for love. You have made your life into love itself.