“Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world.” ― Lucille Ball

It’s probably not news to you that you’re supposed to love yourself first.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it?

I mean, who wouldn’t want to love themselves?

But let’s admit it – it also sounds vague, airy-fairy, not actionable and lacking in clear benefits.

In a society where our celebrities are not good roles models for self-love and where conformity is the name of the game, learning to love oneself is an uphill battle. Although Oprah’s Lifeclass may promise all the answers, the truth is that learning to love yourself takes time, commitment and effort. And Oprah can’t do it for you.

Once you figure it out, though, it is oh-so-worth it.

Why Should I Love Myself, Anyway?

Getting to self-love isn’t like romantic love. There are no butterflies in your stomach, no exciting first kisses and nobody to take as your date to all those weddings you keep getting invited to (or is that just me?)

But it’s also similar to romantic love in many ways. When you love yourself, you gain a partner you can rely on in good times and in bad. You gain the confidence of knowing that no matter what the universe puts in your path, you will come out stronger on the other side. And you gain the truest friend you will ever have.

When you love yourself, life isn’t a constant fight for control over your baser instincts. It becomes of a beautiful exploration of what brings you into alignment with your purpose.

And when you love yourself, you enable yourself to share your true gifts with the world.

But It’s So Hard

Self-love sounds like it should be easy, but don’t be fooled. Like anything else worth doing, it takes a lifetime of effort to truly master, and you’ll always be fighting against the worthiest of opponents: Society.

Make no mistake – society does not want you to love yourself. Society wants you to conform to its rules, to go with the flow and to fulfill the role it has assigned for you. Loving yourself, on the other hand, often requires going against the grain and blazing your own trail, to which society would say, “no bueno” (if society spoke Spanish.)

Society even has agents working for it who will try to derail you in your quest: your parents, your boss and even your friends. It will suck you in with its latest trends and make you feel like you’re missing out on something better. “Don’t follow your dreams! Watch this new episode of Jersey Shore. Trust us!”

The good news is that knowing your enemy is half the battle. If you are willing to stand up to the never-ending peer pressure, channel your inner Frank Sinatra and say, “I’ll do it my way,” then you have a chance of succeeding on the road to self-love.

What Can I Do Then?

Still with me?

Good. You just made it through the hardest part.

Of course, the journey to self-love won’t happen overnight, and there’s no magic formula I can give you to help you get there. But what I can offer are a few starting points. Sometimes you’ll still have to find your own way, but know that you have the best support system you could ask for: yourself.

1. Spend time together. You can’t fall in love with someone if you never spend time with them. While we make time for everyone else, we rarely make time to spend by ourselves. Just like married couples are often advised to put a “date night” on the calendar, you should also schedule dates with yourself. This can be 30 minutes every morning to write in your journal, an hour of your favorite yoga class or just a long walk on Sunday afternoons. Your relationship may even progress to more elaborate dates, such as taking yourself out for to dinner. While that may sound terrifying, when you get comfortable spending time by yourself, the amount of activities you can do without a partner will begin to expand and so will your experiences.

2. Share your thoughts, fears, dreams, and goals. I’ll admit, I like to talk to myself. And you should too. And no, I’m not crazy. Quite the opposite, asking yourself questions and thinking about yourself in the third person can be enlightening because it allows you to consider your desires in an objective way. Next time you’re feeling tired or stressed, take a minute and ask yourself what you need. You can journal the answer or just play out the conversation in your head, but make sure you take the time to listen. Don’t let your conception of what you should want get in the way of understanding what you actually do want.

3. Put your own needs first. While in any healthy relationship there needs to be a good balance of give and take, this is often forgotten when it comes to self love. Self-care, or tending to your own physical, mental and emotional needs, is frequently disregarded when the world is banging down your door with deadlines, to-do lists and other people’s priorities. But like they tell you on the airplane, you need to put on your own oxygen masks on before you can help anyone else. Taking the time to learn what self-care actions make the biggest difference for you (hint: eating a whole pizza is probably not on the list) and working them into your life can help you be more productive and more present.

4. Embrace your weird. As Seth Godin would say, we are all weird. Learning to love and express your own particular brand of weird is the only way to love yourself. You can’t love an image of yourself that doesn’t line up with who you really are inside, and you can’t love the socially acceptable version of yourself. You can only love your real, genuine, crazy, quirky self. And when you love that self enough to share it with the world, that’s when the magic will happen.

All You Need Contributor: Sarah Goshman

Sarah Goshman talks to herself, has existential crises, and shares her own unique brand of weird on her blog, No Help Here. She also believes penguin earrings are appropriate attire for fancy restaurants. Which is probably why she has to take herself out to dinner. You can also follow her on Twitter @sarahemily.

Song: Single By Choice by The Bangles

photo credit: quinn.anya via photopin cc

Her eyes were smoky and painted, cream-and-coffee colored. They gave me a reason to get out of bed. I couldn’t get over them. They haunted me.

It bordered on obsession like El Paso borders on Juarez. What I’m saying is that sometimes you just can’t tell what country you’re in, but either way, you’re probably going to get shot in the heart.

“I should take the bullet,” I told myself.

“No, you shouldn’t,” I told myself.

I took it right in the left ventricle. All dry mouth and soft flower petals, I fell in love again. Even the rainclouds were beautiful. How the dirty water shone and the cars made that lovely swooshing sound. The blowing newspaper, the broken bottles in the gutter, American capitalism – everything ugly suddenly wasn’t.

She still didn’t know, but then whaddya know? One night everything I said was funny. There was a crackle, a snap, a pop, and things turned soft and mushy, and we drank each others’ sweetened milk. In the morning we ate some cereal.

I was in love. Music sparkled in my head. A wonderful drum beat faster, tapped by tiny winged hands. Her heart was the song I listened to again and again. My extremities weakened (all blood flowed to the heart). I couldn’t stop smiling. I was more myself than I’ve ever been.

The mornings brought the aesthetic decadence of watching her dress. She enhanced, I confess, all the colors of my home. I was insane, unless, every thought was a poem.

Time passed in mundane moments untreasured. Events defined character. Disappointments ensued. Everything I thought I knew was wrong (except for Louisville being the capital of Kentucky). I lay awake at night with a strong sense of foreboding. That sense is always right. It means betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” she said apologetically.

That offended me on two levels.

It hurt. It hurt like the flu, but I used more Kleenex than toilet paper. There was no shot for it. It hurt like accidentally missing your toenail with the clippers and clipping your heart. Chest-toes run in my family. It hurt like waking up from the greatest dream and realizing that you have to go to work. Seriously, fuck work.

She wasn’t there. Her toothbrush was, with its fuzzy head and slender pink figure, staring at me from the ceramic cup next to the bathroom sink. I told myself that it was sick to keep it around, that I should throw it out or use it. Use it? That’s even sicker. It’s full of plaque! I mean, have you ever seen a Listerine commercial?

Without her warmth, without her body, love became an Aurora Borealis of the heart: cosmic, mysterious, invoking awe, a sense of insignificance coupled with the universe, standing hairs on end, excruciating in its beauty, and cold, so cold with no nose-kisses to keep me warm and no walrus pie to eat.

Eventually I discovered that those seemingly loveless moments, that rejection, that lack of acknowledgment, that failure to acknowledge, that scorn in a thousand tiny drops – those things are just clouds. Colorful inner clouds. Atmospheric phenomena.

Love does not go away. Love is being alive, a burning inner river, something to give without expectation to those who seem thirsty. I can’t die if I love. Well, I imagine I can, but my love will live on inside those around me and those who have ever been around me. To be loveless is to be godless, finite, mortal, but I – I love.
It’s a poor choice to not love, to not give the self away.

Still, her eyes. They haunt me. Smoky and painted, I took a chance. I’ll do it again because there’s nothing to lose except myself.

I find peace in that.

All You Need Contributor: Jonathan Hoferle

Jonathan Hoferle lives in Chicago, and no one is exactly sure what he does. He loves the Cubs and other unhealthy relationships and spends Sundays laughing. He believes that in most cases imagination is superior to reality unless said reality involves massage oil. Do you want more? Of course you want more. Who doesn’t want more? Go and read more at The Good Word of Sprout. Please?

Song: The Wild One, Forever by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

photo credit: Sanctuary photography via photopin cc

Unhook your love from whatever condition it’s hung up on. – Rachel W. Cole

My husband and I met 9 years ago after my first full day of college classes. I was completely drained and his smiling face in the elevator was a welcome change to a day filled with chemistry labs and math equations. We spent that night talking about each other’s pasts. We covered the superficial stuff – our majors, favorite movies and pet peeves – as well as the deep stuff – our fears, our hopes, our dreams. We became fast friends and were completely inseparable for the months leading up to the day we decided to make it official and go on a date. I was never expecting to fall in love during my Freshman year of college. I also never expected to be married by the time I was 26, but love had other plans.

I’ve come to realize that we have far too many expectations around love. There are far too many expectations around life in general, but in particular around love.

The Perfect Mate

We’re taught at a young age what to expect from our perfect mate. Little girls wait patiently for their Prince Charming. Little boys learn the value of having a beautiful Princess who can take care of them. These expectations stick with us long into adulthood and whether we like it or not, we find ourselves buying into that image of the perfect mate. Even the self-help industry contributes to it by advocating that you write down the attributes of your ideal mate and release it into the Universe. Now all you have to do is sit around and wait for them to come knocking on your door, right?

The expectations we have around the people we fall in love with tie us down to an unrealistic image. It makes us laser-focused on that list of attributes that our future spouse must have and makes it easy to overlook the opportunities for love that may be staring us in the face. Rigid expectations leave no room for the quirks that make people lovable and real.

The Perfect Plan

Beyond expectations of who we will fall in love with, we’ve built expectations around the how & the when & the what of love. I have several friends whose plans were to meet their perfect man, date for the appropriate number of years, get engaged, have a lavish wedding and then pop out two perfect children by the time they turned 30. These expectations have set my friends up for disappointment when things don’t go as planned. And it’s also caused them to be cynical about the love that they are experiencing because it’s not they expected.

We can dream up our perfect plan with our ideal timing as much as we like but reality rarely matches up with the vision we’ve created in our minds. Love shows up how it shows up. Love cannot be coerced into appearing. That over-the-moon, heart-aching love will come when it comes – no sooner, no later.

The Perfect Display

Even now that I’m married, expectations have a way of showing up in my relationship. The most prominent being around how my husband should show his love. I sometimes fall into the trap of expecting the perfect birthday surprise or dreaming up the ideal romantic gesture that would totally showcase my husband’s love for me. Although I’m aware of my own unrealistic expectations, they can still find ways to take over, leaving me disappointed before my husband even sets foot in the door. Getting caught up in the expectations I set about my husband’s displays of love do nothing but put our relationship in jeopardy. If I get so busy pining over the things he didn’t do, I’m apt to gloss over all of the great things he does do.

I’m forced to remind myself that our love is not the latest Hollywood rom-com and that the simple and sweet ways that he shows his love for me each day are more than enough.

There is No Perfect Love

We have our list of attributes that our mate must match up with, we have our ideal spots where our future spouse will meet us for the first time, we have our weddings planned out to a ‘T.’ But like everything else in life, love does not do well with expectations. There is no perfect love. There is simply love. The only thing we can do is be ok with that knowledge. Live our lives to the fullest knowing that one day a quirky, imperfect Love will be standing around the corner, waiting to make its move.

All You Need Contributor: Nailah Blades

Life Coach, idea generator + inspirational speaker Nailah Blades helps entrepreneurial women sweep away their head trash and uncover their true passions—by breaking down queen-sized dreams into bite-sized goals. Nailah shows young women that making bold changes—and a big impact, in the world—doesn’t have to be riddled with costly mistakes, or heart-breaking shake-ups. It can smooth, strategic + seriously fun. Find Nailah online at PolkaDotCoaching.com + on Twitter @NailahBlades.

Song: Love Song by The Cure

In my case, I kept a journal from the years 1997-2003, or roughly what is known as my middle school through high school years. I am (un?)fortunate enough to have bounded books scribbled with the remnants of my awkward youth, reminding me of the good, the bad, and the embarrassingly lame. Stories about the time I wore capri pants and everyone called me “Highwaters” for weeks.

But mostly, these books contain shitty poetry about guys that drove beamers that barely passed inspection, who wore DMB concert shirts and had very odd obsessions with the band Ween. Boys who had long hair, grungy plaid shirts and wore way too much cheap cologne. And I loved them.

I still have the mix-tapes from said guys that are full of Pogues, Pixies, Eels and even… Sarah McLaughlan. I still keep a pencil in the car out of habit when I used to wind/fix the tapes (all you younger-than-me chickens will have no idea what I’m talking about.) There was no way I would let a mixtape get destroyed, especially when it had his gorgeous, perfect handwriting on it. Music has always been the third element in every single one of my relationships. You hum in the car to it in the good times, and cry on the floor to it at the break-up. Either way, John Lennon was going to be there and there’s something comforting about that.

High school was the time when rules, regulations and guidelines about the dating world first come into play. That’s when we start to understand the guy/girl code. Things like not grinding with your friend’s girlfriend at the dance and how to play it ice cold when all you want to do is call their home phone and ask “Is so-and-so there?” These are the rules in which we follow, or not follow, for the rest of our life. I still remember when when my “friend” in high school told me she was positive my crush liked her instead of me. It was against girl code for even saying such nonsense. I felt like a deflated balloon standing next to a shining pink tiara. How do I know I felt this way? Yes, I wrote this winning analogy in my journal.

You never forget your first break-up. That stabbing feeling in your chest and the way your face feels so cold, even if it’s July. The first time someone broke my heart, I was 16 (I don’t count the time when Johnny Parkstreet stopped holding my hand on the playground). My boyfriend and I had been dating for 4 glorious months, mostly in the summer. When he first said, “I love you,” after 2 weeks of dating, I awkwardly replied, “Thanks.” He held my hand and gave me weird gifts, like bumper stickers about surfing. Needless to say, we broke up right before senior year because, well, it was senior year. I replayed The Beatles song Let it Be over and over again and sketched sad drawings of pitiful, wilting flowers. Why? Because I was sixteen and that’s what. you. do.

We all did a lot of silly, ridiculous things when we were young but then we moved on and tried on the next pair of shoes. People always remember how dramatic these on-average 3-ish month relationships were but forget how ready you were to move on to the next guy or girl. At this point in life, no one is jilted. Love still exists and is out there in English 401 in the creaky desk chair. One minute you’re crying while the next you’re at the beach with all your friends, including the cute exchange student. We all believed there’s a lid for every pot. (giggle, giggle… pot)

In college, I remember a psychology professor saying, “All relationships end. Whether you break up or end by passing on to the next life, they all end.” I realized that just because two people aren’t good together doesn’t mean they aren’t good separately. Things just end. I hear my friends after a break-up say over and over again, “He’s just a terrible person.” Well, most likely not. And neither are you. He could be awful, but I like to give everyone the benefit of the doubt that we aren’t all jerk faces. And then there’s the next relationship. Will she be rude to the waiter like the last girlfriend? Will he forget to open the door for me like the last boyfriend? Here’s something new: the new person you are going out with IS NOT YOUR EX. They aren’t all relationshits.

It’s amazing how willing we used to be to fall in love. We are now so afraid of the end of relationships that some of us never let them start. We’ve become jaded. We hold on to what was instead of what could be, and don’t let things just happen. I can’t believe I’m writing this but we need to go back to the way we were in high school- minus the dramatics and lame perms. Give love a real shot and if you break up, who cares? You’ll get over it, so will he, and then you’ll play something cheesy like The Ataris version of The Boys of Summer every now and then to remember the “good times.” At least you tried, which means that when the real love of your life comes around, hopefully not wearing DMB shirts, you’ll be ready. If there’s one thing I learned from high school other than to always keep a journal, it’s that we just move right along. Oh, and that mean girls really do peak in high school.
But that’s another story.

“Like sunflowers, we shine bright in open spaces.” – Shitty line from a poem I wrote circa 1998. Future Emily Dickinson, folks.

All You Need Contributor: Lola Sizemore

Lola Sizemore is a local art director/designer who sometimes writes. She enjoys cheap wine, long walks on the beach and is a true Sagittarius. Lola thanks her friends and family for laughing at her dumb jokes. She also thanks Sharkweek for happening every year. She writes a ridiculous blog, The Lolapalooza Show, and occasionally does the whole tweeter thing: twitter.com/LolapaloozaShow

Song: You Ain’t Going Nowhere by The Swell Season

Growing up in Montana, I was constantly surrounded by dog lovers.  Dogs were family. Trusted friends, protectors, furry children and loved companions.

I, however, didn’t grow up with a dog in my life. Due to an unfortunate paper route as a child, my father wasn’t too keen on canines, and acquiesced by allowing cats (outdoor only) instead. I loved the cats I had growing up, but always sensed I was missing out on some magical relationship with a dog – I wanted to experience the “unconditional” love dog lovers so often highlight as the best trait of their furry friends.

Once I was on my own, I considered adopting a dog thousands of times. But city life was challenging enough, and honestly I probably wasn’t ready for the commitment. So life continued dog free, leaving me to often wonder if that pure, honest love really existed.

During this time, I dated, fell in love and made a life with someone. The relationship ended after eight years and I started to believe unconditional love was impossible.

I carried this belief with me as I started to date again.  Nothing ever lasted more than a few dates, and I often found myself disappointed with the whole game.  It must be me.  

I’m not cut out for love.

After my first “break up” in my new single life, I sequestered myself in the bedroom for the day, allowing myself to shiver and cry in private. Emptiness filled the room, and once again I considered the possibility that it was me that had the issue.  I was broken. A deluge of tears let loose, soaking my pillow.

Alone, hurt and incredibly sad, I searched for the only living comfort I had left – my cat.  After calling out to him several times to no avail, I gave up and pulled the covers over my head.  It seemed like hours before he finally sauntered into the bedroom, quietly hopping up on the bed to see what the hell the racket was all about (he was napping, after all).

Barely able to see through my tear-swollen eyes, I inched a hand out from underneath my cave of blankets to pet him.  Normally a sweet and loving kitty, he did have the unfortunate tendency to occasionally bite the shit out of me for no apparent reason. I hoped he sensed my suffering, and convinced myself he was there for moral support.  That made me feel better.

Right up until the moment his claws embedded in my arm, his sharp little teeth clamped tightly around my wrist.

Unconditional love my ass.

That day I started researching foster dog programs, and a week later found myself taking home a beautiful brindle pit-mix with big eyes and a dash of salt and pepper fur around his face.  He was around eight years old, and narrowly escaped euthanasia only weeks before.  

I think we knew we were both a little damaged.

Our first few weeks together were uneventful.  I enjoyed having him around, and he started to settle in with me as well.  We went for walks, played fetch and enjoyed umpteen belly rubs.  But I didn’t feel that magical love I was expecting, and I don’t think he did either. Again, I suspected I was the heart of the issue.  I was unlovable.  If a dog didn’t love me, who could?

Then it happened. Like magic, just as I’d fantasized in my youth.  

I came home from work, unraveling after a horrible day in the office, a failed attempt to patch things up with a guy I’d been dating and looking up from the bottom of one of the worst major depressive episodes of my life.  I crumpled into a shaking, crying mess of hair and tears and on the kitchen floor.

I was defeated.  Beaten, bruised and hopeless.

I heard the pad of paws on the floor and looked up to see the dog galloping toward me from the back yard, his dinner barely touched. His large, brown eyes were wide, his head cocked slightly to the left as if to ask “Are you o.k.?”

He was at my side in an instant, gently nuzzling my face with a look of deep concern and empathy in his eyes.  I reached out and wrapped my arms around his muscular neck and shoulders.  He rested his chin on my shoulder and let me cry.

When I couldn’t cry anymore, he followed me to my room and kept watch by my side the rest of the evening, occasionally stretching his head over the bed to give me a kiss – to let me know he was there.

I finally slept, and when I woke he hadn’t moved.  He looked up expectantly, and I smiled back at him.  His tail began to wag excitedly – he knew I was feeling better.  

Still exhausted and drained from the previous night, I wasn’t up for much, but wanted to express my appreciation for his vigil with a special breakfast. I stepped outside to grab his bowl only to find it still full, his water untouched. This abandoned dog, with every reason in the world to look out for his own survival, ignored his own needs – for what? For me?  

I was overcome with the most amazing and humbling sensation. Was this unconditional love?

Suddenly the air was warm and my heart swelled in my chest. I sat down next to his bowl, coaxing him over to eat.

He ignored the bowl, and looked up at me with loving eyes as he kissed away the tears on my face.

All You Need Contributor: Jennifer Winter

Jennifer Winter is a writer, wanderer, and wine lover living in Oakland, California (but always plotting travels abroad). She translates her 14 years of corporate combat experience to help young women navigate their careers through her column for The Daily Muse, and shares her own experiences tackling her fears on her blog FearLess Jenn. You can find her on Twitter @fearless_jenn.

Song: This Must Be The Place by Talking Heads

My beloved Little One,

I know that life has felt terribly unfair, living with me—the overachiever—plus your older brother who is bright enough to be a super nova in the Milky Way and our conservative parents whose merest touch feels like a chokehold to you.

I know that your heart told you passionately that you had to leave home, and you did. And even though we were all broken and frightened and out of our minds because we’d discovered your secrets and your hidden plans…it worked out for the best. We found better paths of love with our words when you came back. That trail of better words was blazed with dull machetes, but in the end I’m proud of the scars.

But Little One, that was just a chapter. I see it now. Your pain and your life has many levels and though I’m proud of how far you and I have come, it still breaks me to see these new scars, the ones filled with anger and anxiety–your efforts to cut away and let free the agony boiling in your blood. Those are scars I’m not proud of, red, wet mouths opening on your arms, red cuts that scream for help, but only turn inward to bite you more deeply. And even though these real-life scars of yours are healing now and the razors are safely stowed away, I still feel my pain for you driving deeper inside me. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Why am I so obsessed with the state of your soul? Should I just step away and let you live your life without any comment or interference from me? It’s only been a few years since we lived in the same house, and it’s already as if fossils are already forming in the eons.

But I can’t get away from this: Ever since you were very small, I’ve loved you as the chink in my armor, my weak spot, my special poison/antidote (depending on the situation), the person for whom I fear so many of my convictions would be thrown to the wind if I thought it would take you out of harm’s way.

I think I love you too much. Maybe that’s not possible, but sometimes I wonder morbidly if that’s what I struggle with, if that’s what’s torturing me. I love you as I loved you when you were born, without holding anything back, and now you’re separating, tearing out of the cocoon that I erroneously built for you. One of your wings is bleeding, but you don’t want the ointment I’m offering for it because you’re afraid it will tint your wings like mine and you want to be your own color. I admire that about you. It also makes me cry.

You are a woman and you know how to roar. I am the sister who has learned how to cry, to love, to fight, to apologize, and to grow up with you in ways that I’ve never expected.

I write this to you because it is blooming up from my heart like a hot fountain, completely unable to stay down, falling into my mouth and clenching my jaw till it aches, sifting into my prayers until all I can say is God help her. Help me. Take care of her. I can’t do it by myself.

I love you. I always will love you. Even when I verbally stab you in the back and even when you’re embarrassed by me.

I love you when you turn away from me and ignore what I say, and I love you when you kiss me on the cheek and remind me that you can forgive and love again, too. In times of love and war, I will love you till the day I die.

I thought you should know.

And don’t give up. Don’t ever give up. No matter the pain, the disillusionment, the heartless breakups with the guy who used or abused or just plain underestimated your incredible soul.

Don’t give in to rage when Mom and Dad can’t hear what you’re saying and all they seem to do is stuff you into a box of expectations. Don’t give up when school is yanking your will to live right out from under you. Don’t give up when rejections tell you you’re not worth the risk.

Because it’s not true.

I promise. I’ve seen you live. I’ve watched you grow. God knit you in Mom’s womb, but he didn’t give you a how-to manual because there isn’t one. You have to live the manual.

So that’s what I needed to say. And one more time: I love you.

Your sister

All You Need Contributor: Elise Stephens

Elise Stephens received the Eugene Van Buren Prize for Fiction from the University of Washington in 2007. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys seeing live theater, swing dancing, eating tiramisu, singing, and painting. She lives in Seattle with her husband James. Her novel Moonlight and Oranges was a quarter-finalist for the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Visit her blog about relationships, life, and inspiration here: www.elisestephens.com and follow her on Twitter @elisestephens and Facebook http://www.facebook.com/AuthorEliseStephens

Song: Dance Sister Dance by Santana

The most selfish organ is the heart.

When a kidney stops working, you’ve still got one left that can survive on its own. But when the heart stops working, all the other organs shut down. Zip. Zilch. You’re dead, baby.

Being heart-centered means following your passions and being “selfish” to the rest of the world. But even in the literal sense, being selfish or indulgent is necessary to function! We’ve got to care for ourselves first, do what makes us happy. Find our bliss.

Are You Really Living?

Being hedonistic sometimes gets a bad rep, but the journey towards happiness and self-love is a journey, ultimately, from within. By giving ourselves the gift of love, we can share and emanate our outpouring of love to others. Cultivate our compassion. The Buddha didn’t become the Buddha until he left his luxurious comforts of being a prince and sought out the personal solo journey of self-discovery and asceticism. Only then was he able to share it to others and speak his wisdom, through love.

In the book The Alchemist, by Paolo Coelho, the protagonist goes on a soul journey. The idea of spiritual pilgrimage, of finding oneself, has been around for centuries. It was the tug of the road for the beatniks. And every generation, another one bites the dust.

Always think with your heart, because it’s more powerful than the mind.

Do what you love.

Love what you do.

Getting To Know My Inner “Humanitarian Chick”

It took me one failed, long term relationship that lasted the first half of my twenties, and one “quarterlife crisis” to figure out that I needed to love myself. I needed to find my passions again. Unlock that girl that loved art and painting and lived creativity. Get to know my inner “humanitarian chick”.

And so, I learned to follow my intuitions again, not knowing where it would take me or what was around the bend. I learned not to listen to anyone who told me otherwise, who had that condescending veil of silence that I could read between the lines. I learned to think with my heart.

It took me to blogging, where I wrote poetry and creative writing I didn’t know I could write. It took me to India to teach slum school kids. It took me to the Philippines where I joined meditation retreats and went on a 660 km walking pilgrimage of my own. It took me on a journey towards location independence. It took me back to romantic love.

I told myself I would take two years to be single to find what makes my heart beat again. Like clockwork, it was two years exactly, on October 18th, 2010, that my walking partner and I were seduced by the jungle; the canopy of trees, the magic of tropical rain and Avatar-esque glow in the dark foliage beneath our feet, succumbing to a magical rendezvous underneath our makeshift shelter of yoga mat + blanket strewn across tree branches.

Self Love Comes First

It always does. I knew I couldn’t love another until I learned to love myself and live my passions. Prior to my walk, I declared I would change my blog from The “Solitary” Panda to Purple Panda, telling my soon-to-be love that it was time to start a different intention. The intention to live a life that was extraordinary, instead of solitary.

I’m not your typical girl. I hate dating and refuse to “play the game”. It may sound counter-intuitive to most “single and looking”, but the most intuitive thing I ever did for myself was to forge my own path, solo. It was my pro-active way to finding romantic love again. Because love happens when you least expect it. And I learned how to let it flow.

Instead of dating and focusing externally on which guy would suit me best, I gave it all up. I looked inwards for the answers and made my own alchemy. I knew love would come when I was ready. And like an intuitive calling out her next life journey, I set the intention that I was ready to let romantic love in, ready to meet my “spiritual partner”, and ready to live life Purple; that extraordinary, spiritual and creatively unique path to entrepreneurship that I envisioned would help me stand out from the rest.

Follow Your Bliss

Although my walking pilgrimage is over, it’s never really over. It’s everything that life represents. All the trials and tribulations, simple gratitudes, and uncomfortable struggles that make life worth it. Love the process. Follow your bliss. Find True Love, in the greatest sense of the word. The all-encompassing, unconditional light from which romantic love stems.

And love every minute of it!

All You Need Contributor: Janet Brent

Janet is a graphic/web design intuitive who works with indies in the creative, eco-conscious and holistic arts. Her passion for building her business, working with other passionate people, and making positive change is only the beginning of more extraordinary things to come. Currently residing in Manila, Philippines, her path to freedom and location independence is well on its way towards Asia and beyond. You can find her marching to her own beat at Purple Panda or tweeting up a storm @janetbrent

Song: Tonight, Tonight by The Smashing Pumpkins

photo credit: Helga Weber via photopin cc

I would always know I was loved.

I didn’t read through all the entries until I got here. They had many of the same sentiments like “We’ll miss you”, “Have fun”, “Take care”. What else do you write in a journal for someone packing up their life to move to the other side of the planet?

There was another common theme that ran through so many of the comments as well, one that I’ve heard a lot recently as I’ve started finding my voice again and meeting new people.

My friend Elsa summed it up best when she wrote to me:

But more than that – I hope you’re loving life because that is what is beautiful about you. You have an unabashed and intense love for this life

You know those exercises when you are supposed to think of what you hope or wish people would say about you at your funeral? This, above any fame or fortune or connection or accomplishment, is what I would want people to think of and remember about me.

Because you know what?

Life Is Beautiful

Just take a few minutes to look around.

A solid few minutes. Really observe what is around you. In this very moment. In this very place. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell?

How does it all make you feel?

If the answer is something that does not bring at least the slightest glimmer of a smile, then you are doing life wrong.

I feel like I’m living that Louis CK video every day, not just while I’m flying. “Everybody [on every plane] should just constantly be going “OH MY GOD! WOW!”

If you were to take a peek inside my brain, on most days this clip plays at least five times.

How can it not?!

Yet, it can be so easy to push the smallest pieces of awe and wonder aside, to focus on the things that consume our being for all the wrong reasons.

Life Can Get Messy

Yes, there are those moments and days and weeks and years that feel so damn un-pretty. That leave us hurt and broken, a weight on our shoulders and a heaviness in our hearts.

Our spirits grow dark, we lose the ability to shine and sparkle for the world. Desperately we claw and scrape, trying to find the light again.

It does not come the first night. Nor the morning after. It can feel like it is consuming us. Then one day, based on no particular change or specific moment, it isn’t so dark any more. The light begins to peek through the cracks and hope becomes something you can touch again.

That is part of the beauty of life. The ebb and flow, the highs and lows, the beauty and the scars. They all weave together into this magnificent fabric that we can wrap ourselves in at any time to feel enveloped and loved.

I love Love. And I love Life.

And that is why, for the month of February I’m once again opening up my blog to a new contributor every day for the third installment of the All You Need Is Love Series. 28 people will write, photograph, and draw their own experiences and concepts of all things love.

They will challenge you, comfort you, make you laugh and make you cry.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. Enjoy!

Song: Over The Rainbow/What A Wonderful World by Israel “Iz” Kamakawiwo’ole

From the moment my parents put a copy of The Color Kittens in my little 2 year old hands (yes, I started reading by myself when I was 2 years old) I could be found daily curled up with a book.

Fast-forward to elementary school when I informed my parents I no longer wanted to read “baby books” and they started purchasing me Great Illustrated Classic books from KB Toys and for a bit from the local supermarket. These were chapter books. CHAPTER BOOKS! My excitement was hardly containable.

My first was 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea (I was probably 7 or 8 ) and I was enthralled. Giant squids and Captain Nemo and porthole windows and adventure…the stories enveloped me into a world of further imagination. They nurtured a sense of wonder and curiosity in my tiny impressionable mind.

I was convinced that even if the stories were fiction, the possibilities of life and the world were endless.

When we moved to a new town in Middle School, my parents marched in to my 8th grade teacher’s classroom during the second week, infuriated because I had already read every book on my class syllabus. Is there anything more embarrassing as a 13 year old? Secretly I was thrilled. She created a special reading plan just for me that took me away to Watership Down, which I consumed like a vulture and promptly took to sobbing because the rabbits died and/or chewed off their feet in traps. (This also became the period of my life where I was a vegetarian)

In high school, my love affair turned passionate as I began expanding my vocabulary and understanding of language by taking four years of Latin. My teacher, Magister Lawrenson, to this day is easily one of the most fascinating and brilliant people I have ever met. His classes were hard but I loved the challenge. Classical language study was like cocaine to me.

As I learned the origin of words and how alluringly poetic language could be, I fell deeper and deeper in love with it. I began keeping a notebook with me at all times, and I would write down words I didn’t know or that I found interesting. At night I would sit down with my Webster’s Dictionary and diligently research the etymology (word history and origins) and definition. A friend recently told me that he did that as well…because his English teacher made them do it for an assignment.

I did it for love.

Language was like a song. A lilting melody in every sentence I read. Words are beautiful.

In college, after abandoning my hopes of musical stardom and success, I settled in to a brief dalliance in a philosophy major and eventually a dual major in Classical Studies (concentration in Latin) and English/Creative Writing. Suddenly all those years I had spent consumed with learning and loving language were manifesting into a potential career and future lifestyle. I was in control of the words now. Like a gentle shift in an afternoon tryst, my lover was ready for whatever I wanted to do. Comical tales of romance, deeply themed stories of strife, marathon conversations about theories and rhetoric, and some awful poetry about cabbage.

After college, when I was forced in to the real world of cubicles and conformity and competition, my love affair began to wane. After 22 years the honeymoon seemed to be over. I felt like I had lost a small piece of myself. Often when I’d engage my vocabulary, I was met with teasing and bullying. One colleague used to comment to me frequently “There you go with your big $5 words. Trying to sound smarter than the rest of us.”

It never occurred to me in all my word nerdiness that I would somehow use language as a weapon of intelligence.

Words were not missiles to be launched vindictively. There are so many that are never used, but perfectly convey what you want to say. Words were everything that I craved in my own romantic relationships. Exciting and compelling and engaging and mystical and rich with history and meaning and context. Let’s face it, language is one of the sexiest things out there.

I didn’t know that I didn’t need to be like everyone else and I didn’t want people to hate me. So I left my lover alone in a quiet room, and shut the door. Promising to be back, but never sure that I’d ever walk in to that room again. In part, I wanted to leave it a pristine memory of a time that had been. As time passed, my shame grew. I distracted myself, avoiding the room in the tower that pulled my very essence from my chest.

Working on a story for Forbes (about Ebeneezer Scrooge and social media oddly enough) my lover arrived unexpectedly at my bedside. Gently shaking me from my slumber and swiftly sliding into the sheets beside me. Forgiving me without question for my disappearance. Our reunion was hesitant and cautious, like the rekindling of an affair with a prior partner. Yet somehow comfortable and magical, reminding me of the happiness I once had basking in language’s glow.

Anyone can develop a love affair with language and words.

You don’t have to start as a toddler reading about Brush and Hush to fall madly in love. You can begin your relationship at any time.

• Read A Dictionary - Pull out (or up) a dictionary and carefully read the definition (all the definitions) then all the “junk” after the definition. What did the word first mean? How is it grammatically used? What is the origin?
• Appreciate Etymology – You don’t have to study classical languages for 7 years to appreciate etymology. Words like awesome used to mean something. Awe comes from the Greek word áchos which means pain. Something is awesome when it has such an effect on you it feels painful.
• Do Crossword Puzzles - The one in the back of the TV Guide doesn’t count. Do the New York Times Crossword Puzzle. The first  time you do you will probably know less than a quarter of the answers. I barely finish half myself.
• Read Fiction - I know, this one just pissed off a lot of you. I’m not sorry. Good fiction writing is laced with irresistible language. If you can’t trudge through an entire novel at least take to short stories. Pick up a good anthology. You won’t want to put it down.

Fall in love with language today.

Give in to the dark side.

Your life will be richer because of this love affair.

I promise.

It is going to be motorcycles (motorbikes as they are mostly called round these parts).

Traffic related accidents are, in fact, the most common cause of injury and death for American travelers in foreign countries. Now, I am normally not a coordinated person. I’m covered with bruises most of the time from running in to walls/doors/other people. This bodes badly for me.

There is a story of my mother bringing me to the doctor for a routine kid thing and him being concerned that I was covered in bruises (thank you for the concern Doc!). As he was asking my Mom about her parenting skills and stress-levels I began running around his office like the curious and precocious child I was (am). Halfway through the interrogation I apparently took a head-long run at his roll-top desk and tried to slide underneath it. I didn’t quite make it and essentially bounced myself hard onto my back on the floor of his office. Waiting for the hysterical screams to emerge, instead he saw me jump back up, shake off a bit, and then start running around again.

He immediately quit questioning my mother.

In Bali, and apparently most of Asia, people drive like crazy people. There are not really any traffic rules, other than drive on the opposite side of the road from the US (driver’s seats in cars are on the right, which doesn’t really help you with sides of the road when you are on a motorbike), so it is like every human for themselves. I’ve experienced this. Crossing the street is like live-action Frogger.

Needless to say, since I haven’t been on a bike (motorized or pedal) for years, I’ve been a bit hesitant to give it a go. This is, of course, silly, and I will most likely NOT get dead from a motorbike accident. I’ll just get some killer road rash and a bit banged up.

Guys digs scars like chicks, right?

In the meantime, I have had my kind housemates benevolence and pity to help get around Seminyak and Kuta. This has caused two profound insights for me.

• I need to do way more planks, boats and core strengthening exercises because riding on the back of a motorbike going 30 KPH is all core, baby!
• I am totally at the mercy of everyone around me and barely in control of anything

The second insight came as I donned Dan’s helmet to head out and meet friends for dinner in Kuta. “Whatever happens, don’t react to anything that you see coming. If you think we are gonna hit the truck coming at us and jump or shift then we will go down” was the first and best piece of motorbike passenger safety I’ve gotten so far.

The thing with riding on the back of bikes with boys (and girls though I have no point of reference for that as of yet) is that anything you do affects both people on the motorbike. Except you don’t have any control of the bike, so if you do something motivated by your fear instinct, then you could force the bike onto the ground in a spin out. How is the driver supposed to be able to account for the things that you do when you are on the back ?

I do not do well with not having control over my situations.

I’m learning quickly to let go of it though. It is the only way to keep everyone safe.

This involves a serious level of trust in people I met just two weeks ago. I’ve gone flying over potholes, nudged through traffic on the highway, stared at an oncoming truck grill, and with all of it barely blinked an eye.

If you are a smart person then you make sure that you don’t get on anyone’s bike that you wouldn’t trust your life with. Honestly, that is exactly what you are doing when you climb on and grasp onto those handles.

Again, not a situation I’ve done well with in the past.

It’s funny the things you realize when you are forced to learn the lessons. Very quickly. In a life or limb sort of way.

photo credit: 27147 via photopin cc