"Conditional love is: I will only love you if you love me. Unconditional love is: I will love you even if you do not love me. It’s really easy to love passing strangers unconditionally. They demand nothing of you. It is really hard to love people unconditionally when they can hurt you."

Amanda Palmer. "The Art of Asking"

I have just read Amanda Palmer's powerful memoir and fell in love with her raw, unabashed, courageous, extroverted, trusting, empathic, crazy voice. If you don't know who Amanda Palmer is, do take 13 minutes to watch her TED Talk - you won't regret it. I loved the story of this artist who offers herself to the world and instead of creating art that becomes a fishbowl where the great artist can hide from the world, she creates art that becomes a bridge uniting people in the most unlikely ways; a web of meaningful connections with her at the centre, touching hands and hearts with hundreds of thousands of people and changing her and their lives in the process.

As much as I loved Amanda Palmer's courageous story as an artist redefining the boundaries of how art is made and sold, what I loved even more was her invitation to step into the other side of her life. The side where she wasn't at her best. Actually, the side where she was as messed up as any human can be. Failed relationships. Too much drinking. Insecurities. Fear of commitment. Mother daughter issues. It seemed that, for every moment of grace in her artistic life, there were dozens of failed moments in her "just Amanda" life. As much as she was a genius at connecting with her fans, she was clumsy at connecting with those closes to her. As willing as she was to ask for help from her artistic tribe, as incapable she was to receive help from the man who loved her and whose life she was sharing.

As I was reading, I thought: "I am Amanda!". Sure, my life is utterly boring by comparison, however I could deeply relate to the "schizophrenia" of being at my best while doing my profession and fumbling around, hoping for snippets of wisdom, in the rest of my life. I could see how I'd step in a sacred space whenever I am facilitating a workshop or running a coaching session. I'll be an empty vessel. No ego, no expectations. No fear. There are moments, in rooms full of people, when I just feel I am there for them and there is not much of me left at all - in those moments I am fearless. I speak from the heart and my intuition almost never fails me. There is a deep wisdom that comes forth, which I could never describe other than to call it "magic".Yet I could also see how then, after such a day of "magic", I'll come home and might feel irritated at my four year old's incessant requests for whatever a four year old may want at that moment. How I might snap at my partner for a trifle. How I'll often fall into old patterns that go back to my childhood and my forever "work in progress" relationship with my own parents. I could see how I cannot so readily access that wisdom with the people I love most. I can see how much easier it is to listen, with full presence, to a stranger. How much simpler it is to be "an empty vessel" for people who I'm not sharing my life with or would give my life for.I then thought of other people I know who also seem to live in "pockets of wisdom". I know gifted, innovative, brilliant business people who are lousy leaders. Fantastic coaches who are crappy listeners when it comes to their own teams. Wise, knowledgeable professionals who are control freaks behind the scenes and, whilst co-creating the most amazing projects with clients, are utterly unable to create space and freedom for those working with them. I know doctors who save countless lives and are kind and empathic with their patients, but rough and inflexible with their families. Teachers who have endless patience with the kids in school and none at all with their own. Gifted therapists who help couples save their relationship while their own is dying for lack of communication and too much messed-up love.Going beyond my circle of acquaintances, history is full of amazing people who changed the world with their artistic or scientific genius, all while living mediocre and unhappy lives or making the lives of those around them utterly miserable. "Good art, bad people" even became the topic of an op-ed in the New York Times - it is such a juicy theme.So what is the point of all of this? The point is that we all seem to have some sort of space in our lives where we can access our highest potential for doing good and being wise. Now the conundrum is how to expand that "pocket of wisdom" to encompass the rest of our lives. I find that my hardest work is not to become better professionally - that feels so easy and rewarding, despite the hard work involved. My hardest work is to catch myself being unwise with my loved ones. To remember to call my closest friends and just spend time with them. To spot that toxic nagging pattern when it arises. To stop myself from interrupting my partner just because I'm condescendingly assuming I know him so well that I can finish his sentence. To breathe deeply and allow my four year old to have her big feelings, holding space for her even when her big feelings come right at the end of my long tiring day. To see my parents compassionately for who they are  - imperfect humans who love me the best way they can and to be grateful for that love. To accept and forgive myself in my darkest moments. THAT is my hardest work and, dare I assume, that might be the hardest work of us all.Why is it so much easier to be at our best around strangers? Around inanimate projects? Why is it easier to make great art or bold projects than to make a really happy family?My guess is that, to expand wisdom to the whole of our lives, we need a special breed of vulnerability. I call it radical vulnerability. Like Amanda Palmer has discovered - loving unconditionally comes hardest when we might get hurt. And who has the power to hurt us most? Is it not those closest to us?To that control freak leader - what if your team sees you are sometimes weak, insecure and fearful and utterly human?To that doctor - how excruciatingly vulnerable is it to come home and just become a parent, never in full control of your kids' destinies?To that therapist - what does it feel like to know you are not able to heal the one you love most? How about accepting that you yourself are never truly healed and that's ok?Allowing ourselves to grow up - to truly GROW-UP takes a leap of faith. It takes embracing radical vulnerability. Yes, loved ones might and will get sick or die. Yes, we might get sick or die. Yes, when we reach out we'll get rejected sometimes. Yes, we might need to accept that we're not as self-confident and accomplished as our professional circles might think we are. Yes, we will need to own up to being messy human beings, never "round and smooth", always a bit "rugged and sharp-edged". Accepting how inherently imperfect and, yes, vulnerable, we are is the ultimate act of courage and, paradoxically, it might lead us to becoming better, wiser, more patient, loving humans, more at peace with ourselves and all those around us - close and far. It might lead us to becoming real. 

“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.''Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.''Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?''It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”

Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

Photo by: Luis Tosta on Unsplash