mystic.

Sufism is a philosophy that focuses on the  heart, not just the mind.

It’s about connecting with life and the divine through love, awareness,  and presence.

He wrote books like the Masnavi and the Divan-e Shams-e Tabrizi, full of stories and  poems about love, connection, and the human soul.

For Rumi, love starts inside us.

Most of the time,  we struggle to love not because love isn’t there, but because we’ve built walls inside ourselves.

Fear, pride, control, and expectations block love from flowing naturally.

The first step is  to notice these walls and let them go.

When we remove these barriers, love can move freely.

Once the walls come down, love opens up in every part of life.

It’s not just about romantic  relationships or special moments.

Love becomes the way we connect with people, with the world, and  with something bigger than ourselves.

When we stop clinging, judging, or trying to control, every  moment becomes a chance to love — a kind word, a look, a gesture, or even the challenges we  face.

Love isn’t something we have to chase.

It’s already there, ready to be felt and lived.

Today, we often treat love like a transaction.

We expect it to make us feel  safe, complete, or validated.

But real love doesn’t trap or limit us.

True love  frees us and allows those around us to grow too.

And so in this video, we’re going to explore  how to love through the philosophy of Rumi.

1.

Begin by Dying Before You Die Rumi says, “Die before you die and be completely dead.

Then do whatever you want.

It’s all good.” In Sufism, what we call the ego is known as nafs - the lower self that clings.

It’s that part  of us always saying, “I, me, mine.” It wants to control, to be right, to be seen.

It’s restless,  always comparing, always needing something more.

The Sufis call this the lower self because it  keeps us trapped in survival - chasing comfort, approval, or recognition.

But beyond this lower  self, there’s a higher one - the soul, or the heart - what Sufis call ruh or qalb.

This higher  self isn’t separate from the Divine.

In Sufism, the Divine is seen as the sacred pulse of the  universe, a living presence that exists in everything - the source of life, love, and wisdom.

When we connect to this higher self, we begin to feel that divine presence within us - the part of  us that’s aware, kind, and capable of real love.

The Sufi path - the path that Rumi walked -  is the transformation of the lower self into the higher one.

It’s not about destroying  who you are, but refining who you are.

The ego blocks love because it separates.

It says,  “I'm this identity” “I’m right,” “I’m different,” “I deserve more.” It builds walls where love  wants to build bridges.

As long as we live trapped in the small self, we can’t experience  the vastness of love that’s trying to reach us.

Rumi learned this through the most powerful  friendship of his life - his meeting with Shams of Tabriz, a wandering mystic who  changed him forever.

Before meeting Shams, Rumi was a scholar - respected, disciplined, and  proud.

Then when Shams appeared, everything Rumi knew was set on fire.

He shattered Rumi’s image of  himself.

He questioned everything Rumi thought he knew, burned away his pride, and exposed the  small self hiding behind words and learning.

Through Shams, he saw how his ego stood between  him and the Divine.

That breaking burned away his pride and revealed his heart.

Rumi called this  burning fana — the death of the ego — followed by baqa, living again through love, through  the Divine.

Rumi, once a man of reason, began to speak in poetry and silence.

He no longer  preached about God — he felt God in everything.

We too can practice letting go of our ego in our  daily lives, especially in our relationships.

When we argue, when we feel jealous, when we need to  be right — that’s the lower self reacting.

It’s trying to protect its image, to stay in control.

But love asks for something softer.

It asks us to pause, to breathe, to ask — “What part of  me is trying to protect itself right now?” When we speak from that awareness,  something shifts.

The ego wants to win, but love wants to understand.

The ego wants  attention, but love wants to give.

The ego says, “I’ll love you if…” but love says,  “I love you, even through this.” Small practices help us return to that higher  self.

Take a deep breath before you speak in anger.

When you hurt someone, apologize without  defending yourself.

Do something kind without expecting credit.

Sit in silence with someone you  care about.

Or read a few lines of Rumi together.

2.

Lose Yourself in the Dance Rumi writes, “Dance, when you’re broken open.

Dance,  if you’ve torn the bandage off.” For Rumi, love was never meant to be dissected,  solved, or perfectly understood.

It was meant to be lived — raw, messy, and alive.

He often  compared love to a dance.

A true dance doesn’t begin after you’ve figured out every step.

It  begins the moment you stop trying to control it — when you let life’s music move through you.

In Sufi practice, this idea isn’t just poetic; it’s lived.

The whirling dervishes, Rumi’s  followers, spun for hours with their eyes closed and arms open, letting the Divine carry  them.

Their turning wasn’t a performance — it was prayer in motion.

In that dance,  the ego loses its grip, the boundaries of “me” and “you” dissolve, the dancer is no  longer dancing; the dance is dancing them.

Rumi believed that love reveals itself not through  endless thinking, but through presence — through the courage to step forward without knowing  where it will lead.

The ego demands guarantees: Will this last?

Will I be safe?

Will it hurt?

But love doesn’t speak that language.

Love speaks in rhythm, not in certainty.

It moves  through gestures, through shared silence, through the way your heart beats a little  faster when you allow yourself to be fully here.

This is where many of us get stuck.

We wait  for clarity before we move.

We want to know the outcome before taking the step.

But love  doesn’t grow in control — it grows in surrender.

This isn’t about recklessness or ignoring red  flags.

Sufis say, “Tie your camel, then trust in God.” In love, this means grounding yourself in  awareness, while allowing space for what wants to unfold.

You don’t need to analyze every silence  or decode every gesture or message.

Instead, speak honestly.

Listen deeply.

Meet someone’s  gaze without performing.

Dance with life as it moves — not as you think it should move.

If you love someone, express it without waiting for the perfect moment.

If you’re unsure, give  yourself permission to experience the connection without writing the whole story in advance.

Take  walks, share laughter, let your guard down in small ways.

Love will either carry you where  you need to go or teach you what you need to learn.

When you lose yourself in the dance, you  stop fighting life and begin flowing with it.

3.

Seek Union, Not Possession Rumi once said, “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.

They’re in each other all along.” For him, love was never about owning someone or making them yours.

It wasn’t about control or  possession.

Real love is a quiet recognition — a connection that already lives between two people.

It isn’t something you win or earn.

It grows naturally when both can simply be themselves,  without trying to shape or fix the other.

But somewhere along the way, many of us  turned love into a transaction.

We started giving with conditions, keeping score, and  measuring its worth by what we get in return.

Sometimes it sounds like — “I’ll love  you if you make me feel special.” Or, “I’ll give you my time  if you give me security.” Or, “I’ll be close to you  only when my needs are met.” Or even, “I’ll stay because of how  this makes me look to the world.” When love turns into a transaction, it stops  being about connection.

We are no longer in love with the person themselves; we are attached  to what they give us.

That’s where fear enters: fear of losing them, fear of not being enough,  fear of not getting what we want.

We cling to the rewards, not the person, and then the relationship  starts to feel tight, heavy, full of unspoken expectations.

We try to control, we demand,  we monitor.

And slowly, love becomes a cage.

Real love was never meant to be a cage.

Love is supposed to make you feel free, not restricted.

This is what Rumi points to when  he speaks of union.

Not ownership or control — but a kind of shared space where love flows between  two individuals who still stand as themselves.

Real love doesn’t erase you.

It lets you breathe.

It allows both people to grow, side by side, without needing to shrink for the other.

To love this way is quiet work.

It means: Letting go of the urge to  control how someone loves you.

Finding your worth within yourself, so  you’re not begging love to prove it.

Giving without keeping score,  because real love isn’t a bargain.

Remembering that no one can “complete” you — love  is a reflection of the fullness you already carry.

Helping each other grow instead  of holding each other back.

When you practice love this way, the fear  of losing someone no longer rules your mind.

You stop clinging, stop demanding,  and start truly connecting.

Love stops being something to possess and control — it  becomes something that sets both people free.

Rumi’s words aren’t just poetic lines; they are  a practical guide: “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.

They’re in each other all along.” The love you are searching for is actually something to awaken within yourself and in your  connection with others.

And real love — the kind that lasts — doesn’t make you feel small.

It doesn’t trap or limit.

It gives you space to breathe, to grow, to be fully yourself,  and to feel free alongside another person.

4.Let Pain Be Your Teacher In the words of Rumi “The wound is  the place where the Light enters you.” Pain is one of life’s most honest teachers.

It strips away the stories we tell ourselves, the masks we hide behind, and the illusions  we build for safety.

When we face heartbreak, betrayal, or loss, something inside us cracks  - and through that crack, something true begins

to emerge.

Pain reveals what we’ve been avoiding:  our fears, our attachments, the fragile structures we’ve built around our sense of self.

When  everything we’ve leaned on starts to crumble, what remains is raw, unfiltered, and real.

Most of us try to escape pain.

We distract ourselves, keep busy, pretend we’re fine.

But  avoiding it doesn’t free us - it keeps us stuck.

Pain has a way of pulling us back to what’s real.

It whispers, “This is where you’re still holding on.

This is where you’re still afraid.” When  we allow ourselves to feel it fully - without rushing to fix it or numb it - its lessons  begin to unfold.

Heartbreak exposes where we seek completion outside ourselves.

Rejection shows  us the insecurities beneath our confidence.

Grief reminds us of the depth of our love.

Pain doesn’t  come to destroy us; it comes to wake us up.

True healing begins when we stay with the  pain gently.

Sometimes that means sitting in silence with the ache, writing honestly, or  sharing with someone who truly understands.

Over time, our relationship with discomfort  changes.

Instead of running, we begin to meet it with awareness.

Pain’s lessons are  meant to be lived, not just understood.

When his beloved friend and teacher, Shams of  Tabriz, vanished, Rumi was shattered.

It wasn’t just the loss of a friend - it was losing  the mirror through which he saw divine love.

Shams had awakened something sacred in  him.

When he disappeared, Rumi was forced inward.

What had once been directed outward  turned into a fire within.

Out of that grief, the scholar became a mystic, the thinker became a  poet.

His pain didn’t end him; it transformed him.

What Rumi discovered was that the love he mourned  had never truly left.

It wasn’t bound to a single person - it was the divine flowing through that  person.

Shams was a doorway, not the source.

When the doorway closed, Rumi realized the source  lived within him all along.

That understanding

became the heartbeat of his poetry: what is real  — love, truth, presence - can never be taken away.

When we glimpse this truth ourselves, we begin  to see that what’s real doesn’t die with change or loss.

It simply shifts its form.

And with  that realization, letting go becomes less like force and more like quiet trust.

Pain, in  its own way, frees us.

It loosens our grip, humbles us, and makes us more compassionate —  not just toward ourselves but toward everyone who carries their own silent wounds.

Pain can be a teacher if we change the question from “Why is this happening to  me?” to “What is this showing me?” Rejection, for instance, can be unbearable at first.

We  question our worth, blame ourselves, ache for what’s gone.

But if we stay with that feeling,  slowly we begin to see the truth beneath it: the part of us that was seeking love or validation  outside.

We realize the love we were chasing was never out there - it has always been waiting  within.

Pain and love are not opposites.

The heart doesn’t break to close - it breaks  to open wider.

Each wound lets in more light, more truth, more understanding.

As Rumi said, “The  wound is the place where the Light enters you.” A part of healing is learning to forgive - both  others and ourselves.

Many of us carry hidden resentment toward our own mistakes.

We replay  moments of failure, judge ourselves harshly, and let shame harden inside us.

Rumi reminds us  that true self-love begins with forgiveness.

If we can’t forgive ourselves, our hearts stay locked.

Forgiveness isn’t about denying what happened.

It begins with honesty - seeing ourselves clearly.

That means acknowledging the times we’ve fallen short, not to punish ourselves but to grow  from it.

Rumi said, “Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.” We cannot heal if we  keep clutching on to what we should release.

Reflect on where you’ve hurt yourself or  others.

Listen to what those moments are trying to teach you.

As Rumi wrote, “Out  beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field.

I’ll meet you there.” In that  space, self-judgment softens, and growth begins.

Forgiveness isn’t weakness — it’s strength.

It  tells your heart, “I am still worthy of love, even here.” When we forgive others and ourselves,  we free ourselves from shame, resentment, and the weight of old stories.

Love can flow again.

Pain cracks us open.

Forgiveness clears the space inside.

And through those  cracks and clearings, healing happens.

5.

See the Divine in Everything In our final quote from Rumi for this video, he says, “Wherever you  are, and whatever you do, be in love.” For Rumi, love was never confined to the bond  between two people.

It wasn’t something that existed only in romance or in moments that felt  extraordinary.

Love was a way of seeing - a way of walking through the world with eyes wide open.

When Rumi spoke of the Divine, he didn’t mean some distant deity locked away in heaven.

As  mentioned earlier, The “divine” is the sacred pulse that lives through everything - the spark  of aliveness that makes the world breathe.

Every tree, every stranger, every breeze that brushes  your skin carries this quiet presence.

To him, nothing was separate from love - everything  was love speaking its own secret language.

Rumi’s own life changed the moment he began to  see the world this way.

After Shams disappeared, Rumi’s love didn’t vanish with him.

Instead, it  widened.

He realized that what he had loved in Shams wasn’t a single man, but something far  greater: the divine essence shining through him.

He began to find that same light in the  world around him - in the rustle of leaves, the laughter of children, the silence of the night.

He would wander through the streets of Konya where he lived, and where others saw only  ordinary scenes - a bird soaring above, a potter at his wheel, a beggar on the  corner - Rumi saw signs of the Beloved.

This is why his poetry speaks not in  commands, but in wonder.

He wanted us to remember that the world itself is sacred  — not something to conquer or control, but something to fall in love with, again and again.

When we stop waiting for love to arrive through a single person, one perfect relationship, or a rare  moment of magic, we begin to see how much love is already here.

It’s in a cup of tea on a quiet  morning.

In sunlight filtering softly through a window.

In the stranger who smiles without reason.

To “see the divine in everything” is to look at the world as if it’s whispering to you, not with  words, but with presence.

When you see life this way, even the smallest things become sacred.

Love is not something to chase.

It’s something to see.

It’s already here - in everything - waiting for you to notice.

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