Why is it that nothing can make us as sorrowful as love? It is the same reason that nothing can make us as joyful as love. In love we become the other, we slough off our skin like a snake. Underneath that hard, protective coat of otherness and ego, there is new flesh, incomparably more sensitive than the outer skin. The heart is like a newborn baby. It is our spiritual erogenous zone, capable of exquisite joys and exquisite sufferings by its extreme sensitivity. We appropriately cover and protect these privy parts of the soul, just as we do to the corresponding parts of the body. But when we love, we expose them, to pleasures or pains beyond imagining.