Well well, linuxboy, you ask a question that is, I think, profoundly difficult to answer. But is such an important question that I wish I could easily answer it. The answer is bound up, I think intimately, with paradox. What is that state of a mind that holds and resolves a paradox. It is, I think a kind of slippery fluidity that is called forth perhaps. I should think a certain resignation might be in order, the surrender to one implication before the appearance of another. But anyway, what can I say about your question?
We are told by psychologists that we have an unconscious, that we are motivated by things of which we are unconscious. They tell us that the reason we are unconscious of our motivations is because we don't like to think of ourselves as being motivated by those feelings. Don't be selfish, don't be angry, don't be jealous, don't hate, don't feel what you feel, you dirty little scum ball. So we become nice little obedient cheerful thrifty brave clean and reverent little children. meanwhile the Monster of the Id goes underground and we only see him in sci-fi and horror films, or in the other party, where we project him. Now half the paradox revolves around the fact, one, that there was nothing wrong with us in the first place, and two, that that trustworthy nice little thing we pretend to be is also ok in his or her own way. In short we are nice worthwhile valuable people in all kinds of wonderful ways, but we became that way by paying a horrible price. We locked a portion of ourselves in a deep hole and forgot them.
So yes we can love and love madly. We have a breathing tube back to our real selves that keeps us alive. But what is the nature of that love. So much of it is based on the feeling that finally and at last somebody is saying what I always wanted to hear, that I'm ok, that I can be loved. Thank God and bless the heavens. But when that love turns sour, when we test and test to see if we are really really loved, because we feel down deep, still that ancient self hate, and when we finally prove our suspicions that we are unlovable by making sure we are completely impossible, then out goes the love and in comes that old old hate. The one who made our day is now a piece of sh!t.
In life we all have varying aptitudes at managing our selves. Some are better at loving than others. But the true love, the unconditional love, the mystic love that bursts onto the scene so rarely, but occasionally, that is a love, I think, that comes of the love of self. It springs from a mind that has united the consciousness in full consciousness. Such a mind, would you not say, might be united and whole and filled with light.
I know it's not much of an answer, because it depends so heavily, I think, on what a person may have experienced of his own unconscious, but it's about the best I can do briefly.
They get upset when they pick up the mail and find Depends extra absorbants in the box... while chatting with their next door neighbor. 
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