I left my boyfriend Anthony in the living room, to enjoy the last period of the hockey game, while practicing some songs on his electric guitar. I happily crawled onto my bed, propped my head against my pillows and pulled out my copy of Wuthering Heights. I’d been reading it for the past week.
At this point in the novel, Catherine declared, “he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
That line struck me like the piercing winds of the moors. I’ve been known to be a bit of a romantic, but I’m not certain I believe in soulmates, to be honest. I had certainly never though of soulmates in the way they were described by Miss Earnshaw. I never considered a soulmate to be someone whose soul is made from the same ingredients of your own. It’s quite a romantic thought.
“SCOOORE!!” Anthony hollered from the living room, clapping his hands. I could picture his face alight with pleasure, his cheeks flushed with delight. I made me smile to know Anthony was happy. I yelled back cheerfully, “Yayyyy!”
If I were to believe Catherine Earnshaw, then Anthony and I are definitely not soulmates. We won’t match at all. We rarely agree on anything. And I mean beyond our vastly different hobbies and interests. We have different views of the world. Different perceptions of life. Different expectations. Every decision we make is passionate battle of wills.
If Anthony’s soul is made from oil, then mine is made from vinegar. When poured together, we don’t perfectly mix into each other naturally. It takes effort to keep oil and vinegar together. But damn, are we delightful on bread.
My own parents aren’t soulmates either. Nor are they oil and vinegar. My parents are Mentos and Coke. Explosive. Should not ever be mixed together. And even they’ve managed to stay together for over 30 years now.
I’m not certain I believe in soul mates, but if I did, I may have already met mine. I once knew a person who seemed to understand me completely. Who I rarely had to explain or justify myself to. Someone who viewed life through the same lenses as I did. Someone with whom I never quarreled. But like the infamous Catherine, I too chose not to stay with that person either. Maybe I took for granted being with someone so much like myself. Or maybe I was just sick of myself.
As I reflected upon these ideas, my cat Red leapt onto the bed. He crawled on top of me and lay down on my chest. He pushed his furry black head in front of my novel and purred merrily as I began to pat his head. I wave of pure adoration for this little guy washed over me. We definitely understood each other. We connected.
Maybe it’s best that I don’t believe in soulmates. At least not soulmates that are identical to ourselves on the inside. Companions, romantic or otherwise, come in all shapes and species. While this notion of a soulmate is an idealistic concept, it just seems too simple for this complex world.