He’s more myself than I am; whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” ~ Emily Bronte
I consider myself a romantic. I fell in love with love early on, and I blame it primarily on the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen.
The idea of love and the quest for a soulmate made a mess of my young heart.
After all, not many among us don’t want to find “the One,” the Intended, the soul who fits perfectly, like a puzzle piece, in the crooked corners of our battered hearts.
But what about those of us who find two soulmates? You know, when life with one soulmate ends either through divorce or death, and we find the next one? Was there more than one all along, and did finding our soulmate often not depend on geographical circumstances?
And what about when we meet a soulmate who was already someone else’s soulmate? Or that one that we ran into them on the streetcar and then never saw again?
My mind and my heart never truly accepted that there was the only one soulmate for each of us.
My definition of soulmate included all those souls who touched us so deeply that we were never the same again.
My definition of soulmate included the fire that exploded when touching the divine part of another human being burned away the part of me that was still asleep.
A soulmate to me, meant a connection of instincts; of experiencing a dimension not accessible without their influence.
A soulmate was the one who saw my darkness as part of the miracle.