Wuthering Heights

I am sitting with Dad at the Berman Commons watching the 1939 original version of Wuthering Heights. Written by Emily Bronte in 1847, it's one of the great romantic tragedies, full of love and hate.  It's drama comes out of the idea that when two people share one heart and are meant for each other, they create havoc and destruction when they follow anything else, especially the mores of society.  I never get tired of watching it.  The structure is masterful. You feel so much for the initial impulses and youthful longings of the characters and then watch helplessly as it's destroyed.  What are our true longings?  What do we need like food and water? I've undertaken this journey to answer those questions and to learn trust in my own heartbeat.  I believe the destruction I have sowed in my life, has come out of not knowing what I know and not following my own heart.  It's hard to know! No blame to the parents and ancestors who did their best, and from birth, we are trained out of intuition, out of instinct.  I'm a chicken at heart and it's scary to turn inward for answers.  To turn to dreams, Oracles and Source.  There is no manual here. It ain't Disney.  No guaranteed happy endings.  Maybe that's why I love watching the old movies so much.  As tragic as the end is, there is somehow an order that emerges out of the chaos.