1. I am a HUGE Harry Potter fan. Ghostbusters and HP and the Sorcerer's Stone were my first two DVDs. I even traveled to London (while I was in France) for the premiere of HP2. I also used to visit the website www.mugglenet.com every single day between the years 2001-2007.
When the 7th and final book was released, I was up in Acadia National Forest, ME on my annual camping trip with my Dad. He and I waited outside a bookstore in Bar Harbor from 10pm-midnight with a mix of excited adults, teens, and kids. I of course was wearing my red Harry Potter t-shirt that I had bought in London--I wore this to all of the book and movie releases.
Once I had the book in hand, I was dead to the world--okay, dead to my Dad who was the only person around. I read 3/4's of the book in my tent that night by the light of a small, red lantern. I stayed up the entire night reading it, as per tradition. We were headed back to MA the next day and as I was in super obsessive-bubble mode, I had to continue reading in the car, despite being susceptible to car-sickness. About two hours from our destination, I was cruising through the last fifty pages of the book.
Spoiler Alert!
J.K. Rowling led me into a very emotional place when she led Harry off to his doom--to face Lord Voldemort. As Harry faces Voldemort with fear (as any human would), but resolution and falls to the death curse, the tears started rolling down my own cheeks. I took a moment to put down the book--something which I've never done before, usually I have to bulldoze through--and I let out sobs of grief and sorrow. Even though I was well aware that I had at least 50 more pages to go and Harry would probably somehow survive, it was still poignant and beautiful. Touching. And it signified The End, which left me feeling lonely and empty. Which was I grieving for more: the "death" of Harry or the end of the series? Hard to say.
Of course, I was not alone when I started to bawl. My Dad was right next to me in the car and kept shooting me glances of concern. Fortunately he knew me well enough to remain silent and let me experience the bittersweet ending to the series in my Bubble.
2. Three years ago on Christmas, my Grandmom passed surrounded by me and my family. We were not particularly expecting this to happen that day, but the increasingly bad cases of flu hinted that we wouldn't have much more time with her. My grandmother was a deeply religious Irish Catholic. I don't claim to be particularly religious or even spiritual for that matter, but the fact that she died on that particular day (and with all of us there) had us all thinking that the Angels had indeed come down from Heaven and taken her with them. I cried at her passing of course, but not tears of sorrow and sobbing (ok maybe a little bit of that kind too), but quiet tears of wonder and peace. Here is a woman that had lived a full life--she died at 98 and was independent and strong up until the last 6 months of her life. Here is someone whose faith would claim that this Holy Day made her passing more meaningful. And finally, she was at peace, she would no longer be suffering. If anyone was going to Heaven, it certainly would be her.
3. To conclude my year abroad study in France, I had an internship at the Tour du Valat Biological Station in the wetlands of the Camargue. Ten french researchers and I lived on the lands in a dorm and got to know each other quickly and deeply. On the last night there (and in France), we went to a secluded beach, built up a bonfire, roasted veggies, meats and toasted me off with many, many bottles of wine. Unfortunately/fortunately, we overslept and my goodbye was very rushed as I jumped on a moving train and threw kisses. I slept the whole way to Paris and didn't give myself a chance to let the moment sink in until I heard "final boarding for Flight 256 to Boston." This announcement triggered an explosive chain reaction: Oh, it's time to leave. I'm going back to the States. Ah when will I be back??!!??And then the flood gates opened. I broke out into shaking sobs which included wheezing, tears, and wails. I can't recall ever losing control like that (especially not in a public place). I somehow collected my belongings and made my way to the gate. Since I couldn't say anything besides spasmodic contractions of the throat, I thrust my papers at the male attendant and looked at the floor. In french he consoles, "Oh, poor thing, are you leaving behind your lover?" I nod my head and pass on.
Yes, I felt like I was leaving a lover behind. A part of my soul. I was at home in Provence. I was living to the fullest: speaking other languages, learning about different cultures, meeting new people from a range of backgrounds, enjoying nature and its beauties, participating in centuries-old traditions...I couldn't want more from Life. I knew that I was meant to be there.
Faced with the return trip to the States, I was overwhelmed: I could barely remember how to speak English let alone melt back into 'habitual' life.
Six hours later, the sobbing had waned to silent tears only to be jump started again once the Boston skyline came into view. I was questioned at customs for ten minutes, mostly because I was talking in a french accent. (Official: Where are you from? Me: Massachusetts. O: Yes, but where are you really from--originally? Me: Hamilton...MA? O: I mean what country? Me: USA? O: Why do you have an accent? Me: (I start sobbing again) ...I...school...France...no...english... year... Official: Ooookkkaaayyy. Just tell me your name again. Me: Martin (accent)...I mean Marrr-tinnnnn. Please...let...pass. O: Okay, I'll let you go but I don't like this.
My Dad was waiting outside Logan with the car. He was so excited to see me and was all smiles--I mean it had been an entire year since I'd been home. Whatever control I had regained I lost completely when I saw him. My Dad was like, "Nina, I'm so glad you're so happy to be with us again. Umm yeah."
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