A Map Comes Alive Not every student group in my class achieves their goal as completely as those students did. Still, my files at Georgetown are now starting to fill with students’ success stories. They have not only had their ideas included in legislation, but some of those ideas have been passed by Congress and signed into law by the president of the United States. The students have promoted development of green buildings, proposed new methods for combating tuberculosis and malaria, pushed for cleaner transportation. Their enthusiasm is infectious—one team persuaded a foundation to support them to fly to Bamako, Mali, to do a feasibility study of a bus rapid transit system. They discuss their ideas with Congress, write opinion pieces for newspapers, publish articles in major research journals, and give presentations at government agencies. They stand at the helm, steering our journey to a better place. Ten years ago, I had lectured with my back to the class. Now my students were part of the world. The map had come to life.
My more than a decade-long journey was nearing its end. I had only one last ocean to surf to complete the record; all I had left to do was pick a beach and get there. Also, reluctantly, I had finally accepted that I would never know the meaning of the amulet. For the last couple of years I had been writing about the amulet in the hope that I could find someone who could translate it. I would get letters from readers, but no one knew what it meant. I spoke to linguists, but they couldn’t interpret it. It was at one talk in particular that I finally had to face facts. I was invited to speak at the Library of Congress. This, I thought, was my final opportunity to decipher the amulet. I told the assembled scholars at the library the story of the Most Holy Rinpoche of the Khumbu and how I had acquired the amulet. I also told some of the tales that followed. I closed the talk holding up
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