Many years have passed, but she still remembers the last day of her whole class. They got together to say goodbye to their 1 schooldays. She wonders herself if any of them still remembers their2, now that time has cloaked the past memories with layers of dust and 3 each fate beyond any expectations.

    The jolly “dwarf” of the class has now4 a successful businessman. The shy skinny “bookworm” is now a talented Ph.D. Trying his luck in some5 land in the Western atmosphere. The naughty, tomboy has6 her carefree laughter in exchange for a sheltered, comfortable life. And7, a literature addict, was driven by an inner force to put her pen aside and become a8 instead.

    She decided to9 her old teacher, who had sowed the seed for the cause of nurturing people in her directionless mind10 his poetical lessons. She used to dream of the enlightened faces of her 11and their round eyes running over every page of the books. Yet, at the most12 turn of her life's course, she didn't 13literature for her career, for she had been told that literature is just like a magical paradise to which the way is extremely 14.

    Her hands are so small; 15 can they hold the depths and the fullness that literature can bring? Still, she promises herself to go16, bearing in mind the last17 of her dear teacher, “Don't18what you give or receive. Learn to live generously to enjoy life, even when it's not generous toward us.”

    Now, she is a teacher, yet she has to continue learning numerous difficult19 of life. The more she20, the better she understands the value of her teacher's last lesson.

    I have always lived in India, and was recently traveling from Mumbai to Jaipur for work. Arriving at the airport 1, I was asked to hang out in the waiting area 2, without much else to do, I decided to check out the gift shop. As I walked around the store, I saw two American 3 having a nap on a recliner(躺椅) outside. It looked as if they had been at the airport for hours, and I felt I had to do something to help ease their 4.

    I looked around the store for a few moments, and 5purchasing a medium-sized stuffed by toy which looked like the cartoon character SpongeBob SquarePants (though it was orange instead of the normal yellow). I asked the owner of the shop for a 6 and a pen and wrote, “When you get up 7this makes you smile, it would 8 the world to me. Have a good trip and an awesome experience. ”

    I walked 9 towards the two women and placed the toy and the note next to them. Not wanting to shock on 10 them, I tried to be as slow as possible, but in my 11 to flee the scene, one of them woke up and 12me in the act. At first when she looked at me, I 13: maybe she thinks I'm a thief? 14when she looked at the soft toy and the note, she brightened up, as if this was the 15thing anyone had ever done for her. “Is this for me?” she asked. I gave her a huge 16 and nodded.

    She was so excited! For a minute, it didn't feel like we were 17 anymore. I shook hands with her, and her smile 18my day. I walked away with nothing but 19 for her, and came to feel that, even though we were from 20 places, she was just like me.

    After 22 years of marriage, I have discovered the secret to keep love alive in my relationship with my wife, Peggy. I started dating another woman.

One day Peggy said to me, "Life is too 1, you need to spend time with the people you love. You probably won't believe me, but I know you love her and I think that if the two of you spend more time together, it will make us2.

The "other" woman my wife was encouraging me to3is my mother, a 72-year-old widow who has lived alone since my father 4 20 years ago. Right after his death, I5 2,500 miles away to California and started my own life and career. When I moved back near my hometown six years ago, I promised myself that I would spend more time with mom. But with the 6of my job and three kids, I never got around to seeing her much 7family get-togethers and holidays.

    Mom was 8 and suspicious when I called and suggested the two of us go out to dinner and a movie.

    We didn't go anywhere 9, just a neighborhood place where we could talk. 10 her eyes now see only large shapes and shadows, I had to read the menu for both of us.

"I used to be the 11 when you were little," she said.

"Then it is time for you to relax and let me 12the favor," I said.

    We had a nice talk 13dinner, just catching up on each other's lives. We talked for so long that we 14 the movie.

"15was your date?" my wife asked when I got home that evening.

    Nice...nicer than I thought it would be,' I said.

    Mom and I get out for16a couple of times a month. Sometimes we take in a movie, but 17we talk. Through the talks, I know what it was like for her to work in a factory during the Second World War. I know how she met my father there, and know how they 18the difficult times. I can't get enough of these stories. They are 19 to me, a part of my history.

    Peggy was right. Dating another woman has20my marriage.

    I will never forget the year when I was about twelve years old. My mother told us that we would not be1Christmas gifts because there was not enough money. I felt sad and thought, "What would I say when the other kids asked what I'd2?" Just when I started to3that there would not be a Christmas that year, three women4at our house with gifts for all of us. For me they brought a doll. I felt such a sense of5that I would no longer have to be embarrassed when I returned to school. I wasn't6. Somebody had thought7of me to bring me a gift.

    Years later, when I stood in the kitchen of my new house, thinking how I wanted to make my8Christmas there special and memorable, I 9remembered the women's visit. I decided that I wanted to create that same feeling of10for as many children as I could possibly reach.

    So I11a plan and gathered forty people from my company to help. We gathered about 125 orphans(孤儿) at the Christmas party. For every child, we wrapped colorful packages filled with toys, clothes, and school supplies, 12with a child's name. We wanted all of them to know they were13. Before I called out their names and handed them their gifts, I14them that they couldn't open their presents15every child had come forward. Finally the16they had been waiting for came as I called out, "One, two, three. Open your presents! " As the children opened their packages, their faces beamed and their bright smiles17up the room. The18in the room was obvious, and19wasn't just about toys. It was a feeling—the feeling I knew20that Christmas so long ago when the women came to visit. I wasn't forgotten. Somebody thought of me. I matter.

    I met my art teacher Ms. J in the seventh grade and she changed me.

In her first class, she encouraged us to1what art meant. During discussion on facial structure and paintings, she2the “golden ratio (黄金比例)”, a beauty standard and explained how Davinci applied it to his works to ensure they were visually3.

    I couldn't help but think if my4had been measured against the "golden ratio," my score would have been5

    I was born with a facial disfigurement( 缺陷)and my face looked6. After regular appointments with7, my face was changed many times with little improvement. I8seeing myself in the mirror.

    People's strange tones, curious expressions kept telling me that I was9. Worse still, my photo appeared in a magazine with big letter "Face similar to work of Picasso" right below. I felt10

    I told Ms. J about my11and how my face was compared to Picasso's painting.

    "Art isn't about what you see but about what you12." She comforted me and told me that our13appearances were our signatures that we left in the world, which set us14and made us beautiful. And then she showed me a picture of an old man with long white hair. "You see, Davinci doesn't look too pretty, but his works15beauty on us." she added.

    I was struck by her words, and I wondered16I had never thought this way.

     "Being compared to Picasso may seem like a shame, but it's a(n)17.You are unique and you are a masterpiece."

    Today, when I look18the mirror, I will remember the words of my teacher, "beauty is subjective" and I get to know my appearance is my19.

    It takes me years to20that beauty is more than a cold calculation.

The idea of climbing Mt.Qomolangma disgusted me. The mountain came to represent the opposite of everything that I loved and respected about climbing. What had once been the final mountain climbing goal became the focus of a commercial guiding industry. Over the years, the crowds at Base Camp grew, leaving behind tons of trash. Whenever I was asked whether I'd climb Mt. Qomolangma, my answer was always the same： not interested. 

That was probably where my personal Mt. Qomolangma story would have ended, were it not for an old friend Thom Pollard and his obsession （迷恋） with one of the greatest mysteries. In 1999, he began to explore and found the remains of George Mallory, the celebrated British climber who disappeared while he was attempting to be the first to climb Mt. Qomolangma. But Mallory's partner, Sandy Irvine, and the camera he had likely carried, were not found. The mountain climbing world has been wondering whether they might have reached the top in 1924. 

Pollard's story moved me. I began to pack for the climb and expected that our advanced equipment would make it manageable, perhaps easy. I was wrong. On the highest point on the planet, I was more tired than I'd ever been in any climbing. Along the way, I continuously tipped my hat, not just to Mallory and Irvine but to anyone who has the drive to push himself or herself up this route. My search was in vain, but I began to reconsider Mt. Qomolangma.

I witnessed many climbers, who were much more than just self-centered tourists. We shared route information, weather forecasts, and family photos — all united around a common goal. 

I went to Mt. Qomolangma to seek Irvine. But in the end, I found something more difficult to get： the spirit that Irvine and Mallory shared. It was hiding in plain sight, right where it has always been： inside the brave souls who risk so much to follow in storied adventurers' footsteps up Mt. Qomolangma.