Then again, how many business or law students ever visit their old professors once they leave?
Morrie’s students did that all the time. And in his final months, they came back to him, hundreds of them,
from Boston, New York, California, London, and Switzerland; from corporate offices and inner city school programs.
They called. They wrote. They drove hundreds of miles for a visit, a word, a smile.
“I’ve never had another teacher like you,” they all said.
As my visits with Morrie go on, I begin to read about death, how different cultures view the final passage.
There is a tribe in the North American Arctic, for example, who believe that all things on earth have a soul
that exists in a miniature form of the body that holds it—so that a deer has a tiny deer inside it, and a man has a tiny man inside him.
When the large being dies, that tiny form lives on.
It can slide into something being born nearby, or it can go to a temporary resting place in the sky,
in the belly of a great feminine spirit, where it waits until the moon can send it back to earth.
Sometimes, they say, the moon is so busy with the new souls of the world that it disappears from the sky.
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