I picked up a copy of The Alchemist in a bookshop here in Kathmandu today. It wasn’t my first encounter with Paulo Coelho’s story of a shepherd in search of his destiny. Years ago, when I was living in Orlando, a friend had gifted me the book, telling me it was her favorite. Out of gratitude, I started reading it — but it didn’t land. The words felt distant, the lessons vague, the journey unrelatable. I put it down.
The bookstore that pulled me in.
Fast forward four or five years. I was sleeping on a friend’s couch in Massachusetts, the ground shifting beneath me as I prepared to leave for a new life in Tokyo. Something compelled me to pick up the book again. This time, it was like reading another text entirely. The parable that had once seemed flat became profound, each page echoing with truths I hadn’t been ready to hear before. That second reading was life-changing.
And now, in Kathmandu, with two weeks left before I return to Japan after so many years, I found myself carried — almost otherworldly — into a bookstore. My hands landed on The Alchemist again. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t chance. It felt necessary.
That’s the thing about books: they resonate when we need them to. They wait quietly on shelves until the moment our lives align with their message. Sometimes we’re not ready, sometimes we’re not listening, but when the timing clicks, the words feel as though they were written solely for us.
For me, The Alchemist has become less about Santiago’s treasure and more about the reminder that stories meet us where we are. Orlando. Massachusetts. Tokyo. Kathmandu. Different chapters of my life, the same book, yet never the same reading.
Maybe that’s why I had to buy it again here. Because the story — like my own — is still unfolding.
I wanted to take a moment to share something meaningful that’s been quietly unfolding over the past year. Before coming to Bhutan, I made a personal commitment to write more—seriously, purposefully, and with intention. That commitment has grown into something larger than I ever imagined: a 6-book series on ethical, practical, and inspiring uses of AI in education.
The topic itself didn’t fully take shape until about ten months ago, when a clear need revealed itself—on both sides of the classroom. Students were using AI with little guidance. Teachers were unsure how to respond, or how to integrate these new tools meaningfully. What emerged was a shared need for honest, practical, and hopeful education about AI—something that could empower rather than overwhelm.
Here’s the full series, in the order it’s been written: 1. Using AI as a Tool, Not a Crutch: A Practical Guide for Students and Teachers 2. Teaching Prompting for Generative AI: A Practical Guide for Students and Teachers 3. Beyond the Basics: Embedding AI Across the Curriculum 4. Students Who Think for Themselves: Cultivating Independent Thought in an AI World 5. The AI-Ready Teacher: A Professional Growth Guide 6. The Human Side of the Screen: Reclaiming Connection in the Age of AI
Book One is getting a lot of attention, and I’m incredibly grateful for the warm reception it’s received so far. Your support and encouragement have meant a lot—and it’s reminded me how powerful it can be when we work together to navigate new terrain with thoughtfulness, care, and creativity.
Thank you for being part of this journey.
Warmly, Jackie
✍️ from Thimphu, 🇧🇹 soon to be ✈️ 🧳 🎒 to🇳🇵 Spring 2025 ☮️ 🙏
I’ve been reading Kerouac since the lockdown began in March 2020, so when I returned to New York City at the start of 2021, I wanted to visit as many of his most-frequented spots that still (kind of) exist.
Samuel Cox statue 7th St & Ave A . Pic 2 by: ALLEN GINSBERG “Jack Kerouac wandering along East 7th Street after visiting Burroughs at our pad, passing statue of Congressman Samuel “Sunset” Cox, “The Letter-Carrier’s Friend” in Tompkins Square toward corner of Avenue A, Lower East Side; he’s making a Dostoyevsky mad-face or Russian basso be-bop Om, first walking around the neighborhood, then involved with The Subterraneans, pencils & notebook in wool shirt-pockets, Fall 1953, Manhattan.”
