If you swapped out the perma-press skirt for a pair of khaki shorts, my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Madsen was a dead ringer for Jane Goodall. She was medium-tall and slender and always wore her dark blonde hair pulled back in a sleek pony tail.
I don’t recall much else about the fourth grade besides Mrs. Madsen standing in front of the blackboard, looking the same day after day. Until the one morning we thirty or so unruly ten-year-olds shuffled into the classroom, excited to find a movie projector set up between the rows of desks. I sat right next to the big film reel as it began to whirl. And there projected onto the screen in the front of the room were Miss Goodall and the Wild Chimpanzees.
Jane Goodall was a reality star before there were reality stars. For over sixty years she lived and worked in the eye of the camera. She was the consummate observer of behaviour and emotion. Yet, for most of those years, she kept her own emotions and judgements, not so much suppressed, as neatly tucked away. She was a public figure, but she was not for public consumption.
Viewed in its entirety, Jane Goodall’s life was a study in riding the rhythm of one’s dreams with purpose and persistence, courage, playfulness, individualism and connection. I see her as the lithe young woman in Gombe, gliding through the underbrush, patiently waiting and watching the chimps in silence. I see her every decade later, her focus evolving from naturalist to scientist to conservationist and activist. And I see her as the 91 year old woman, the story teller, the messenger of caution and of hope.
Yesterday, I watched the livestream of Jane Goodall’s memorial service from the Washington National Cathedral. In his eulogy, her grandson voiced the sweet desire that his grandmother would somehow speak to him from the great divide that is death. Even though I am not a family member or close friend or colleague, I have also made that request to Jane.
The request came from a little girl in the fourth grade who remembers almost nothing about that year, but the pain of losing her first dog and the resentment over sharing a bedroom with her ailing grandmother. It was a plea from a little girl grateful for the magical day of being transported to Tanganyika with the unforgettable Miss Goodall.
When I learned of Dr. Jane’s passing, I stepped out into the night to listen for one more message from this beautiful woman, who walked the beam of light her entire life. For a moment, the clouds parted and out of the darkness, a deep violet spike of Echium pointed toward the almost full moon.
Young women do not go to live alone in the rainforest with the chimpanzees. Love, conviction and compassion do not change the world. And Echium does not bloom in October.