Anthropologist Jane Goodall, whom I greatly admire, died recently. Until Jane, we believed we were the only species on the planet to make and use tools. Of course, Jane was a single, blond, 26-year-old female when she proved otherwise through her patient observations of a wild chimp she had named David Greybeard, so her discovery was discounted by the established (read primarily male) scientific community for years. Eventually, we (they) had to admit, Holy cow, that little gal was right. We aren’t quite so unique after all.
She also proved that we are not the only species to kiss and to beg. Interesting juxtaposition.
We are falling from the pedestal of our self-proclaimed uniqueness. We had to learn that the Earth is not the center of the solar system, that the Milky Way is not the center of the universe. We may not be the only planet upon which life has arisen, and we are not the only species to reason, feel affection, and gratitude. Perhaps we are not even unique in this last bastion of distinction. After watching chimps discover a waterfall, then stop to gaze at it as if mesmerized, Goodall speculated we may not be the only species to feel awe.
We are, however, the only species for which nearsightedness has become a global epidemic. In the U.S., there is a national surge of over 36%, and globally, 224 million people are highly nearsighted, meaning they can’t see things clearly that are far away.
Another word for nearsighted is shortsighted. Ahem.
We are in the middle of the 6th mass extinction event; did you know that? We are losing biodiversity at a rate 1,000 to 10,000 percent higher than would occur naturally if humans were not affecting the environment. Humanity itself may be dying out. There is currently an unprecedented decrease in birth rates worldwide, with fertility rates falling below replacement levels in most countries. Statisticians report that the effect of these trends will be felt on a global scale in about 60 years.
There are cultural reasons for this trend, and many reasons we could still reverse. “How is it possible,” Jane Goodall asked, “that the most intellectual animal to have ever walked on planet Earth is destroying its home?” Talk about shortsighted.
In 1977, NASA launched twin Voyager probes into space, weeks apart, carrying identical golden records imprinted with a message from humankind to any intelligent life form in the cosmos who might find them.
The records carry both audio and visual messages that represent Earth’s diversity of life and diversity of human life, with greetings in 59 human languages and 115 images. Sounds include footsteps and whale songs, laughter, and thunder, a rain forest teeming with life, and the heartbeat of a woman in love. Voyager 1, carrying that greeting, is now more than 15.6 billion miles from home, sailing in silence through the constellation Ophiuchus, still seeking someone to tell: we are here, we are here, we are here.
This is who we are.
Goodall’s last published work is “The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times,” but she warns that the window of opportunity in which to reverse our path is closing. How accurate will Voyager 1’s message be if it is ever found? What if 59 languages have become four, and back on Earth, no one recognizes the sound of a rainforest? Or the heartbeat of a human in love?
If we are losing our ability to see clearly what is approaching from a distance, we should at least see clearly what is right here: the precious, rare beauty of this Earth and the interconnectedness, the holy interdependence of all who inhabit it.
Interestingly, for all our lack of uniqueness, there is one thing that it seems only we do: bury our dead. Not for fear the body might attract predators to the campfire, but with ritualistic reverence because those who died were loved and their loss mourned. This practice dates back at least 150,000 years, to the time of the Neanderthals. How do we know?
Because Neanderthals didn’t just bury their dead, they filled their graves with flowers.
If the Golden Record is ever found and decoded, I hope the message it carries remains true.
We are a blue planet orbiting a yellow star, 26,000 light-years from the center of a galaxy called the Milky Way. We teem with whale song and laughter, babies’ cries and thunder, and evidence that we have loved each other for a long, long time.
Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.
