The tree I had in the garden as a child, my beech tree, I used to

Jane Goodall once reflected with tender reverence: “The tree I had in the garden as a child, my beech tree, I used to climb up there and spend hours. I took my homework up there, my books, I went up there if I was sad, and it just felt very good to be up there among the green leaves and the birds and the sky.” In these words, she reveals not only a memory but a spiritual truth: that nature is both sanctuary and teacher, a place where the weary heart finds renewal and the restless mind discovers clarity.

At the center of this recollection stands the beech tree, no mere plant, but a living temple. To a child, it was a fortress, a study hall, a refuge from sorrow, and a bridge between earth and sky. To climb into its branches was to rise above the ordinary, to sit in a realm where the voices of birds mingled with the whisper of leaves, and where the vastness of the heavens reminded her of the smallness of grief. In the stillness of that canopy, Goodall’s imagination was nourished, and her soul strengthened.

Her words echo a universal pattern found across history. Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, found enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree; Isaac Newton, sitting beneath an apple tree, saw the truth of gravity. In both East and West, the tree has stood as a symbol of wisdom, shelter, and revelation. Goodall’s childhood refuge belongs to this lineage: a tree not just of wood and bark, but of memory, growth, and vision.

The mention of taking homework and books into the branches speaks to another truth—that learning is not confined to classrooms. The greatest lessons are often absorbed in silence, in communion with the natural world. It was no accident that Goodall, who would become the world’s foremost observer of chimpanzees, learned first to observe quietly in the branches of her beech tree. There she trained her patience, her attentiveness, her ability to see without disturbing, to listen without intruding. Thus, her childhood sanctuary prepared her for her life’s work.

The sadness she carried into the tree was not erased, but transformed. In times of struggle, she ascended into its branches, where sorrow was held within the greater frame of sky and leaf. This is the ancient lesson: when grief presses upon you, go to the places where nature breathes freely. The green leaves and the birds remind us that life is larger than our pain, that the rhythms of the earth endure beyond our struggles, and that healing comes not through denial but through connection.

The lesson for us is profound: seek your own tree. Whether literal or symbolic, find that place where your spirit may climb above the noise of the world. It may be a park, a quiet room, a mountain trail, or the pages of a beloved book. But it must be a refuge where you can bring your work, your sorrow, and your dreams, and where you can remember that you are part of something vast and living.

Practically, this means cultivating habits of retreat and reflection. Take time to sit in silence among trees, to walk where the earth is green, to allow yourself to breathe with the rhythm of nature. Give your children the same gift that Goodall’s beech tree gave her: a place to climb, to imagine, to learn patience, to heal sorrow. For in such places, character is formed and wisdom is born.

Thus, Jane Goodall’s memory is not a story of childhood alone—it is a parable of life. The tree, the leaves, the birds, the sky—all conspired to shape her into the woman who would dedicate her life to understanding and protecting the living world. And so may we learn from her: climb often into the refuge of nature, and let it teach you how to endure, how to see, and how to belong.