In the last couple of days, I devoured two stories on a screen - Jane Goodall in Famous Last Words and Ozzy Osbourne in Ozzy: No Escape from Now.
Two souls shaped by entirely different elements: one by earth and empathy, the other by fire and noise. They lived on opposite ends of the “being” spectrum, and both left me a bit breathless - proof that there is no single way to move in the world.
Jane’s Famous Last Words episode was exceptional - an exquisite and fitting farewell before the leaving of earthside. She recorded it knowing it would be released only after her death, and that made every word land deeper.
There was no performance in it, no grasping for legacy. Just a woman who had already given her everything to something larger, now offering one final conversation.
Taking it all in, I felt the ache of grace for all of us - that rare mix of humility and certainty that comes only from living precisely as you believe.
I had the privilege of sharing space with Jane briefly in San Francisco ten years ago at a conference. That time still feels ethereal and expansive. She didn’t dominate the room; she altered its rhythm. It was as if the air itself respected her. She spoke gently and surely; with an authority rooted in awe, not ego. Not for attention, but with intention.
That same resoluteness was all there in the Netflix interview - her voice steady, her eyes clear, her message simple: keep believing, keep trying, keep loving this planet while it’s still possible.
Then came Ozzy. The contrast Is Definitely a Crazy Train.
Ozzy: No Escape from Now is not a gentle and quiet documentary. It’s a gritty and compelling confession of an entire family - both biological and chosen. His story unspools with a brutal honesty - a life scorched by excess, held together by humour and tenacity. He was always on the edges of everything and somehow found his way back time and again with his ingenuity, talent, and the support of so many. His reflections on the wreckage and the wonder of his life conjured up a kind of tenderness for all of the chaos - as if his survival itself was a kind of art.
And, oh my goodness, Jack Black (I can’t help myself here because I adore him infinitely) - his role in Ozzy’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction was a masterpiece of irreverent love. He didn’t tidy up the legend; he amplified it with integrity and clarity. He roared with admiration, laughed without mockery, and turned The Prince of Darkness madness into mythology. It wasn’t about perfection - it was about earnesty. I could go on and on about all of the other musical greats that paid tribute in such raw and special ways in the film. It’s really worth the watch.
Jane and Ozzy.
The sanctuary and the stage. The whisper and the scream.
Two different languages, both fluent in impact.
Jane taught us to listen more deeply; Ozzy reminded us to live more loudly. She devoted her life to connection with nature; he devoted his to an expression of all the complicated facets of human nature. Both, in their own ways, rewrote what devotion can look like.
The confluence of the two stories in such short measure made me think about the way we try to sort life into categories - the good and the wild, the composed and the chaotic, the helper and the rule-breaker.
But the truth is softer and harder than that. It’s always both/and. The world needs the ones who aim to protect us and those who burn through the raucous to make us feel alive.
We need stillness and defiance. Reverence and release.
Jane’s work reminds us to pause, to pay attention. Ozzy’s story reminds us to walk surely and insistently through obstacles and to keep creating. Even when it hurts so very horribly.
Between the two of them, there’s a full map of what it means to be human - to revere our short and precious time here enough to honour it in every form.
Meaning never resides in one tone.
It hums, whistles, and verberates in the balance; the staunch hush that heals and the brash sounds that stir our best and our worst.
It all matters. It all moves. It all endures.
Because in the end, legacy isn’t the echo of what we did - it’s the resonance of who we were.
These two, in drastically different and dissonant keys, encourage us to remember to hear all of life.
P.S. Enjoy these photos of my little sister and me. We are also stark contrasts, but yet, the same in so many ways. Both/and. Always.