Hedgehogs need somewhere to hibernate through the winter, but

The words of Steve Backshall—“Hedgehogs need somewhere to hibernate through the winter, but also a place that they can lie out at during the day. So have a few places around your garden that are a bit wild, maybe a log pile, potentially even a hedgehog home, all of which are going to be prime real estate for one of these little guys”—may seem at first a simple plea for the care of small creatures. Yet beneath their humble surface lies a truth as ancient as the world itself: the call to live in harmony with nature, to create not dominion but sanctuary. For in caring for the smallest lives, we remember the great covenant that binds all beings under the sun—that the earth was not made for man alone, but for the balance of all living things.

The hedgehog, in its quiet dignity, becomes a symbol of vulnerability and endurance. It asks for so little—a corner of shade, a pile of leaves, a place untouched by the perfection of human design. Yet in the modern world, such spaces are vanishing, cleared away by order and control, by neatness and pride. Backshall’s words remind us that what is “wild” is not wasteful, and what is “untamed” is not unworthy. The wild corners of a garden, those untrimmed edges and fallen logs, are sanctuaries for the weary and the unseen. In them dwell the spirits of the earth—creatures who ask only for a chance to rest, to live, to continue the quiet work of nature that sustains all life.

The ancients knew this wisdom well. The Greeks spoke of the goddess Artemis, protector of wild things, who roamed the forests guarding the delicate balance between civilization and wilderness. To anger her was to offend the natural order, for she stood watch over creatures like the hedgehog—those small and sacred lives that ensured the harmony of the great chain. Likewise, in many older traditions, the hedgehog was a symbol of prudence and foresight, a creature that understood when to emerge and when to retreat, teaching humanity that wisdom lies in knowing both action and rest. Backshall’s modern words echo these timeless truths: that stewardship of nature begins not with grand gestures, but with small acts of kindness—an uncut hedge, a pile of twigs, a space left alive.

There is, too, a lesson about coexistence in his words. He does not say, “Build for the hedgehog a cage,” or “Bring it into your home.” He says, instead, “Make space.” This is a profound distinction. For to love the natural world rightly is not to control it, but to make room for it to thrive beside us. The garden, in this vision, becomes a miniature world—a reflection of what human civilization could be if guided by care rather than conquest. By allowing “a few places that are a bit wild,” we learn to relinquish perfection for compassion, to trade tidiness for life. This is not only the salvation of the hedgehog—it is the salvation of our own humanity.

Consider, for a moment, the story of St. Francis of Assisi, who walked among the animals as though they were brothers and sisters. When others saw beasts, he saw souls—each creature a mirror of divine creation. He would have understood Backshall’s plea, for he knew that compassion begins in the smallest gestures. A garden that shelters hedgehogs is more than a patch of land—it is a moral act, a declaration that the world belongs equally to all who breathe. It is, in truth, a garden of mercy.

In a deeper sense, the hedgehog’s home also becomes a metaphor for human life. Just as these small beings need shelter through the cold and refuge through the day, so too do we. We, too, are creatures of the seasons—strong at times, fragile at others. To build a home for the hedgehog is to acknowledge our kinship with all things that seek safety and warmth. It teaches us humility: that our walls and roofs are not so different from their nests of leaves and logs. By honoring the needs of the smallest, we honor the truth that all existence is interwoven.

And so, the lesson of Backshall’s words is not merely environmental—it is spiritual. Be a steward of life, not just your own. Let your hands restore what your species has taken. In your gardens, your cities, and your hearts, leave space for what is wild. Do not fear disorder, for life itself is not tidy; it grows where it is allowed, and withers where it is suppressed. Build your world as the wise build their gardens—not for beauty alone, but for balance, for sanctuary, for the quiet beating hearts that depend on your mercy.

So remember this, children of the earth: every small act of care ripples outward like the widening rings upon a pond. A single hedgehog home, a patch of wild grass, a fallen branch left untouched—these are the altars of the modern age, where humanity may rediscover its sacred duty. Let your gardens hum with life; let your compassion extend beyond your walls. For in protecting the humble, we preserve the harmony of the whole—and in doing so, we, too, shall find our place of rest beneath the eternal sky.