Leave part of the yard rough. Don't manicure everything. Small

Richard Louv, prophet of nature’s forgotten wisdom, once spoke words that pierce through the noise of modern life: “Leave part of the yard rough. Don’t manicure everything. Small children in particular love to turn over rocks and find bugs, and give them some space to do that. Take your child fishing. Take your child on hikes.” In this counsel lies a call not only to parents, but to a whole generation that has tamed the earth too severely, cutting away the wildness that once raised explorers, dreamers, and resilient souls.

The essence of his teaching is this: childhood thrives in wildness. A world too ordered, too polished, too controlled leaves no room for discovery. The perfectly cut lawn, the sterile room, the glowing screen—these offer no mystery, no test of courage, no invitation to wonder. But the rough corner of the yard, the overturned rock, the path by the river—these awaken curiosity, resilience, and imagination. Louv reminds us that children do not need constant entertainment; they need the freedom to discover.

History bears witness to this truth. The young Theodore Roosevelt, often sickly in body, found his strength by roaming fields, climbing rocks, and studying animals. From those wild excursions came not only his physical vigor but also his lifelong passion for conservation. He did not grow strong on manicured paths, but in the roughness of nature. His life shows that the character of leaders and dreamers is often forged not in polished rooms, but in untamed places where the soul is tested and inspired.

The mention of fishing and hiking deepens Louv’s teaching. These are not luxuries, but ancient rites of learning. Fishing teaches patience, quiet, and attentiveness to rhythms beyond oneself. Hiking teaches endurance, awareness of beauty, and the humility of walking paths older than humanity itself. To bring a child into these experiences is to gift them lessons no book or screen can teach. It is to ground them in realities that shape the spirit, lessons that linger long after the fish is gone or the trail has ended.

Yet Louv’s words are also a warning. In a world increasingly divorced from nature, children are raised with glowing screens rather than glowing sunsets, with digital quests instead of real ones. Their curiosity withers when it is never fed by earth, water, and sky. A child denied roughness grows fragile, while a child given the gift of exploration grows strong, adaptive, and alive. His call to “leave part of the yard rough” is in truth a call to resist the overcivilization of childhood.

The lesson is clear: give children the gift of space, wildness, and discovery. Parents must resist the urge to polish every corner of their child’s world. Instead, create spaces where the child can fall, scrape, climb, and wonder. Take them fishing and hiking, not for the catch or the destination, but for the unseen shaping of their soul. In these small acts, you cultivate not only joy but resilience, not only wonder but wisdom.

Therefore, let Richard Louv’s words endure as ancient counsel to modern ears: do not fear the untidy yard, the mud-stained shoes, the bug-filled pockets. For in these lies the spirit of exploration. A child who learns to love the rough places will grow into an adult who can endure life’s rough places. And the one who finds beauty under stones and patience by rivers will carry within them the strength to build, to endure, and to pass on the wisdom of the wild to generations yet to come.