We explore our environment, more than we are compelled to utter

Neil deGrasse Tyson, the modern herald of the cosmos, once declared with both awe and simplicity: “We explore our environment, more than we are compelled to utter poetry, when we're toddlers. We start doing that later. Before that happens, every child is a scientist.” In these words lies a profound recognition of the human spirit—that before we learn the art of verse, before we cloak experience in metaphor, we are driven by the raw and fearless urge to explore. For the child does not begin with poetry, but with experiment: tasting, touching, dropping, building, breaking. Curiosity comes first; expression follows.

The origin of this insight rests in Tyson’s lifelong devotion to science and his gift for unveiling its kinship with wonder. As an astrophysicist, he has often spoken of the natural curiosity of children, and how society, education, and fear can stifle it. He sees in every toddler the flame of a scientist, untamed and unashamed, testing the world not with formulas, but with hands, eyes, and endless questions. Later in life, we may become poets, framing experience in the beauty of language—but first we are scientists, seeking to know what the world is made of, and how it responds to our touch.

Consider the tale of Archimedes, the ancient Greek thinker. Long before he became the great mathematician who cried “Eureka!” in his bath, he was once a child in Syracuse, no doubt filling his days with small experiments—stones dropped in water, wheels spun in motion, shadows traced upon the ground. That early instinct to explore never left him, and it became the root of discoveries that still echo in human history. Archimedes was not so different from the toddler Tyson describes: bold enough to test reality, relentless enough to question, and innocent enough to let curiosity guide him without fear.

The meaning of Tyson’s words extends to the essence of learning. Poetry is noble, for it clothes truth in beauty—but it comes after the fact of discovery. The scientist’s path, which begins in every child, is more primal. It is the hand reaching for the flame, the eye watching the bird, the ear straining for the rustle in the grass. This instinct does not need instruction, for it is inborn. The tragedy is that so many lose it, that adults often forget the fearless curiosity of their earliest years. Tyson’s reminder is that the scientific spirit is not rare, nor reserved for the chosen few—it is the birthright of every human being.

The deeper wisdom here is that science and poetry are not enemies, but stages of the same journey. First comes the child, the scientist, who gathers facts through exploration. Later comes the poet, who interprets and adorns those facts with meaning. Without exploration, poetry would be empty. Without poetry, exploration would lack soul. Tyson points us to the origin of knowledge—curiosity in its purest form—and urges us to remember it, lest we live as adults who have forgotten the child’s first fire.

The lesson we inherit is clear: do not let your inner child’s science be silenced. Do not cease to explore your environment simply because you have grown. Every day holds experiments waiting for you—small questions, small discoveries, new ways of seeing the familiar. A poet may describe the stars, but only the explorer sees them with fresh eyes. To live fully, one must carry both: the scientist’s curiosity and the poet’s voice.

Practically, this means embracing the habits of questioning. When you see something ordinary, ask, “Why is it so?” Try small experiments, even if simple: plant seeds, watch shadows, observe the sky. Encourage children not only to memorize answers, but to test, to play, to explore. And in yourself, nurture that same spirit—do not let the fear of being foolish stop you from touching the unknown. In this way, you remain forever alive to the wonder that once filled your earliest days.

Thus Tyson’s words echo with both humility and power: “Every child is a scientist.” Let us not extinguish that birthright, but preserve it, so that the curiosity of our beginnings carries us through life. For to be fully human is to explore first, and then to sing; to test the world as scientist, and then to praise it as poet. Both are needed, but the first step belongs to the explorer in us all.