# When Space Meets Soul: My Journey Into Biophilic Reverie
There’s this thing that happens sometimes when you’re outside – maybe you’re sitting by a lake at sunset, or walking through a forest when the light hits just right through the canopy – where time seems to pause. Everything feels perfect. The temperature, the sounds, even the way the air smells. I don’t know what the actual science is behind it, but it’s like that place somehow creates a container for whatever peaceful moment you’re having. And honestly? I’ve become kind of obsessed with trying to recreate that feeling indoors.
That’s what I’ve started thinking of as biophilic reverie – those moments when your living space stops feeling like just four walls and a ceiling and starts feeling like… well, like home in the deepest sense. Not just where your stuff lives, but where your soul gets to rest a bit.
I stumbled across this concept a few months back when I was reading about a wellness retreat center somewhere in upstate New York. The article described how the main building seemed to just flow into the meadow behind it, with no clear boundary between inside and outside. Visitors weren’t forced along predetermined paths or given structured tours – they could wander freely, kind of like you would in an actual forest. The whole thing sounded almost revolutionary in our hyper-controlled, everything-has-to-be-optimized world.
That really got me thinking about freedom in design. You know how when you’re stressed and overwhelmed, you just want to come home and feel like you can breathe again? But so often our homes don’t actually provide that relief. We’ve got rigid furniture arrangements, harsh lighting, spaces that feel more like waiting rooms than refuges. What if we could design our living spaces to offer the same mental break that nature provides?
I mean, freedom doesn’t have to mean total chaos. It’s not about having one sad chair in the corner with nowhere to move it. It’s about flexibility – chairs you can turn toward different windows depending on the time of day, seating areas that can feel cozy and private but aren’t completely closed off from the rest of the space. Options, basically.
Water keeps coming up in everything I read about this stuff, and I have to admit I was skeptical at first. Like, great, another expensive fountain to maintain, right? But then I came across this story about a couple who installed what they called a “naturalistic stream” in their backyard renovation. Instead of some grandiose Italian Renaissance-style fountain, they created something that looked and sounded like water actually moving over rocks in a real stream. The gentle babbling sound, the way sunlight caught the surface – the article described it as pure calm rather than showiness.
That got me curious enough to try my own tiny version. Remember that eight-dollar tabletop fountain I mentioned finding at a thrift store? Yeah, that was my experimental beginning. I set it up on my desk, and honestly, the difference was immediate. There’s something about the sound of moving water that just… grounds you, I guess. Even in my cramped apartment, that little trickle reminded me that there’s a natural world out there with its own rhythms, totally separate from my email notifications and work deadlines.
Then there’s light – which might be the most important element of all this, from what I’ve been learning. I’ve always been fascinated by how light behaves outdoors. The way sunlight filters through leaves creates this dappled pattern that shifts and moves. Late afternoon sun throws these long shadows that seem to dance as you walk through them. Even on cloudy days, that soft, diffused light doesn’t wash out colors – it actually makes them richer somehow.
I read about this co-working space that installed huge skylights specifically to capture natural light throughout the day. The light would bounce off different surfaces – wood, stone, glass – creating this constantly changing play of shadows and reflections. Employees said they felt more energized and connected to the passage of time compared to working under fluorescent lights all day. The designers also set up the artificial lighting to mimic natural cycles, gradually dimming in the late afternoon to create a more relaxing atmosphere as evening approached.
This inspired me to completely rethink my own lighting situation. I swapped out all my harsh overhead bulbs for warmer ones, added a couple of table lamps for ambient lighting, and rearranged my furniture to take better advantage of the natural light from my west-facing windows. The transformation was pretty dramatic – my apartment went from feeling like an office after hours to actually feeling like a place where I wanted to spend time.
But plants – that’s where things get really interesting. Everyone thinks biophilic design is just about throwing some greenery around, but it’s way more nuanced than that. I came across this article about a restaurant renovation where the designer didn’t just scatter random potted plants everywhere. Each plant had a purpose – guiding your eye upward toward an acoustic ceiling treatment, or framing a particular architectural feature. Every species was chosen deliberately to create specific feelings and visual effects.
That made me realize I’d been approaching my own plant situation all wrong. I’d been buying whatever looked healthy at the grocery store without thinking about what each plant was actually doing for the space. So I started researching how different plants create different moods. A tall, architectural plant like a fiddle leaf fig (which I’m still too intimidated to attempt, honestly) gives a room sophistication and structure. Trailing plants like pothos or philodendron – both of which I’ve managed not to kill – create softness and intimacy.
One thing I tried that worked surprisingly well was letting a pothos trail down from a high shelf in my bedroom. It gives this cliff-dwelling vine effect that adds just a touch of wildness to an otherwise very controlled urban environment. Plus, watching it grow and change over time connects me to natural cycles in a way that my static furniture obviously can’t.
What fascinates me most about all this is how it taps into something really primal. I was watching this documentary about evolutionary psychology and design, and they talked about how humans are hardwired to seek out certain environmental conditions – what they called “prospect and refuge.” Basically, we feel most comfortable in spaces where we can see what’s around us (prospect) while feeling safely sheltered (refuge). Think about it – when you walk into a restaurant, don’t you usually prefer a table where you can see the room but have your back to a wall?
This same instinct applies to how we respond to natural materials, sounds, and lighting patterns. We’re not drawn to wood grain just because it’s trendy – there’s something deep in our biology that recognizes and responds to these textures and patterns. Same with the sound of moving water or the way natural light changes throughout the day. These elements make spaces feel alive in ways we don’t always consciously understand.
I’ve been experimenting with natural materials in small ways – adding a wooden cutting board that I leave out on my counter, switching to linen curtains instead of synthetic ones, bringing in some river rocks I collected during a weekend hike to use as decorative elements. None of this stuff was expensive, but cumulatively it’s shifted how my apartment feels. More grounded, I guess. Less like a temporary storage unit for my stuff and more like an actual living space.
There was this definition of biophilic design I came across that really stuck with me: “aims to increase the incorporation of natural elements into a built environment.” But it’s not just about adding literal pieces of nature – it’s also about designing spaces that follow nature’s rhythms and patterns. How we move through them, how they change with light and season, how they support both activity and rest.
I’m starting to think this is bigger than just interior design trends. The spaces we inhabit really do shape our thoughts, feelings, even our sleep quality. When we spend most of our lives in environments that completely disconnect us from natural patterns and materials, of course we feel stressed and depleted. We’re basically fighting our own biology.
My apartment is still a work in progress, obviously. I’m limited by rental restrictions and budget constraints, and I definitely still kill plants sometimes. But each small change I make seems to compound the effects of previous ones. The better lighting makes the plants look healthier. The plants make the water feature seem more integrated rather than random. The natural materials tie everything together.
More than anything, I’m learning to pay attention to how different spaces make me feel. Why do I always linger in that coffee shop with the living wall and big windows? Why does my friend’s house with all the natural wood and soft lighting make me feel instantly relaxed? Why do some buildings make me want to leave as quickly as possible while others invite me to stay?
Once you start noticing these patterns, you can’t unsee them. And once you understand that small changes can create those moments of reverie – those perfect pauses where everything feels right – it becomes impossible not to keep experimenting with your own space.
Jeff writes about bringing bits of nature into everyday living spaces — not as a designer, but as a curious renter who experiments, fails, and keeps trying again. He shares what he’s learned about light, plants, and small changes that make big differences for real people living in ordinary apartments.
