Once, I felt my life had lost its usual rhythm. My work was too much, the city I lived in felt too chaotic, and I wanted desperately a sense of stillness that seemed just out of reach. In my not-so-successful quest for tranquility, I tried mindfulness (and not just once), I had a go at redecorating my living space, and I even made some Aquarian lifestyle changes—like reducing my screen time. As adjustments go, these were okay. They were better than nothing. But really? None of them took me where I wanted to go: deep into a serene and peaceful existence.
Biophilic zen is not simply about adorning one’s space with greenery or incorporating a water element into one’s décor. It is, at its core, a cultivation of the very essence of zen in a way that connects you to nature and your own inner peace. Achieving biophilic zen translates your space into an invitation to be mindful and provides a connection to nature that yields a profound stillness, a calm akin to that experienced in a zen garden. I have sought this balance and cultivated this essence in my living space. I would like to share with you what I have gleaned from this experience in the hope that it might serve you in a similar quest.
Achieving Zen While Surrounded by Nature: A Personal Enlightenment
I began sculpting biophilic design during my unexpected journey to a Japanese garden. Standing on a small stone bridge, I was entranced by the koi fish swimming with graceful precision beneath me. I was not just looking at the beauty of the garden; I was deeply appreciating the way every element in the garden seemed perfectly harmonious with every other element—trees, rocks, water, pathways, and the half-bridge on which I stood. Each detail felt careful, yet not overly manicured. The space enveloped me in a sense of undistracted peace and clarity, something that I had been longing for in my own life.
Upon my arrival back to my domicile, I possessed a clear vision of what I intended to do. That feeling of calm and serenity I experienced in Japan became my north star for the type of space I wanted to inhabit. I set out to explore the intersection of biophilic design and zen aesthetics. I wanted to know exactly what these two concepts brought to the table, as well as how and why they could potentially serve as my home’s design foundation.
How to Simplify and Achieve Zen in Your Biophilic Office
The initial stage of constructing a biophilic zen setting was disentangling my living quarters. It is a bedrock tenet of zen philosophy that simplicity is a requirement for achieving mental clarity, and I found that to be true. Though it was hard to part with the many objects I had acquired over the years—tomes, baubles, and wall hangings that had long since ceased to have any meaning for me—once I began the long overdue process of trimming the fat from my living space, I was startled to discover just how much lighter and airier the room felt, and how much lighter I felt in it.
Having disposed of the clutter, I had the liberty to add back only those things that could reasonably be expected to bring nature into the space without inundating it. I settled on a few select forms: a large, potted bonsai tree that now occupies a corner of my living room; a smooth, river-worn stone, now my desk’s paperweight; and a path of hardy bamboo laid directly on the floor in lieu of that which was once covered by a heavy, sound-absorbing rug. Each of these items seems to serve a purpose beyond their immediate aesthetics that was described formerly—evoking nature and grounding in the moment.
The Influence of Resources: A Natural Element Villanova’s campus features some of the richest and rarest ecosystems in the northeastern United States. The university’s plants span the full geography of North America, from the coniferous forests of the far north to the subtropical tree islands of southern Florida. Here, on the southeastern edge of Pennsylvania, we enjoy such a diversity of habitats that our neighbors, eco-researchers at the U.S. Geological Survey, have told us—and our students—that not even the National Park Service has a comparable variety to study.
An influential alteration I enacted was infusing natural materials throughout my residence. I substituted my plastic and metal furnishings for items crafted from wood, stone, and bamboo. These materials possess an inherent calmness when compared to synthetics. Their tactile qualities—the warmth of wood, the coolness of stone—seem to tell stories of the earth that are older and far more profound than anything we can dream up in a factory.
A moment stands out for me when I was setting up a tiny altar for meditating. The base I chose was a wooden stool. I wanted to use it, but when I thought about how rough it was and how imperfectly it was made—the flaws you could see and feel—I wasn’t sure I could make it work. Somehow, though, I found a way to connect nature to it. Well, not connecting nature to the stool itself, which is just a poorly made and improvised wooden stool, but appreciating the nature of wood and the simple act of using a tree—and by extension, a forest—as the basis of my meditation practice. To me, in that moment, it made the stoop function better as a meditation seat.
Illumination and Shade: Crafting a Relaxing Ambiance
Both biophilic design and zen have as a core element the lighting of a space. This is an important aspect of any living or working space, but I think it is even more critical in a zen space. Light has such a strong effect on not just our physical environment but also our mental state, and after living in spaces that ranged from poorly lit to suffocatingly bright, I knew that I wanted to create a zen abode that was a well-lit sanctuary.
I also became intentional about my use of light. I put small lamps with warm bulbs in various corners of my space and turned them on at night. I even added a small salt lamp to my meditation table. The soft light from the salt lamp is perfect for “evening-ing.” I did all of this in order to create an atmosphere for my home that wasn’t, you know, “homey,” but was instead something like a “temptation of a well-lit cave” for me to spend even more time in.
One of the more unexpected lessons I learned was the need for shadow to achieve a serene atmosphere. In a traditional zen garden, shadows are as important as the objects that cast them. They are crucial to creating a space that has depth and that invites contemplation. For my biophilic zen space, I made sure that my bonsai tree would, in late afternoon, cast its shadow onto the wall opposite it. Watching the play of light and shadow from my space became a meditative act, a reminder of the beauty of impermanence and the serene act of watching nature’s light show.
Integrating Water: The Sound of Serenity
Both biophilic design and zen practice place a high value on water, seeing it as a prime element of the environment. Water has a way of capturing our attention. We might not realize it, but we are always trying to “hear” water. We listen to it for surreptitious or open-ended signs that something is healthy and whole with our shared habitat. If we can “hear” it, then all is well; if we cannot, then we are anxious. So when I decided to install a fountain in my meditation space, I was almost following an ancient ritual. I also chose not to allow my fountain to drown me out with top-volume sound effects. Instead, I went for a relatively calm signal that the water was actually flowing and not on strike.
The constant, rhythmic sound was something deeply comforting; it was like a reminder that life, much like water, is always on the move and in a state of change, yet inherently peaceful when we allow it to flow. Of course, no biophilic space would be complete without vegetation, but in a biophilic zen environment, the plants are not merely decorative. They are living companions that require care and attention, reminding us of the interconnectedness of all life. I selected specimens with a zen-like quality—simple, elegant, yet resilient. My bonsai became a focal point, with a couple of other small, atmospheric specimens complementing it: a fern, a peace lily, and a few succulent plants.
Caring for my plants was a kind of meditation. There were no right or wrong ways to do it—only strokes of luck that, if I were lucky, would yield a zoo of plants. If I could keep them alive, of course. So every morning and night, and at various times in between, I would check on my plants. I was kind of a freak about it, actually. I spoke to them (try not to laugh, for your own good), and here is what I said: “In the next few days, I will not be watering you, as I have been every day. I will be giving you my absence as an experiment in plant psychology. If I come home and find you still alive—or, better yet, in such good health that you have grown since I left—you will have made your statement very clearly: I am a successful plant psychologist.”
One evening, as the sun set, I lit a stick of sandalwood incense. The smell perfumed the room, joining the warm glow of the salt lamp and the sound of the water fountain. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, as if everything were in its place, as if I were exactly where I needed to be. It was biophilic zen: the coming together of all the elements I have curated into a nurturing room. To a large extent, creating such a room is a selfish act because it allows me to indulge in the farthest reaches of stillness. But I feel compelled to share this with you. Creating a biophilic zen space is not about a style or a trend; rather, it is a way of being and a practice that I want to extend to you.
The environment I created—cultivated might be a better word—was simple. It was not elaborate or intricate. It was almost the opposite: a kind of empty space, really, as far as an urban environment goes. The windows were open, inviting in fresh air. I could hear nature’s music: the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds. They were park sounds, and they filled my zen space. I took refuge in there and found that my biophilic surroundings offered refuge for my mind and taught me how to carry that sense of mental refuge outdoors, even when the only greens I could see were the blades of manicured turf in the park outside my office.
It serves as a reminder that peace doesn’t need to be chased or created; it can arise naturally the moment we allow ourselves to connect with the world around us. It can happen when we are really in each moment without striving or grasping for something more. Of all the things I have done in life, making a biophilic zen space in my home has given me the most satisfaction. And this isn’t just about an interior design project. There’s a way of living that emphasizes what I call the “zen biophilia.” Bringing natural elements into my home went hand in hand with achieving mindfulness and peace in the way I live.
Biophilic zen does not concern itself with achieving perfection. It is about accepting the flawed, the fleeting, and the natural aesthetics of a world that does not make an effort to look ‘better’ to our narrow human standards. It is a space defined by the sort of quiet one finds in a forest, a cousin to the deep peace of sitting alone on a sandy beach, listening to the waves. In such a space, a human body is not just present but is somehow brought into the sort of alignment one achieves only when experiencing the sublime—in this case, a not-so-humble home for purging the as-of-yet unbuilt biophilic design concept that is “biophilic zen.”
