I’ve always been fascinated by how differently people connect with nature across cultures. Last year, while researching traditional building techniques in Kyoto, I noticed something striking about Japanese engawa – those transitional spaces between indoor and outdoor areas. Unlike Western porches that boldly announce “you’re outside now,” engawa create this subtle gradient where you’re neither fully in nor fully out.
My Japanese host, Tanaka-san, explained that this ambiguity was entirely intentional – “We don’t see nature as something separate to cross into,” he told me, “but something we’re already part of.” That conversation stuck with me long after I returned home. I’ve spent years advocating for biophilic design principles, but I realized I’d been viewing everything through my distinctly Western lens. The truth is, biophilia – our innate connection to nature – might be universal, but its expression varies dramatically across cultures, shaped by everything from climate and geography to spiritual beliefs and historical relationships with the natural world.
Take Scandinavian biophilic design. Having consulted on several Norwegian projects, I’ve noticed their approach centers on maximizing natural light – not surprising when you consider their long, dark winters. A Finnish colleague once told me, “We don’t just want nature in our buildings; we want to preserve our emotional access to it year-round.” Their buildings often feature massive windows, light-colored woods, and strategic mirrors to capture and amplify every precious ray of sunshine.
They’re not just bringing plants inside; they’re honoring light itself as a natural element worth celebrating. Compare that to how biophilic design manifests in Morocco, where I spent three weeks studying traditional riads. In that scorching climate, the relationship with nature feels almost reversed – it’s about selective shielding rather than maximum exposure.
Courtyard gardens create microhabitats where water features cool the air through evaporation. Geometric patterns carved into walls and ceilings create dappled light reminiscent of standing beneath trees. “We don’t need to see the entire sky to feel connected to Allah’s creation,” my guide Fatima explained.
“Sometimes just a glimpse, a suggestion, is more powerful.” I remember visiting a recently renovated hospital in Marrakech that beautifully merged these traditional approaches with modern healthcare needs. Instead of the picture windows we might install in American hospitals, they created a series of smaller, carefully positioned openings that framed specific views – a flowering tree, a water feature, the changing sky. Patients reported feeling more connected to natural cycles despite having technically “less” visual access than Western design might prescribe.
The cultural variations go deeper than aesthetic preferences. They reflect fundamental differences in how cultures conceptualize the human-nature relationship. My friend Wei, an architect from Shanghai, once pointed out something I’d never considered: “In your Western designs, nature is always something to be ‘brought in’ – as if humans and their buildings exist separately from it.
In traditional Chinese design, we never left nature to begin with.” This perspective is evident in classical Chinese gardens, which don’t simply incorporate natural elements but create miniaturized, idealized landscapes that represent the cosmic order. When I visited Suzhou’s Master of Nets Garden, I was struck by how different it felt from Western approaches to “nature in design.” Rather than maximizing views to actual nature outside, it created its own complete natural world with carefully composed scenes unfolding as you move through the space. I’ve noticed similar philosophical differences working with Indigenous designers in North America.
During a project with the Squamish Nation near Vancouver, community elder Latash taught me about their concept of “witnessed construction” – building practices where the community acknowledges the spirits of materials being used. “We don’t just bring wood into a building,” she explained. “We bring a tree spirit, and we have responsibilities to honor that.” Their biophilic approach wasn’t about visual connections to nature but spiritual ones – orienting buildings to astronomical alignments, selecting materials with cultural significance, and incorporating ceremonial spaces that reinforced human obligations to the natural world.
I remember watching Latash speak to cedar beams before they were raised, thanking the trees for their sacrifice. I’d been designing with natural materials for years but had never considered acknowledging them as beings with their own agency. Climate shapes these cultural expressions too, of course.
In tropical Singapore (god, I miss those eight months I spent there), biophilic design embraces the lushness and biodiversity of the equatorial environment. Buildings like the stunning PARKROYAL Pickering don’t just incorporate plants – they become vertical ecosystems with cascading greenery that blurs the lines between architecture and jungle. When I interviewed the maintenance staff, they mentioned hosting over 50 bird species and countless insects in the building’s integrated landscapes.
But cultural attitudes toward nature aren’t static – they evolve with historical circumstances. After the 2011 tsunami, I noticed Japanese designs increasingly incorporating water features with sophisticated flow-control systems. “We’re healing our relationship with water,” an architect in Sendai told me.
“Recreating water elements that remind us of its life-giving properties while respecting its destructive potential.” These cultural expressions of biophilia aren’t just interesting variations – they’re rich resources we can learn from. I’ve found myself increasingly frustrated with the homogenized “international style” of biophilic design that’s spreading globally – you know, those generic green walls and bamboo flooring that tick the sustainability box without really connecting to local traditions or meanings. When I was consulting on a corporate headquarters in Dubai last spring, the American project lead kept pushing for a massive atrium jungle reminiscent of Amazon’s Seattle spheres.
It took several conversations to redirect toward a concept that honored local biophilic traditions – a contemporary interpretation of Arabian courtyard gardens with drought-adapted plants, geometric shade structures creating complex light patterns, and water used sparingly but meaningfully. The resulting space consumed 70% less water while receiving higher user satisfaction scores than the original proposal. I’ve started compiling what I call a “biophilic vernacular index” – documenting how different cultures traditionally incorporate nature connections in their built environments.
Not as a catalog to copy from, but as a reminder of how diverse these relationships can be. The Japanese concept of “shakkei” (borrowed scenery) teaches us about framing specific views rather than maximizing glass area. Middle Eastern mashrabiya (carved wooden screens) demonstrate how filtered light can create more compelling connections than full exposure.
What fascinates me most is how these cultural approaches often align with emerging research on effective biophilic interventions. My friend Dr. Kaplan at the University of Michigan has been studying “soft fascination” – the type of gentle attention restoration that comes from certain natural environments.
Her research suggests that the indirect, filtered connections to nature found in many traditional designs may actually be more restorative than the maximalist approach common in contemporary Western biophilic design. I’ve seen this play out in my own projects. Last year, I redesigned a psychiatric facility’s common areas, incorporating elements from various cultural traditions – the carefully framed views of Japanese design, the fractal patterning common in African architecture, and the multisensory engagement (beyond just visual) emphasized in many Indigenous approaches.
Patient agitation decreased 41% compared to the previous design, which had featured a more conventional “green wall and big windows” approach. When I share these cross-cultural insights in my workshops, I often encounter resistance. “But we need scientific evidence,” participants insist.
“These cultural approaches are just aesthetic preferences.” This perspective misses something crucial – these traditional approaches have undergone their own form of validation through centuries of use and refinement. They represent accumulated wisdom about what makes humans feel connected to the natural world in their specific contexts. That’s not to say we should abandon research.
My bookshelves are stuffed with studies on fractal patterns, nature views, and natural material impacts on human physiology. But I’ve learned to balance this quantitative evidence with the qualitative wisdom embedded in cultural traditions. I’ve started asking different questions in my practice.
Instead of “how can we bring nature into this building?” I ask “how do the people who will use this space conceptualize their relationship with nature?” Sometimes the answer involves maximizing natural light and views. Other times it might mean creating ritual connections to natural materials or designing spaces that respond to seasonal changes in ways meaningful to that community. Last month, I visited a remarkable senior living facility in New Mexico that incorporated biophilic elements from Pueblo traditions – a central plaza designed for seasonal community gatherings, tactile earthen walls that regulate humidity naturally, and strategically placed openings that track solar and lunar patterns significant in local culture.
“Our elders don’t just want to see nature,” the Taos Pueblo consultant explained. “They want to move through the year with it, marking time through light and shadow as they always have.” The residents reported stronger social connections and better temporal awareness compared to conventional facilities – outcomes that might never have been achieved through standardized Western biophilic approaches. I guess what I’m advocating for is a more culturally humble approach to biophilic design.
Yes, our connection to nature is biological and universal, but how we express and nurture that connection is beautifully, meaningfully diverse. The future of truly effective biophilic design isn’t in finding the one perfect approach but in understanding this rich variety of human-nature and learning to speak these different biophilic languages fluently. My engawa moment in Japan taught me that sometimes the most profound nature connections aren’t about bringing the outside in, but about questioning whether there was ever a meaningful separation to begin with.
That’s a lesson I carry into every project now, alongside my measuring tape and plant lists.
