Something about parks has always captivated me. Whether a tiny beacon of greenery between city towers or a vast natural expanse at the urban fringe, parks exert an undeniable draw. They are places where people come together—to be still, to be active, to simply be. They pulse with life. You could go anywhere in New York City, for example, and somewhere in your vicinity would be people “parkin’.” If you went to Tompkins Square Park for a day, you’d encounter a performance artist with a karaoke machine (I’ve seen this happen), or maybe a pair of guys jamming on saxophones, or people practicing parkour, or just people enjoying a nice day, all on the same grass as the squirrels.
The biophilic park’s beauty arises from its capacity to blend nature and the urban environment, resulting in places where people can appreciate the quiet, restorative qualities of nature without venturing beyond the city limits. I understand the design of a biophilic park to hinge on two intertwined ideas: one is that biophilic parks have to be alive, and the other is that biophilic parks have to work.
The Essence of Nature as the Bedrock—Creating Connections through Design
When I think of a biophilic park, I always think of the layout first. How is the sit’s contour shaped naturally? What plants and animals native to the area already thrive on the site? These two questions are key because a biophilic park, by my definition, should be an extension of the local ecosystem. One end to the site might sound like a river and the other might be steep hills that cascade into a valley. If biophilic design is what I say it is, then it is also a park designed to work with the topography, not part of imposing order to the chaos of the natural world.
A park I visited in Japan comes to mind, where the designers let the natural forest dictate the layout. There were no straight lines or perfectly manicured lawns; the paths wound through groves of trees, and tiny streams accompanied the walkways. This untouched-forest experience—despite the meticulous design of the park—shapes how I envision creating biophilic parks. It’s about fostering a sense of connection to the natural world. Every turn invites exploration, with an unexpected and new moment lying just ahead.
I enjoy considering how various aspects of the park will mesh with the seasons. In a biophilic park, design must offer something for every time of year—a mix of experiences that makes each season feel special and unique. In the spring, for instance, I worked on a project for a park that went wild with the vibrant beauty of cherry trees in blossom. By summer, the park had transitioned to a cool retreat beneath massive oaks. Autumn didn’t bring a dip in coolness, but it did bring a jaw-dropping display of the oaks’ fiery vibrant colors against the backdrop of the park’s evergreens. Those evergreens held it all together in winter, giving the park that vital feel of kind of alive with something more than just a stately tranquil landscape.
The biophilic parks I design gain a vital ingredient from water—features that not only calm the mind but also attract a diversity of local wildlife. You can hardly find a more serene spot than the edge of a pond, where the small ripples your hand creates resonate clear across the still surface, or where the sun peeking through the trees dapples both woman and pond in a myriad of twinkling patterns. Just listening to the summer evening sounds of a pond: the close, rhythmic trill of the toad; the not-so-distant whoosh of a basking snake slipping back into the water; the mesmerizing warble of the nightingale that passes near the unlit porch of my house. Even in winter, a pond is a peaceful place—every sound muffled by the snow that blankets both the frozen water and the trees lining its edge.
Designing Places for Health and Engagement
The design of biophilic parks always prioritizes pleasing the visitors, and I certainly hope that this one will. I’ve long thought of parks as spaces of restoration, where the stress of city life can temporarily evaporate and one can find a kind of peace that nature alone can provide. I don’t think that parks are only about that aspect, though. They are also places where one can be with other people, moving and engaging in all kinds of (mostly) joyful ways. One of the aspects I keep in mind while designing biophilic parks is how to achieve a reasonable distribution of quiet zones and active zones throughout the space.
I was part of a community park project in which we sought to create different spaces, each providing a unique experience. The first step was to design a central, wide-open green ideal for picnics, games, and communal gatherings. It felt like the centerpiece of the park with its tall, native grasses that swished in the Texas breeze and its warm colors that contrasted nicely with the cool blues and greens of the wildflower meadows, the shaded grove, and the intimate nooks built around the park. These areas were different and distinct but blended beautifully together in a harmony of space, form, and materials so that one felt naturally led from one area to the next.
Biophilic parks are, for me, one of the most significant ways to incorporate biophilic design. Beyond attracting wildlife, these parks embrace natural elements in ways that can appeal to all age groups. This is critical, in my mind, because parks should be spaces for all ages, from toddlers to centenarians. It’s a pretty simple formula: If you want to attract all ages, you must provide intergenerational and inclusive features like easy-to-traverse paths and safe areas for younger and older visitors to enjoy at their own pace. And you must also design in a way that appeals to the senses. … The accessibility and sensory engagement I was referring to earlier also featured prominently in my design for a biophilic park in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, a project that I hope to give you a glimpse into soon.
Movement is another crucial factor to consider in the design of parks that embrace biophilic principles. People gravitate toward parks to walk, run, play, and explore. Thus, it is only logical that the layout of the park should encourage unimpeded, natural physical activity. I lean toward path designs that curve and weave through the landscape instead of lines that are straight or gently waving. The pathway systems and the artwork within make the space engaging enough to spend time in. You will not want to rush through here. You will find nooks and crannies that beckon for you to come and sit a spell, and you will come upon sculptures nestled in among the trees. You might not even see the first one until you read about it in the brochure.
I, too, believe strongly in the role of play in biophilic parks. However, I don’t think that parks designed with biophilia in mind should include the sort of plastic playgrounds usually found in today’s public parks. I have instead tried to design imagined play areas for children that fit in with the overall natural aesthetic of the park. These areas encourage what I consider to be the best kind of play—unstructured, imaginative, and non-supervised. Indeed, one of my favorite designs was for a park whose play area was meant to simulate a forest floor, complete with logs to balance on, boulders to climb over and under, and a small, very shallow creek where kids could play with water.
When it comes to movement, I frequently include paths that encourage diverse kinds of activities—hiking, biking, running, and walking. At one park, we created a narrow multi-use path that wound through the wooded sections. It provided glimpses of the local wildlife while being wide enough for bikers and joggers to share the space comfortably. Afterward, I saw a viral video from the park and noticed that people’s appreciation for a park grows when it is experienced in motion—whether through a brisk morning run or a leisurely evening walk.
Parks can unite people in a way that few other spaces can. I consider the outdoor amphitheaters I have designed, where natural slopes and clearings serve as informal gathering spots for events, performances, or simply watching the sunset. One example that comes to mind is a small outdoor theater we integrated into a park, using natural stone seating carved into a hillside. The space blended so well into the environment that when it wasn’t in use, it felt like part of the landscape rather than a separate, structured element. The idea was to create a gathering space that felt organic—where people could come together for concerts or public talks, but also just to sit and take in the surroundings.
Another excellent way to get people involved with their local environment is by establishing community gardens. I know of several parks where I’ve worked that have included these pretty little spaces. In effect, they are park user spaces—lightly regulated and mostly governed by a sense of shared ownership among their users—that inhabit the space between private and public. Most community gardeners achieve at least partial success in growing food, which is great, but what I’m really sold on is the way these gardens serve as entry points for people to engage with their local environment, giving them opportunities to learn in a relatively low-stakes setting.
The biophilic parks created by the Sustainable Land Use and Urban Ecology team at the Helmholtz Centre for Environmental Research seek to foster communities around their valuable natural spaces. Park communities help foster a sense of common commitment to protecting and enriching the natural spaces themselves, which in turn secures the profound benefits these spaces provide for human mental and emotional health. Indeed, a number of scientific studies have recently been referenced in the design world, including by members of our team, that directly connect the way humans experience their particular built environments with the kinds of spaces that nature provides. One kind of space that nature provides, which is so often overlooked in today’s fast-paced world, is that of peacefulness itself.
A park that delights human visitors is one thing; a park that supports the local ecosystem is something else again. The more I learn about biophilic design, the more it seems to me that it is not just the users of a space that should benefit from its design; really, the local environment should benefit as well. Yes, biophilic parks are good for people and even better, they are good for the plants and animals that live in and around them.
When I take on a new park design, I start by studying the local plant and animal life. A key principle of biophilic design is to work with nature, not against it, and that mandates selecting species of plant life that are native to the area and providing habitats for local wildlife. On one park project, I and my team incorporated a mix of native wildflowers and native grasses to create a pollinator garden, and within a few short months, the park was filled with bees, butterflies, and birds. The right mix of plants not only fulfills the park’s aesthetic vision; it can also fulfill our ambitions to make fauna-friendly spaces that do the important work of creating vital ecosystems.
Management of the water resources is a key aspect of making ecological parks. I don’t believe in making artificial irrigation systems. I use sustainable, natural practices that not only work better but make the park look more beautiful and live longer in the memory. One of the parks we worked on had a real storm water problem. While it was obviously an urban park, it was still struggling to be green. So we created a series of bioswales, shallow, vegetated channels with some 3D contouring that not only managed storm water but did so beautifully, thanks to the plants used. The main street that borders one side of the park is this really nasty, if not unfriendly, place for pedestrians. So I thought, “What if this park could help to green that unfriendly part of the street while making the park itself a friendlier place for people to walk in?”
In cities, dominated by non-porous materials such as concrete and asphalt, green infrastructure is vital. A biophilic park, which I am deftly trained to design, allows for the reintroduction of natural processes into the urban environment. By using materials and plant selections that support not only the permeability but also the enhanced biodiversity of the park, I work to mitigate some of the negative impacts of the “heat island” effect and the city’s otherwise low air quality. I aim not only to create an engaging space for the park’s human visitors but also a functioning space that benefits the park’s wildlife. My ambition is to replicate as much as possible the park’s pre-colonization condition of 500 years ago.
I particularly enjoy designing spaces that enhance and promote biodiversity—they’re an opportunity to engage with nature at a micro-level. With a few small changes, urban parks can become havens for various species that might otherwise not thrive in the city. One of my favorite projects involved a series of birdhouses that we suspended high in the trees surrounding the park. The birdhouses were designed for specific native birds, and it wasn’t long before we started to hear those lovely bird sounds that signal life and vitality. Listening to the avian drama unfolding just a stone’s throw away from the urban din was a delight and an affirmation of our work. These species connections—the intersection of design and nature—are something I’m particularly passionate about.
Designing sustainable biophilic parks is a straightforward process. The challenge arises when moving to the next phase of the park’s life cycle—its maintenance. Parks that champion biophilia must celebrate nature’s ecosystems and their processes, most of which can’t be performed by design alone. The plants in a park can’t just look good. They must also do good—or, at the very least, something. And so, in the parks I design, I always advocate for using a palette of native, low-maintenance, drought-tolerant plants—a mix of native grasses and wildflowers, for instance—that largely require no irrigation and almost no care. The vähähoitowildflower garden in Crissy Field offers one such pretty, purpose-driven model.
I consistently take into account the sustainability of the materials that go into a project’s construction. As much as possible, I use recycled, salvaged, or locally found materials. For instance, on one project, we used reclaimed wood for the park’s benches and stone from a local quarry for its pathways. These choices not only reduced the project’s overall footprint but also gave it a distinctive local character. When it comes to authenticity and sustainability, I think the public appreciates it—even if they don’t always know the particulars.
Sustainability is critical even in something as simple as light. In a park that emphasizes biophilia, lighting should be used judiciously. I often opt for solar-powered lights or for fixtures powered by other alternative energy sources—energy should be conserved wherever feasible. Guests to the park shouldn’t experience light pollution; we should preserve the human ability to see the stars above. Pathways should be lit, of course. One of my favorite features of biophilic parks is the use of understated, low-level lighting along the pathways. This lighting accomplishes several goals: it creates a sense of safety, it avoids the appearance of the park as a “hardscaped” extension of the street, it doesn’t use excessive wattage, and it respects the surrounding neighborhood even more by being motion-activated.
One of the most gratifying parts of designing biophilic parks is observing how they change and develop over time. Parks are vibrant spaces that transform as plants grow, wildlife settles in, and the community interacts with the park in ever-evolving ways. I often tell my clients that the genuine success of a biophilic park isn’t determined on opening day. Rather, it’s measured in the years and decades that follow, as the park matures into an integral part of its local ecosystem and a cherished asset for the community it serves.
