Strolling through a vibrant landscape, rich with the natural world, is one of the most satisfying experiences. It’s not about placing a tree in every corner, or even a tree for every two corners. It’s about living in an outdoor space that connects deeply to one’s natural surroundings—an appearance of conditions de rigueur for a lawn or yard that might have been given the biophilic design treatment.
I have a small park I like to visit that is tucked away between two busy streets in a city. You would not expect much from such a confined and noisy space, but the way the landscape has been carefully crafted changes everything. Instead of large, attention-grabbing elements, it leans into subtleties: native grasses that sway in the wind, small ponds that capture rainwater, and stone pathways that feel as though they’ve always been part of the land. Because the park is designed with plants that are local to the region, it not only looks beautiful—it feels harmonious.
The grasses attract birds and a variety of insects. The ponds are teeming with life. This is a micro-ecosystem in the middle of a city, and it has everything to do with the principles of biophilic landscape design.
Biophilic landscapes are not a new concept, but their relevance today is increasing. In cities dominated by concrete and steel, the populace longs for a connection to the natural world, and that’s where biophilic design comes in. The magic often lies in small details—a soothing water feature; textures that vary from surface to surface; or sunlight, which can be harnessed in a variety of ways to create luminous effects. These design elements might seem trivial to some, but they’re not. Research has shown that elements like these, when thoughtfully integrated into the built environment, can reduce stress, elevate mood, and even increase productivity.
A successful biophilic landscape balances nature and people. Too often, I see projects that either try too hard to force nature into unnatural constraints or that respect neither the integrity of the places they occupy nor of the natural world around them. But when you get this balance right—when the design feels like an extension of the natural world—the results can indeed be extraordinary. One project with which I was involved and that embodies an especially successful biophilic outcome was in the countryside. We had acres of open land to work with, but instead of imposing a strict design on the site, we allowed its natural topography to guide us.
The project’s contours and configuration followed the hills and valleys of the site, while the native plants we used filled in the spaces—some of which we tucked into the shadows of a line of trees. We even incorporated a stream that ran through the site. Once we’d finished the project, my boss took a bunch of his friends down to it, and half the time they looked at it, they were standing in the open part of the project.
Biophilic landscape design provides a unique and powerful opportunity to re-establish the connection between people and the natural world, especially in spaces where that relationship has been weakened. What excites me most about this design philosophy is how it works with the land, making enhancements that honor and highlight the natural features of a site and offering a “biophilic boost” to the plants and animals that already call the place home. One of the main reasons I was drawn to biophilic landscape design is because it doesn’t impose on nature; it collaborates. And part of that collaboration is an understanding that the spaces will be dynamic and ever-changing, largely because the selves that occupy them—and that is all of us, in some way—are also dynamic and ever-changing.
In my experience, biophilic design is most memorable when it welcomes imperfection. Those landscapes (both interior and exterior) that are iterative, evolving, and “wild” in the best possible way leave lasting impressions. I find it hard to believe there’s a design professional who’d argue that the secret to achieving this effect isn’t to work with the existing conditions you’ve got (or the local wildlife and plant communities) and incorporate them into your scheme—to mimic nature’s beauty and whimsy in a way that’s even a bit exaggerated (but not cartoonish). Yet, there’s something a bit unfashionable about praising gnarled trees and stippled stone walls when so much design culture demands that we worship the sleek surfaces and idealized specimens of “clean and clear” landscape architecture.
Our choice of materials is part of this organic approach, too. One of my projects that I was extremely passionate about was built using local stone and reclaimed wood. Not only did that choice greatly reduce the environmental impact of the construction, but it also created a space that felt as if it truly belonged in that spot, as if it had always been there. I used to tell visitors that if they sat on the reclaimed wooden bench below the cantilevered part of the stone wall, they could almost hear it humming with its own history.
Biophilic landscape design really shines in urban green spaces. I have had the opportunity to see first-hand how green roofs and vertical gardens can change otherwise characterless urban settings. An apartment complex I often visit epitomizes biophilic design; nature has been seamlessly incorporated into the living space. The wall of the building that faces the street features a living wall, with beds of native climbing plants, while the rooftop garden is filled with tall grassy plants and small flowering trees that provide shade and cool the structure. Sunlight streaming through large windows floods the building’s interior. Plants mingle with the sunlight to dramatically purify the air and give the space that fresh “just after a rain” smell.
Nature seems to be present in every part of the living space, inside and out. Perhaps the most amazing aspect of this design is how it impacts people who live there. Residents regularly report feeling much calmer and more in tune with the natural rhythms of life.
This approach is pretty fascinating because it reaches beyond mere aesthetics. Evidence has shown that contact with the natural world—even in minuscule amounts—can mitigate anxiety, amp up creativity, and elevate general wellness. In our urban jungles, where so many of us are boxed in, biophilic design offers a vital lifeline to nature. It is not just an aesthetic flourish spreading across our cities; it is becoming a necessary placemaking tool. Indeed, with public spaces and private developments in our built environments increasingly under the challenge of climate change, we here at Placemaking Chicago think that biophilic design is a key component of the sustainable future of our city.
These ideas are being embraced not just in residential design, but in corporates, too, as I found when I visited a corporate campus where biophilic design had been applied—not just in the buildings, but fully integrated throughout the outdoor spaces. This particular campus was not surrounded by sterile, conventionally landscaped lawns, but by meadows of native plants, ponds that encouraged all sorts of wildlife, and shaded areas that invited outdoor meetings. Walking through that space, you could practically feel the calm and the absence of a push to get the unavoidable work done. Hearing the rustle of the plants nearby and the occasional “splash!” from a pond was enough to make you think of this place as being just as much a locale for realizing the outdoor part of the “work-life balance” as it was a “work” locale.
Incredibly potent, these spaces have an effect that goes beyond merely influencing our feelings; they mold our interactions with one another and our environment. I’ve often noticed that when people find themselves in biophilic landscapes, the way they converse with one another changes. Their conversations slow down, and they seem to really engage the moment and place they are in. It’s almost as if biophilic design is not just welcomed but also, in some way, a natural and obvious design prerequisite.
Currently, one of the most exhilarating movements in landscape design is the integration of edible gardens. It is a concept I have been exploring quite a bit, and the results have been, in equal measure, practical and lovely. I picture a park where I could help myself to freshly picked raspberries or herbs as I strolled, or, even better, a community garden seamlessly integrated into biophilic design: Maybe you picture a park where you could Benefit from the fruits of a “fruiting wall” as you stroll by, or a biophilic community garden where you could forage for veggies.
Imagine woodlands where you are free to dig up otherwise hidden roots, or in the orchard, hanging low enough at the perfect point of ripeness for you to pick without detection.
I recently worked on a project involving the design of an edible garden in an urban setting. The space was limited but filled with trees that bore fruit, raised beds full of vegetables, and an array of herbs. Still, to erect that in the heart of an impoverished neighborhood was a kind of madness. Our edible garden in South Central Los Angeles was a declaration of war against food deserts—a way of saying that not only should communities have access to healthful, fresh food, but also that they can grow it themselves. The community embraced this notion, didn’t they?
Families picked fruit after work, children tasted strawberries right off the vine, and there was more than enough chatting among neighbors to make one suspect that the tomatoes might actually be a front for some kind of neighborhood gossip garden.
The biophilic landscape design is evolving, and its connection to people and the natural world seems clearer than ever. The successful biophilic landscape is not merely stunning; it is, which Josh and I discussed in earlier chapters, sustainably designed for an ecologically balanced long-term life in a space that will not only grow and adapt but also will continue to morph into something even more enjoyable and engaging to people. Bill Browning talks about that in the book’s next chapter, and I expand on it in this one.
One of the most striking illustrations of the rewilding principle is when it is applied to urban landscapes. I have visited several rewilding projects, and each time, I am blown away by the power of nature to transform a neglected space into a area flourishing with grasses, wildflowers, and trees. I think the rewilding of an old industrial site into a wildflower meadow is one of the perfect illustrations of urban rewilding. What used to be a barren landscape is now an urban refuge that draws in a lot of different wildlife. The rewilding of this space isn’t just visually stunning; it also supported a lot of different types of wildlife.
Creating environments that serve ecological functions without sacrificing beauty is a goal I firmly believe in and have had the great fortune to pursue. One place I’ve worked that truly exemplifies this concept is a wetland park in a suburban community that faced recurrent flooding. Instead of trying to manage the water with traditional engineering solutions, we took a biophilic approach, designing a landscape that would work with, rather than against, the natural topography and hydrology of the area. We carved out low-lying areas where rainwater could collect, allowing the water to flow freely in the landscape and creating pond and wetland conditions that would not only serve as flood management features but also provide critical habitat for a diversity of wildlife.
It was hard for me to believe when I did the walk-through of the park yesterday that this space was once such a problem area. The park is more alive than I could have imagined, and the community we serves has embraced it as a place to relax, play, and reconnect with nature.
Biophilic landscape design goes beyond visual appeal and practical function. It seeks to establish a profound and lasting connection with the natural world. I have invariably advocated for designs that incorporate biophilic elements like water, natural light, and open space. These are the basic primal elements. People — not to mention all kinds of other animals — are drawn to them for good evolutionary reasons. They remind us in a deep-down kind of way that we’re part of something orders of magnitude larger than ourselves, something absurdly vast yet also intensely intimate and interconnected.
I recall collaborating on a minor residential project where the client requested a garden that would be tranquil and restorative. The space they had was small, so our focus had to be on the “small” part of “small garden.” Instead of trying to stuff the little area with plants, we took a much more sculptural approach. We created a shallow, simple pool of water with a fountain in the middle that made a steady, soothing sound. Around the pool, we planted a careful, colorful mix of low-maintenance, native plants that would attract birds and butterflies. Almost immediately, the client declared it their favorite part of the house.
They told me it felt as if they had their own little spa. Even a few minutes spent beside the water was enough to help them catch a mental breathe and recharge.
I am especially passionate about the integration of sensory experiences into biophilic landscape design. I once worked on a project where we designed a sensory garden for a healthcare facility. The aim was to create a space that could be enjoyed by people of all abilities, including those with sensory impairments. To this end, we selected fragrant plants like lavender and rosemary, and used textured materials like smooth stones and rough bark. We included features like wind chimes and water elements, and I think we achieved a space that was alive with sensory experiences. Most importantly, the garden was well-received by both patients and staff, who found it to be an undeniably calming and healing space.
Biophilic landscape design is beautiful because it allows access to everyone, not just large-scale projects or public locales. Sprawling parks, simple backyards, and even balcony gardens serve as practical canvases for the principles of biophilic design. I have clients who push the edges of imagination and access to biophilia: one has turned her balcony into a vertical garden and “mini forest”; another has applied for a permit to transform a corner of her backyard into a wildlife habitat. These personal biophilic landscapes serve up daily encounters with nature, just like a 10-acre park. They’re not contingent upon size or publicity.
They serve, on a path to access biophilia, an equally important role as larger projects—if not a more important role, since biophilic landscapes at any scale are simply and richly beneficial to health and well-being.
Ultimately, landscape design that embraces biophilia is about looking out for two fragile and vital constellations: the environment and human beings. The delicate balance of both is at risk. Nature is in trouble, and so too are the millions of people who suffer from a lack of access to healthy nature. Landscape architects who practice biophilic design may not have an exclusive remedy for what ails either the environment or society, but they understand that the two are linked. And that by mending one, they have a shot at mending the other.
I am very optimistic regarding biophilic landscape design. This might partly stem from the fact that biophilia—in its many expressions—has a long and rich history. Biophilic landscape design is a fundamental reorientation of how we view and develop the spaces we inhabit, whether in public or private, in short term or long term, in nature or near nature, and with strong ties to aesthetic, cultural, ecological, and environmental values. I am committed to “seeing” biophilic landscape design in action, so I journey from the urban to the suburban to the rural in pursuit of landmarks that exemplify these principles.
