The Intersection of Biophilic Design and Cultural Sensitivity

# When Nature Meets Culture: What I’ve Learned About Respectful Biophilic Design

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about something that never really occurred to me when I first started getting into plants and biophilic design – how much culture shapes our relationship with nature. I mean, it sounds obvious now, but when I was just trying to figure out why some spaces made me feel good and others didn’t, I was mostly focused on the basic stuff. More plants equals better, right? Natural light is good. Water features are calming. But the more I’ve read about this topic, the more I realize it’s way more complicated than that.

I came across this article about Gardens by the Bay in Singapore a few months ago, and it completely changed how I think about bringing nature into spaces. Sure, it’s this amazing futuristic garden with those crazy tall “supertrees” that everyone photographs, but what really struck me was how intentional they were about reflecting Singapore’s multicultural identity. It’s not just random tropical plants thrown together because they grow well there – they specifically chose flora that has cultural significance to the Chinese, Indian, Malay, and other communities that call Singapore home.

Reading about that project made me realize how Western-centric my thinking had been. I’d been assuming that certain plants or design elements would feel “natural” and calming to everyone, but that’s not how it works at all. Someone who grew up in a desert climate might find a lush rainforest overwhelming rather than peaceful. Someone whose family has spiritual connections to specific trees or flowers is going to respond differently than I would to those same elements.

I started paying more attention to this when I was helping my neighbor Maria redo her small patio garden last summer. She’s originally from Mexico, and when I suggested some of the plants I’d had success with – typical stuff like pothos and snake plants – she wasn’t really interested. Instead, she wanted to grow herbs that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden, and she had very specific ideas about how to arrange everything. The final result looked nothing like the Pinterest-worthy setups I’d been studying, but when you sat in that space, you could feel how much it meant to her. It wasn’t just about having plants around; it was about connecting to memories and traditions that went way deeper than just “nature is nice.”

That experience got me reading about how different cultures have traditionally incorporated nature into their built environments, and honestly, it’s been a bit of a rabbit hole. I found this documentary about traditional Islamic architecture and learned about mashrabiya – those intricate wooden screens that filter light and air while providing privacy. There’s this building in Abu Dhabi called Al Bahar Towers that takes that concept and creates a modern version that actually moves throughout the day to track the sun. It’s simultaneously cutting-edge technology and deeply rooted in centuries of local building wisdom.

What I find fascinating is how these traditional approaches often solve the same problems that modern biophilic design is trying to address, just in ways that make sense for specific climates and cultures. The mashrabiya isn’t just beautiful – it’s a brilliant solution for creating comfortable indoor spaces in a hot, bright climate while maintaining cultural values around privacy and community interaction.

I’ve been trying to apply some of these ideas in my own small-scale projects, though obviously I’m working within the constraints of a rental apartment and a pretty limited budget. When I was redoing my bedroom lighting setup last winter, instead of just going with the standard “warm white bulbs are more natural” approach, I started thinking about what kinds of light felt familiar and comforting to me personally. I grew up with those long Pacific Northwest winter days where the light is soft and gray for months, so the super-bright full-spectrum bulbs I’d been using actually felt kind of harsh and artificial. I ended up with this combination of warmer, dimmer bulbs that better matched what I was used to, and it made a huge difference in how the space felt.

But I also realize how easy it would be to mess this up spectacularly. There’s a fine line between being inspired by other cultures’ relationships with nature and just appropriating symbols or design elements without understanding what they mean. I read this case study about a resort development in Hawaii where the initial plans included traditional patterns that had spiritual significance to Native Hawaiians, used basically as decoration. The community pushed back hard, and rightfully so. The final design ended up being much more thoughtful – they worked with local artisans and chose plants that had cultural importance rather than just using sacred symbols as wallpaper.

It made me think about all the times I’ve seen “zen gardens” or “Tuscan-inspired” spaces that are basically just stereotypes slapped onto generic designs. There’s this Thai restaurant near my apartment that has what they call a “traditional Thai garden,” but it’s just random bamboo and some Buddha statues from a garden center. It doesn’t feel peaceful or authentic – it feels like someone’s idea of what Asian design should look like based on movies or something.

The more I’ve learned about this, the more I appreciate projects that take the time to really understand local traditions. I came across information about the Green School in Bali, which is built almost entirely from bamboo that was grown and harvested locally. But it’s not just about using local materials – they worked with Indonesian craftspeople who’ve been building with bamboo for generations. The result is this incredible structure that’s simultaneously innovative and deeply connected to local building traditions. The kids who go to school there aren’t just learning in a “green” building; they’re surrounded by examples of their own cultural heritage being used in creative, sustainable ways.

I’ve been trying to apply some version of this thinking to my own community garden volunteer work. The garden is in a pretty diverse neighborhood, and I’ve been noticing how different families approach gardening in completely different ways. Some people want neat rows and defined beds, others prefer more naturalistic mixed plantings, and everyone has their own ideas about which plants are worth growing. Instead of assuming there’s one “right” way to organize a community space, we’ve started having conversations about what kinds of growing environments feel familiar and comfortable to different people.

It’s been really interesting. Mrs. Chen, who’s originally from rural China, has strong opinions about companion planting that are based on techniques her family used for generations. Jorge, who grew up in Guatemala, knows things about growing peppers and herbs that none of the rest of us would have figured out on our own. Sarah, whose family is from Ethiopia, brought seeds for plants I’d never heard of that grow incredibly well here once you know how to care for them.

What I’m realizing is that bringing nature into human spaces isn’t just about following some universal set of principles – it’s about understanding how specific communities have traditionally interacted with their local environments and finding ways to honor that knowledge while meeting contemporary needs.

This is making me rethink some of the design advice I see online too. So much of it assumes that everyone responds to natural elements the same way, but that’s obviously not true. The colors, materials, spatial arrangements, and even types of plants that feel “natural” and calming are going to vary hugely depending on someone’s cultural background and personal experiences with different environments.

I read about a project where they were designing nature-inspired spaces for children from different cultural backgrounds, and they found that kids responded completely differently to the same elements depending on what kinds of natural environments were familiar to them. Some kids were drawn to desert plants and rock gardens, others wanted lush green spaces with lots of water, and still others preferred more structured arrangements that felt organized and intentional rather than wild.

It makes me want to be more thoughtful about the assumptions I make when I’m sharing what I’ve learned through this blog. Just because certain plants or design approaches have worked well for me in my specific situation doesn’t mean they’re going to feel right to someone with a different background or different cultural associations with those same elements.

I’ve started asking more questions when people reach out for advice about their own spaces. Instead of jumping straight to plant recommendations or lighting suggestions, I try to understand what kinds of natural environments feel meaningful to them personally. Did they grow up near the ocean? In the mountains? In a big city with lots of parks? What are their family traditions around gardening or outdoor spaces? What colors and textures feel familiar and comfortable?

The basic principles of biophilic design – bringing in natural light, using plants to clean air, incorporating natural materials – those things seem to work across cultures because they’re addressing fundamental human needs. But how you implement those principles, which specific plants and materials and arrangements you choose, that’s where cultural sensitivity becomes really important.

I’m still figuring this out myself, honestly. I don’t have any formal training in cultural studies or anthropology or anything like that. I’m just someone who got really interested in why some spaces feel good and started noticing that the answer is more complicated than I originally thought. But I think that’s actually part of the point – you don’t need to be a professional designer to start thinking more thoughtfully about how culture and nature interact in the spaces we create.

One thing I’ve been doing is trying to learn more about the traditional building and gardening practices from different parts of the world. Not because I’m planning to recreate them – that would be weird and probably inappropriate – but because understanding how different cultures have solved similar problems can inspire new approaches that make sense for my own situation.

For example, I learned about traditional Persian gardens and their emphasis on water channels and geometric layouts that create cooling microclimates. I can’t install irrigation channels in my apartment, obviously, but it got me thinking differently about how I arrange my plants and where I place my little tabletop fountain to create the most cooling effect during summer months.

I’ve been reading about indigenous building traditions from different regions and how they incorporate local materials and respond to specific climate challenges. Some of these approaches are incredibly sophisticated – ways of using bamboo or earth or stone that create comfortable indoor environments without any mechanical heating or cooling systems.

It’s making me more aware of how much knowledge we’ve lost as building practices became more standardized and globalized. We’ve gotten good at creating spaces that function the same way regardless of where they’re located, but we’ve lost some of that deep understanding of how to work with local conditions and cultural preferences.

I think there’s a real opportunity for people like us – regular folks who are interested in making our spaces more nature-connected – to start paying more attention to these cultural dimensions. It doesn’t require becoming an expert in traditional building techniques or anything like that. It’s more about being curious and respectful and asking questions rather than assuming that what works for us will work for everyone.

The intersection of nature and culture shows up in art and music and literature too, and I’ve been trying to pay more attention to how different cultural traditions represent and relate to natural elements. It’s given me ideas for bringing more cultural sensitivity into my own small-scale projects, even if it’s just choosing plants or materials or colors that reflect my own family’s background rather than defaulting to whatever’s trendy on design blogs.

The whole concept of biophilic design is about recognizing that humans have an innate connection to nature, but that connection is going to be shaped by our specific experiences and cultural context. The challenge is figuring out how to honor both the universal human need for nature contact and the very particular ways that different communities have traditionally fulfilled that need.

I’m definitely still learning about all of this, and I’m sure I’ve made mistakes along the way. But I think the important thing is being willing to have these conversations and to keep asking questions about how we can create nature-connected spaces that feel meaningful and respectful to the people who actually use them.