Nature

Human perception is, and always has been, deeply influenced by nature and its cycles. The idea of paradise has deep roots in the ancient myths and traditions of many cultures as a symbol of fertility, abundance, harmony, spirituality, and an idealized representation of the world and our place in it. Equally, the changing seasons are a universal symbol of perpetual motion, transition, and a metaphor for life’s journey. The term biophilia was first used by German psychologist and philosopher Erich Fromm to describe an innate attraction to the natural world. American biologist and Pulitzer Prize-winning author Edward O. Wilson further developed Fromm’s hypothesis in his 1984 book Biophilia, wherein he defines it as “the innate tendency to focus on life and life-like processes,” or the subconscious human urge to seek connection with nature and other forms of life.

Biophilia is becoming an overused, generalized term, but we must ensure that the concept continues to refer to the specific positive, emotional affiliations that certain conditions of the natural environment offer, such as the openness of savannahs, compared to the negative or “biophobic” conditions that, as Roger Ulrich observes, many fear, such as dark, wild forests and the dangerous animals, spiders, and snakes within.

The connection between certain forms of nature and human well-being has been well studied. We are hardwired to perceive nature’s fractal patterns, from the form of a tree’s trunk and branches to the fine veining of its leaves. Some fractals repeat regularly, while others have patterns that are more chaotic. Certain ranges of fractal dimension, or density, are more pleasing to our eyes. Our pupils naturally employ fractal search patterns, first scanning larger elements, such as tree trunks or sharp angles can convey tension and hostility.

Beyond the visual, there has been only limited research into the wider, multisensory impact of nature on the mind in the field of cognitive neuroscience. But in this research, nonvisual passageways for natural experiences have been found to enhance well-being, including touching natural textures, breathing nature’s varied scents, and listening to its sounds.

In one interesting study, researchers at the Brighton and Sussex Medical School in England explored the restorative effects of the sounds of nature on both mind and body health. They found that nature-based sounds altered the default mode network in participants’ brains, which is located in an area of the cortex tasked with activating relaxation, thereby lessening ingrained “fight or flight” predispositions and enhancing well-being.

Used as design elements, sensory strategies can increase the restorative role that place plays in helping us cope with stress and mental fatigue as well as enhance health and well-being. For example, the use of natural and local materials creates connections to land and place with their many layers of history and cultural identity. Some people believe that places that provide protection, refuge, and a view of the horizon offer a primal sense of comfort that can be traced back to our early hunter-gatherer societies. Natural shapes, such as curves, often convey feelings of ease and friendliness, while

Related to biophilia is the newer concept of hortophilia, coined by British neurologist Oliver Sacks. Based on the Latin word hortus, meaning garden, Sachs defines it as our deeply ingrained “desire to interact with, manage and tend nature.” Hortophilia adds a phenomenological and kinetic animation to our engagement with nature. The power of nature to improve our health is more than spiritual and emotional; it also involves physiological and psychological-neurological responses.

American author Parker J. Palmer has captured nature’s constant state of transition in his booklet, “Seasons: A Center for Renewal,” in which he describes life’s “eternal cycle of seasons.” Interestingly, he doesn’t journey through the seasons in a typical calendar sense by starting with spring, but begins with autumn, the season associated with a riot of color and the abundance of harvest. He then shifts to a more melancholy tone and “a sense of impending loss that is only heightened by the beauty all around,” as he describes the colder and shorter days of late autumn, when plants and trees shed their leaves, and we smell the scent of winter in the air. Palmer writes about the paradox of autumn – even as death is coming, the conditions for spring’s rebirth are being prepared through the spreading of seeds that will bring new life: “on the surface it seemed that life was lessening, but silently and lavishly the seeds of new life were always being sown.”

When we shape our buildings to intentionally capture and help make us aware of the changing atmospheric conditions within a day or from season to season, it helps us make sense of our beginnings and our human existence. cloud patterns, and then shifting to finer elements, such as the shape of branches and the curves of clouds. Similarly, the rhythm, pattern, shape, light, and shadow of a building’s form can reflect a midrange dimensional complexity that creates a “visual sweet spot” we resonate with emotionally, as Professor Richard Taylor is exploring in his ongoing research at the University of Oregon.