The prolonged summer in Southern England has led to drought and parched landscapes. Observations of seasonal changes evoke memories of agricultural traditions and community rituals. As autumn approaches, opportunities for reflection arise amidst nature’s cycles, underscoring the importance of appreciating the passage of time and the changing seasons.
The end of a long, hot summer
Here, in Southern England, the summer has been long, hot and very dry. Apart from a thunderstorm in June and and a couple of light showers earlier this week (late August), there has been no rain for almost three months.
Five official heatwaves and more days over 35 Celsius than ever before has meant that the landscape is parched and many trees are already dropping their leaves. This is sometimes called a ‘false autumn’. England’s green and pleasant land is currently very brown.
Autumn is often viewed as the beginning of the end of the year – nature getting ready ready for winter. Migratory birds will start to (or already have) head South and squirrels will be caching their nuts. It is only a month until the equinox.
At some point, the warm weather will come to an end (although the long range weather forecast suggests periods of above average temperatures may return in September) and the rain will return.
Noticing the seasons
As a child, growing up in the 1970s in a village in the Lincolnshire fens, I was always very aware of the changes in the seasons – not just as the landscape went from black to green to gold and back again, but also because our village community, in common with thousands of others, maintained seasonal rituals that were rooted in farming practices, especially those in summer and autumn.
A field in the Lincolnshire fens. Image by Jay Hayward (Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 2.0)
There was ploughing (with lapwings and gulls following the plough), and ploughing matches – yes, farmers competed (and still do) against each other to see who can plough the straightest furrow and they have special competition ploughs to do it.
The sugar beet harvest marked winter, with the rivers of mud on the roads and the stench of the local sugar factories (even from ten miles away, if the wind was blowing the wrong way, you could smell them).
Spring brought emerging crops and, a few miles to the East, the bulb fields and the annual Tulip festival in Spalding. At that time, coach tours from all over the country would visit the Lincolnshire bulb fields, which rivalled those in the Netherlands.
Midsummer was the time of village fetes, always held in a farm yard. Late summer brought the cereal harvest (followed, in those days, by stubble fires) and then, in the autumn came my favourite – the harvest festival.
Village church. Image by Richard Croft (Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 2.0)
Even as someone who has never been remotely religious, there was always something special about seeing the mountains of fresh produce and specially-baked loaves (made to look like wheat sheaves) adorning the village church. Harvest festivals with their optimistic hymns and harvest suppers were a very obvious reminder that the food we ate came, almost miraculously, from the land around us, grown with real expertise.
I studied Agricultural Botany at university, and worked in agricultural research for several years – that certainly kept me in touch with natural cycles. Then, I changed track and entered the world of workplace design and interior landscaping. After a quarter of a century embedded in offices, the seasons were almost obliterated from day-to-day thought (apart from the odd day of snow disruption).
In fact, as an interior landscaper, putting plants into buildings makes one acutely aware that the insides of buildings don’t have seasons – it is the lack of seasonal variation that determines the types of plants that can thrive indoors – those that are adapted to near constant light and heat.
The pulse of nature is not only noticeable from the countryside. In the UK, we are very lucky that our urban areas are generally well provided with public parks and gardens, and these provide very necessary spaces for people to gain the benefits of fresh air and sunshine, as well as to appreciate nature. Indeed, many of our parks are richer in wildlife than the countryside.
The forced pauses in our routines give us time to reflect and gather our thoughts. Noticing the changes in seasons – the result of the inevitable progress of the Earth orbiting around the sun as it has done for over four billion years – has provided me with a very necessary reconnection with nature and the passage of time.
Autumn is a period of new beginnings
September sees the start of the academic year and children will be back at school after a long summer break. Students may be starting a new phase in their life as they begin their studies at university, and new graduates and school leavers may be looking for their first jobs and their passage into adulthood.
Farmers will be sowing seeds for next year’s harvest and wine makers (of which there are many in this part of the country) will begin to harvest their grapes. Retailers will be getting ready for the Christmas shopping season too.
Grapes ripening on a vine in the author’s garden
Moving indoors
It is also the time to start thinking more about our indoor environments and how to create spaces and opportunities for peace and contemplation.
It’s not yet time to light the fires and bring out the blankets, but the opportunities for getting the full benefits of nature outdoors – especially the sensory inputs facilitated by a full immersion in nature – may diminish.
As I get older, I reflect on the fact that I may have fewer than a hundred seasons left. Taking the time – and making the effort – to appreciate the fascinating ways in which nature changes (and how my body experiences it over time) becomes more precious.
I’m lucky in that I have the time (I don’t work as much as I used to) and the space to explore nature as much as I want. I intend to make the most of that good fortune.
In this post, I reflect on learning how photographs of my body – often nude and in natural settings – can help me to appreciate my body, capturing its changes over time. This process promotes self-compassion and acceptance, shifting focus from societal aesthetic standards to self-witnessing. Although not a complete solution for body image issues, it can serve as a valuable tool for personal appreciation.
Note: This post explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of naturism within biophilic environments. It contains illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
A few months ago, I wrote this post about learning to respect and appreciate our bodies as they are and what they are capable of as we journey through life. By seeing our bodies as a record of our lives rather than worry about aesthetics and idealised beauty standards, we can manage some self compassion and self acceptance.
I’ve been thinking about that more recently as I have been adding posts to this site and trying to find ways of illustrating those articles.
From mirror to lens
This has led me to taking photographs of myself, often nude and in nature. I’m not a great photographer and only use the camera on my phone, but I have been teaching myself about composition and have been trying to get better at it. I don’t use models and I’m trying not use ai-generated imagery unless I can’t create the illustrations I want without it.
This has led to a growing collection of images over the last year. They have shown fluctuations in weight, changes in the way I hold my posture (partly as a result of some pain and joint problems) and even changes in the way my skin and hair look.
Some of this is seasonal (this summer has led to quite a tan), some of it might be diet related (I’m trying to eat healthier) and some is just simply due to ageing.
It is fascinating, though, to notice the changes. They form a record that can be referred to rather than relying on a memory from looking in mirrors. It really does help me to recognise the truth that my body changes.
Self witness
In the previous post on this subject, I said that goal is to shift from the cultural habit of self-surveillance (judging the body against an ideal) to self-witnessing (accepting the body as an honest expression of life).
I still I catch myself out when I see myself in a mirror and I think to myself “that’s not a good look”. This still triggers an emotional response that makes me value myself differently. But I am now, often, a lot less susceptible to self doubt and diminished self esteem.
Looking at the pictures that I’ve taken is a very useful form of self witness. A mirror provides an instant reflection that triggers an instant response. Photographs are different – they are a moment caught in time that are looked at later, reviewed, examined, thought about. Looking at the pictures that I’ve taken is a very useful form of self witness.
Taking lots of naked selfies is not a panacea to overcoming poor body image, but it might be a useful tool. I find it a useful tool, but it might not work for everyone, especially if there is a risk of reinforcing more entrenched body image difficulties.
The body as a component of its environment
I have learned to appreciate my body more, and some of the pictures I take in nature really do show that the human body – no matter how ‘imperfect’ – is as much a part of the rich tapestry of nature as the trees and wildlife. Naturists often think of themselves about being a part of nature, not just being in (or even observing) nature. I agree.
The process of taking those pictures has also been a learning experience. The physical process of stepping into nature, setting the camera, and standing exposed to wind, light and air is itself a sensory aletheic act. Finding just the right location to capture the mood whilst avoiding unwanted elements requires some thought. Then finding somewhere to place the phone, set the timer and then position myself to make sure that I’m properly framed needs to be considered.
Thinking more about it, the act of photography acts as an unmasking tool and it is a literal unconcealment. It is a way of stripping away both physical clothing and mental filters and projections to see what is actually there.
The post discusses how ageing affects our perception of our bodies and surroundings. It highlights a study on care home design, revealing older residents prefer bold decor to counter declining sensory acuity. Additionally, the author reflects on personal sensory experiences and suggests creating enriched, natural spaces for older individuals to enhance their well-being.
Note: This post explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of naturism within biophilic environments. It contains illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
In a recent post on the truth about bodies, I wrote about how, as our bodies continue to support us as we age, we can appreciate them more honestly and truthfully. We accept that although we might not perceive ourselves to be as attractive as we were in our youth, we can wear the signs of ageing as a visible record of the remarkable abilities of a collection of ever changing cells, tissues and organs to keep us alive.
Many changes that come with older age happen relatively quickly, or at least noticeably. We become more susceptible to the effects of injury, recovery may take longer than when we were younger, aches and pains feel more severe and our movements become slower.
Gradual decline – we rarely notice it
However, the decline in our sensory acuity is much more gradual, and often isn’t noticeable until the decline reaches a point when you realise that world seems different.
About 20 years ago, I was involved in some research that included a re-design of the interior of a care home for older adults. The aim of the project was to see whether giving the residents the final say in the design of the communal areas, more people would use them, instead of retreating into their own private spaces.
The project, which was part of a wider academic study into identity realization carried out by the University of Exeter, was very simple. The residents were asked to choose a selection of plants, planters and art that would decorate the communal lounge. There would be no changes to wall colours, carpets or furnishings – these were typical of many care homes and featured a lot of chintz, muted tones and floral patterns.
The choice of plants, planters and art was pretty diverse, ranging from popular houseplants through to more exotic and ‘architectural’ specimens. The planters came in a wide range of colours and shapes and the art included botanical prints, nature scenes, local landmarks and a selection of more abstract subjects.
The final selections came as a surprise to the researchers. We had all expected the residents to choose items that would fit in with the existing decor and ‘play it safe’.
They didn’t.
Care home dining room with abstract art, bold plants and colourful planters
The plants had bold, architectural foliage and were planted in bright, colourful planters in contemporary geometric shapes. The artwork was heavily biased towards abstract patterns. Even the botanical subjects were composed in a bold style.
What was going on?
Simply put, the residents wanted something that stood out against the background. Colour vision and acuity diminish with age, and the conventional care home style – which looked fine to the young interior designers, even if a little cliched – was just a sea of beige swirls and dull shapes. Bright colours and bold shapes made the space more interesting and, also, their own.
After thinking about this for a while, it all made sense. As a youngster, I used to visit my grandparents and was always a little shocked by how they had set up the pictures on their televisions – the colour balance always looked terrible to my young eyes, but for them, this was just a way of overcoming the natural ageing of the cornea.
It’s not just vision that changes as we age. Our senses of smell, taste and hearing change as well.
I am 60 years old and I have noticed that things have changed. Sometimes, it is as a result of my young adult children hearing things that I can’t or detecting smells at much lower concentrations. The differences aren’t huge – yet – but I am sure that the gaps in our sensory acuity will widen over time.
A deliberate effort to notice
I also make a conscious effort to notice the sensory stimuli that I experience and get a great deal of pleasure in that. I like to spend time in enriched environments and, as a naturist, my whole body experiences sensory stimuli. I am able to interpret what is going on effortlessly as those sensory stimuli enable me to build a coherent mental picture of the space that I am in.
Interestingly, the largest demographic group amongst naturists is the over-50s. Is this because we have more time on our hands, or grew up in a more permissive society? Some of us have reached a stage in our lives where it matters less what other people might think of us than it used to. After all, we become a lot more aware of our mortality as we age, so we might want to pack in as many new experiences as we can before it becomes too difficult.
Or is it because nudity just helps us to feel more alive and connected to our environment?
The Aletheic overlay
An aletheic environment is one where we can shed artifice and the social armour that society deems to be normal and proper. They are spaces where we can discover more about the truth of our own experiences and our surroundings.
We can’t always be in nature. Sometimes, the weather is against us (at the time of writing, we are in yet another heatwave in Southern England). Sometimes, we have to travel to get to a natural space. In those cases, we have to use our domestic spaces.
So how can we create an aletheic space that is especially suitable for older people?
Biophilic design is one crucial element – the connections with nature and the coherent sensory environment facilitate an unencumbered experience when we can really notice how we feel.
Biophilic design is, however, often quite ‘gentle’ as a design aesthetic, so the sensory elements need to be amplified. So, as well as considering the classic patterns of biophilic design – discussed many times on this web site – think about:
Choosing a colour palette that includes greater contrast
Use bolder patterns, stronger outlines and shapes that don’t blend in to the background too much
Plants could be more ‘architectural’ in style. Plants with large leaves and well-defined shapes will stand out against its backdrop
Textures – especially on the floor – could be more varied and interesting
Scents and sounds may need to be strengthened and made slightly less subtle
All of these are possible whilst maintaining a naturalistic, biophilic feel – they just need the designer to think beyond their preconceptions about ageing.
My previous posts on Radical comfort, meditation and even home working give some useful design tips on creating an aletheic environment in the home. I have also written about how to make the garden an aletheic space and how to use water as a sensory experience as well as for hygiene. All of these articles will provide some inspiration. For older people, it may be a case of amplifying the sensory elements, or maybe just experiencing environments differently.
Need some advice on creating an aletheic environment?
In this post, I reflect on my frequent visits to nearby woodlands, particularly from spring to summer. I have made the effort to intentionally noticethe way the woodland changes with the seasons, as well as how I experience it. The unseasonal heatwave intensifies the sensory experience of the forest. The practice of forest bathing enhances my appreciation of nature, highlighting humanity’s connection to the environment.
Note: This post explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of nudity and naturism within natural environments. It contains illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
There are some nice woodlands close to where I live. I visit them several times a week – especially in the spring and summer – for walks and to engage in forest bathing. I have been to this patch of woodland several times since the middle of April this year and have made the effort to notice the transition from spring to summer.
There was a profusion of bluebells on the woodland floor in the spring…
… then the gradual growth of foliage in the shrub layer followed by the development of a dense canopy in early summer.
Over the last two or three weeks, the sounds of birdsong have been more intense and noticeable. Rabbits and squirrels are more common, molehills are appearing and woodland species of butterflies are making an appearance. Yesterday, I saw a woodpecker.
I noticed some other things too.
At the time of writing (24 June, 2026), here in Southern England, we are experiencing an unseasonal heatwave with record-breaking temperatures being predicted. In the early hours of yesterday morning, there were intense thunderstorms and heavy downpours. The woodland floor was damp and the air was still and humid.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. They were so much more intense than normal. Sweet floral notes and earthy, mossy, fungal vegetal odours combined in ways that were surprising.
The way my skin felt was very different. The warm, still, humid air felt as if it was enveloping me. Just about every one of my senses was awakened and seemed more sensitive.
The contrast between yesterday and three days before was remarkable.
That contrast in experience may be because I have been making an effort to notice my environment more – something that is an essential component of the practice of forest bathing. It is almost certainly amplified by being able to experience a totally immersive sensory experience by being naked. I am sure that the changes in the way the air felt wouldn’t have been as obvious were my skin to be covered.
Aletheia is all about experiencing the truth of the environment and our unconcealed place in it. This purposeful noticing of the environment, rather than the passive acceptance of our place in it really makes a difference to my appreciation of nature, our vulnerability in its majesty, but also the way that nature changes over time.
I am not a religious person, and I have written before about my humanist outlook. However, immersion in natural places explains why so many religions are rooted in respect and worship of nature – human survival is deeply entwined with the survival of our natural environment.
This post discusses the psychological benefits of naturism in biophilic garden environments, highlighting the importance of year-round usability. It emphasises using structural planting and shelter to combat wind and enhance comfort in cooler months. Aletheic gardens promote genuine sensory connections between the body and nature, inviting more immersive outdoor experiences.
Note: This post explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of naturism within biophilic environments. It contains illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
Making it usable across more of the year
The single most common limitation of the private garden as an aletheic space is not being overlooked, or lack of planting, or poor design – it is the assumption that it is only usable in warm weather. Where I live, in Southern England, this effectively restricts use of the garden to three or four months of the year in many people’s minds, and to perhaps five or six in practice. The remaining half of the year, the space lies largely unused. It is observed from inside, but rarely inhabited.
This is a significant missed opportunity. As I explored in the spring post earlier this year, cold air on bare skin is not simply an obstacle to outdoor experience – it is itself a rich form of sensory experience that warmer conditions cannot replicate. The physiological contrast between cold outdoor air and warm interior space can be genuinely restorative.
Thermal and airflow variability – subtle, natural shifts in temperature and air movement – can be useful elements of biophilic design, precisely because our nervous systems respond to these shifts with increased alertness and a heightened sense of presence.
Cold is not the enemy, but a cold wind might be
The practical challenge is not to make the garden warm – that is largely impossible and probably undesirable – but to make it sheltered, usable, and inviting across a wider range of conditions than a fully exposed space allows.
Wind is the primary enemy of year-round garden use, and it is more easy to dal with than temperature. A south-facing garden space that is well-sheltered from the prevailing south-westerly wind will feel dramatically warmer and more comfortable than an identical space that is exposed to it.
Structural planting on the windward side – dense, layered, and tall enough to deflect and diffuse, rather than simply block the wind – is more effective than a solid fence or wall, which can create turbulence on the leeward side rather than calm.
Evergreen species, such as yew, holly, several conifers, and even plants like hardy Cordylines or Phormiums can perform well as windbreak planting in Southern England, combining density with year-round foliage. Bamboo can be useful too, as long as you can tame it and avoid invasive varieties.
A wooden gazebo adorned with climbing flowers serves as a peaceful retreat in this beautifully landscaped garden.
Overhead shelter is the other key intervention. A well-designed pergola or canopy structure over the primary seating or standing area of the garden transforms the usability of the space in rain and in cold – not by excluding the weather, but by providing the psychological and physical security of a roof without the enclosure of four walls. Under a gazebo, you are still in the garden, still exposed to air movement and ambient sound and the smell of rain on soil. You are simply not getting as wet, and the difference in how long you are prepared to remain outside is considerable.
Thermal mass – the ability of a material to absorb heat during the day and release it slowly through the evening – is worth considering in surface and wall choices. A south-facing stone or brick wall absorbs substantial heat on a clear day and radiates it back through the late afternoon and evening, creating a microclimate that can be several degrees warmer than the open garden. Seating areas positioned close to such walls, or surfaces of stone or dark-coloured porcelain that warm quickly in winter sun, extend the comfortable use of the garden significantly into the shoulder seasons.
We can also learn something from the Scandinavian approach to outdoor living. There are many accounts about how northern Europeans maintain engagement with outdoor space during the winter through a combination of shelter design, appropriate clothing, and cultural expectation – a willingness to be outside in conditions that would keep most British people indoors.
A garden that has been genuinely designed for year-round use invites a different relationship with outdoor time than one that has not. Shelter, thermal comfort, and all-season planting that offers interest in February as well as July all contribute to adding to the usability of the space.
Small gardens, big potential
Before addressing maintenance, it is worth pausing on something that might have made parts of this post feel aspirational rather than practical. References to tree canopies, gazebos, windbreak planting, and transitional spaces can suggest a scale of garden that many don’t have – I don’t (but would like to). The reality is that the majority of domestic gardens are small – often quite small – and the aletheic principles discussed here need to work within that constraint if they are to be useful at all. They need to work in courtyard gardens and even balconies as well.
The good news is that they do, and in some respects a small garden is better suited to aletheic design than a large one.
Enclosure and privacy – the foundational requirement – is considerably easier to achieve in a small space. A garden of thirty or forty square metres can be effectively screened with a modest investment in climbing plants on existing boundaries, a couple of well-chosen structural shrubs, and perhaps a simple trellis extension to an existing fence. The same result in a large garden might require years of planting establishment, significant structural work – and a lot of expenditure.
Intimacy, which is central to the aletheic experience, is a natural property of small spaces rather than something that needs to be designed in. A small, well-planted garden can feel genuinely enveloping – a quality that larger gardens often struggle to achieve and that landscape designers frequently spend considerable effort trying to create through division and enclosure. The Japanese tsubo-niwa tradition, in which tiny courtyard gardens of just a few square metres are designed as complete, immersive sensory environments, demonstrates that scale is no barrier to depth of experience.
Scent, in particular, works powerfully in small spaces. The concentration of fragrance in an enclosed area of modest dimensions can be extraordinary – a single well-placed Trachelospermum jasminoides (star jasmine) on a warm wall, or a pot of Nicotiana near a seating area, can fill a small garden with scent on a still evening in a way that would be lost in a larger, more open space.
Nicotiana flowers. Photo by Leon Huang on Pexels.com
Water features scale down well too. A small millstone or bowl fountain requires very little floor space, uses minimal water, and produces the non-rhythmic sound that is one of the most reliably restorative elements of any outdoor space. In a small garden, the sound of moving water is audible from every corner – an advantage that diminishes as the space grows.
The main challenge in a small garden is not aletheic at all – it is practical. Space on the ground is limited, and every design decision has an opportunity cost. A seating area takes space that might otherwise be planted. A water feature takes space that might be used for movement or exercise. These are genuine trade-offs, and they require honest prioritisation. The starting question should be: what do I most want to do in this space, and what does it need to feel like in order for that to be possible? The answers to those two questions will resolve most of the subsequent decisions.
A small garden that is well-enclosed, thoughtfully planted for scent and texture, acoustically considered, and oriented to make the most of available light is not a compromise version of an aletheic garden. It is simply an aletheic garden at a scale that most of us actually live with.
A note on maintenance and honesty
There is a tension at the heart of garden design that is worth naming directly, because it has a bearing on the aletheic ambition.
A garden that is constantly managed – clipped, staked, deadheaded, and presented in a state of controlled perfection – is not, in the deepest sense, an honest garden. It is an attempt at taming nature rather than nature itself. This is not to say that maintenance is wrong, or that a well-kept garden cannot be beautiful and restorative, or that it cannot make use of non-native species. It clearly can. But there is a difference between a garden that is cared for and one that is curated to the point of artificiality, and that difference has aletheic implications.
Aletheia is, at its core, about the removal of concealment – about allowing oneself and our environment to be seen as they actually are, rather than as we might prefer them to appear.
A garden designed on aletheic principles might, ideally, reflect the same honesty.
This means choosing plants that are genuinely suited to the conditions rather than ones that require constant intervention to survive. It means allowing some degree of natural process – self-seeding, seasonal dieback, the occasional plant that does something unexpected – rather than maintaining absolute control over every element.
It means designing for low maintenance – not as a compromise but as a philosophical position. A garden that largely looks after itself is one that is being honest about what plants actually do when left to their own devices.
Naturalistic planting design, as developed and popularised by designers such as Piet Oudolf and Nigel Dunnett, aligns well with this principle. The emphasis on plant communities rather than individual specimens, on seasonal change rather than year-round perfection, and on the structural beauty of seedheads and winter stems rather than the removal of anything that is not in flower, produces gardens that are both lower in maintenance and more honest in their relationship to natural process. They also, incidentally, tend to be significantly better for biodiversity – which is its own form of aletheic truth about the garden’s place in a wider ecology.
This does not mean a garden that is neglected or chaotic. It means one in which the level of intervention is tuned to what is necessary rather than what convention or social expectation demands.
A lawn that is allowed to grow a little longer, a border edge that is not clipped to a perfect line, a climbing rose that is allowed to sprawl a little beyond its allotted space are not failures of maintenance. They are an honest reflection of what a living garden really is.
Gardening naked
An aletheic garden is one that you can experience naked as part of a process of truth seeking and revelation about yourself and your place in the environment.
It is also a place where you can interact much more intensely with garden by gardening naked.
This post coincides with World Naked Gardening Day in the Northern hemisphere. In 2026, this is the 2nd of May.
Since 2005,the first Saturday in May has been designated World Naked Gardening Day – an event that began as a gentle, good-humoured invitation to do something ordinary in an unconventional way, and which has grown into a genuinely international occasion with participants in dozens of countries. In the Southern Hemisphere, it is often celebrated on the last Saturday of October.
The premise is straightforward: go into your garden, take off your clothes, and do some gardening.
The tone has always been inclusive, body-positive, and deliberately undramatic about the whole thing.
It is not a protest, not a political statement, and emphatically not an excuse for exhibitionism. It is, at its core, an invitation to notice what happens when you remove the layer of clothing that separates you from the environment you are working in.
Which is, when you think about it, a rather aletheic proposition.
Gardening is already one of the more physically engaged relationships most people have with the natural world. It involves kneeling on soil, handling living plants, feeling the difference between dry and damp earth, being rained on, getting cold, getting warm, and generally being present in an environment that responds to what you do in it. It is one of the few activities in modern life that is genuinely multisensory in a natural rather than a designed way.
Research by the University of Bristol and University College London, published in the journal Neuroscience, identified that contact with soil bacteria – specifically Mycobacterium vaccae – stimulates serotonin production, which may partly explain the well-documented mood benefits of gardening. You don’t need to be a soil scientist to recognise the effect. Most gardeners know instinctively that getting their hands dirty makes them feel better.
Removing clothing for this activity does not change what gardening is, but it changes the quality of experience considerably. The sun on your back while weeding. The feeling of warm soil between your fingers without the barrier of gloves. The sensation of a light breeze across your shoulders when you straighten up. Grass under bare feet rather than through the soles of boots. These are not trivial additions to the experience — they are the difference between observing the garden and being genuinely immersed in it.
From an aletheic perspective, nude gardening is simply gardening with the volume turned up: the same activity, the same space, the same plants, but with the sensory filters removed.
There is also something worth saying about the practical reality of nude gardening that tends to get lost in the more philosophical treatment of naturism. It is, frankly, rather enjoyable. There is a lightness to working outside without clothing on a warm morning that is difficult to describe to someone who hasn’t tried it. There is a feeling of freedom and ease that has nothing to do with ideology and everything to do with the simple pleasure of being comfortable in your own skin, in your own space and doing something you enjoy.
The fact that it also happens to engage your largest sense organ more fully, support a genuine connection with the natural environment, and align with a coherent philosophical framework about truth and unconcealment is almost incidental. Sometimes things are good because they feel good, and the evidence is almost irrelevant.
World Naked Gardening Day is a useful occasion precisely because it offers a low-stakes, socially sanctioned moment to try something that many people are curious about but would not otherwise initiate. The knowledge that thousands of other people are doing the same thing on the same day – in their own private gardens, on their own terms, without any requirement to be seen or to perform – removes some of the psychological friction that might otherwise make the idea feel daunting. It is, in this sense, a small collective aletheic experience. It is a day when a lot of people quietly decide to be a little more honest about their relationship with their bodies and their gardens.
If you have a garden that offers reasonable privacy, a warm enough morning, and a willingness to try something slightly outside your usual routine, the first Saturday in May is as good a reason as any to give it a go.
The worst that is likely to happen is that you get a little cold and retreat inside for a cup of tea. The best is that you discover a quality of connection with your garden – and with yourself in it – that you hadn’t previously found available to you.
Finally, if you don’t have access to an outdoor space, there’s nothing wrong with some naked indoor gardening as well.
How I can help
Creating an aletheic garden – one that is genuinely private, sensory rich, usable across the year, and honest in its relationship to the natural world – requires a different set of questions from those that most garden design begins with. It starts not with what the garden should look like, but with what it should feel like, and what it should make possible.
My background in horticulture and plant science, combined with my work in biophilic design and interior landscaping, means I can help at whatever level is most useful – whether that is advice on structural planting for privacy and enclosure, a planting specification designed for sensory richness across the seasons, or a broader conversation about how the principles explored in this post might apply to a specific space.
If you are thinking about your garden differently after reading this, I would be glad to hear from you.
In this post, I examine the sensory dimensions of aletheic garden design, advocating for an holistic approach that engages sight, touch, scent, sound, and light. I discuss the psychological benefits of nudity and naturism in natural settings, emphasising the importance of creating immersive environments that foster emotional connections and wellbeing through careful design considerations.
Note: This post explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of nudity and naturism within biophilic environments. It contains illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
Designing a garden for all of the senses
Most garden design is, at its core, visual. We talk about colour schemes, structural planting, focal points, and seasonal interest – all of which are perceived primarily through the eyes. This is understandable. Vision is our primary sense, and a garden that looks good is easy to understand and relate to. It is also easy to sell, photograph, and describe.
But an aletheic garden is designed for the whole body, and that requires thinking about all of our the senses – maybe in a different order of priority.
The skin is in constant conversation with the garden environment in a way that the eyes are not. As our largest sense organ, it registers air temperature and humidity, the movement of a breeze, the warmth of a surface that has been sitting in the sun, the coolness of shade, the texture of a path underfoot, the brush of foliage against an arm or leg. These inputs arrive continuously and often below the level of conscious awareness. They accumulate into what we experience as comfort (or discomfort) or that particular quality of ease that a good outdoor space can produce. That might be difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it.
When the body is unclothed, this conversation becomes significantly richer.
Planting for touch and feel
Research by Chevalier et al. (2012), published in the Journal of Environmental and Public Health, found measurable physiological effects – including reduced cortisol and improved sleep markers – from direct skin contact with the ground, a practice the researchers termed earthing or grounding. The proposed mechanism involves the transfer of electrons from the earth’s surface through the skin. This research remains an area of active investigation and is not fully developed, so the findings should be treated with some caution.
What is harder to dispute is the lived experience itself: bare feet on grass, warm stone, or cool earth seem to draw us into a quality of presence and attention that is simply lost when we put our shoes back on.
Designing for the skin means thinking carefully about surfaces – not just their appearance, but their thermal properties, their texture, and the way they change across the day and the season. A stone terrace that feels cold and unwelcoming at nine in the morning can be the most pleasurable surface in the garden by mid-afternoon. Gravel paths offer a different quality of feedback underfoot than close-mown grass or bark mulch. Wooden decking warms quickly and retains heat well. Each of these is a design choice with sensory consequences that go well beyond the visual.
Foliage texture matters too. A garden that offers only smooth, waxy leaves misses the opportunity to engage touch more actively. The softness of Stachys byzantina (lamb’s ears), the papery roughness of ornamental grasses, the surprising smoothness of a large Hosta leaf, the gentle resistance of rosemary pushed through the fingers – these are tactile experiences that reward a garden designed with physical engagement in mind.
Planting for scent
If texture is the sense that garden design most consistently neglects, scent is the one it most consistently underestimates. We include fragrant plants because they are pleasant. Think of a wisteria over a doorway, a lavender path edge, sweet peas climbing a bamboo cane structure or a rose on a sunny wall. However, we rarely think systematically about scent as a design medium in its own right, with its own logic of placement, timing, and intensity.
Scent deserves more serious attention than this, for a straightforward biological reason: of all our senses, our sense of smell has the most direct pathway to the limbic system – the part of the brain responsible for emotion and memory. It is probably the sense that evolved first in living organisms as a way of reacting to the presence of chemicals in a primordial environment.
An odour can trigger an emotional response, or retrieve a memory, faster and more completely than any visual stimulus. Sometimes, you can react to a smell before you are even consciously aware that it is there. This is not incidental to the aletheic garden – it is central to it. A space that engages the olfactory sense is a space that reaches parts of the nervous system that sight and sound cannot easily access.
The research supports this. A comprehensive literature review by Hedigan et al , in Complementary Therapies in Clinical Practice, (2023) demonstrated that exposure to a wide variety of essential oils could have beneficial effects on stress and anxiety. More broadly, the well-established research on phytoncides – the volatile organic compounds emitted by trees and plants, particularly conifers – shows that simply breathing forest air has measurable immune benefits. Li et al. (2009), in the International Journal of Immunopathology and Pharmacology, found significant increases in natural killer cell activity following exposure to phytoncide-rich forest environments. Qing Li’s subsequent book Shinrin-Yoku: The Art and Science of Forest Bathing (2018) brings this research together in an accessible form and makes a compelling case for the health benefits of plant-scented air that goes well beyond simple pleasure.
For the garden designer, the practical implications are significant. Scent is not evenly distributed – it pools in still air, concentrates in enclosed spaces, and travels on warm breezes. It is affected by changes in air pressure and humidity, and even the time of day – some plants release odours to attract pollinators that may only be active at particular times of the day.
An enclosed garden, particularly one with a south-facing aspect that warms quickly on a spring or summer morning, will concentrate scent in a way that an open, exposed garden cannot. This is another reason why enclosure is foundational: it creates the conditions in which scent can accumulate and become genuinely immersive rather than merely incidental.
Planting for scent across the season requires some deliberate planning. In early spring, Sarcococca (sweet box) and Daphne offer intense, sweet fragrance at a time when little else is contributing. Through late spring and summer, roses, Philadelphus, jasmine, and lavender carry the main weight. Into autumn, the sweet, slightly smoky scent of fallen leaves.
Damp soil is itself worth designing for – a cleared path through a planted area after rain can be as olfactorily rich as any flowering plant.
And don’t forget petrichor – that characteristic smell from the ground that appears after a rain shower, especially in summer, released by Streptomyces bacteria living in the soil.
A patch of wet soil after a rain shower
A note on placement: the most reliable way to ensure a scented plant is noticed is to put it where people will brush against it, sit close to it, or pass through it. A lavender path edge that catches the leg as you walk past is worth more, in olfactory terms, than a beautifully fragrant rose on the other side of the garden.
Sound and the acoustic garden
We rarely think of a garden as having an acoustic design, but every garden has one – it is simply a question of whether it has been considered or not. An undesigned acoustic garden is often dominated by the sounds we most want to escape: traffic, neighbours, machinery, the low background hum of urban life. A well-designed one replaces or masks these with something more restorative.
The aletheic garden should be designed to maximise these sounds and minimise the intrusive ones.
Sounds of water
Water is the most versatile acoustic tool available to the garden designer. Moving water – a simple rill, a small cascade, a millstone fountain – produces a non-rhythmic, variable sound that engages the nervous system without demanding conscious attention. The Terrapin Bright Green report on biophilic design patterns identifies this quality of non-rhythmic sensory stimuli as one of the most reliably restorative elements in any designed environment, natural or constructed.
A water feature does not need to be large or expensive to be effective. What matters is that the water moves, and that the sound it produces is audible from the areas of the garden where you most want to rest or spend time.
The rustle of leaves in a breeze
Planting also contributes significantly to the acoustic environment.
Ornamental grasses, such as Miscanthus, Calamagrostis and Stipa, produce a dry, whispering sound in even a light breeze that is immediately evocative of open grassland and remarkably effective at masking harder urban sounds.
Bamboo, used carefully and with its invasive tendencies properly managed, produces a more percussive, hollow sound that can feel distinctly immersive.
Deciduous trees with large, loose canopies create a shifting, layered rustling that changes in quality with the wind and the season.
Birdsong is perhaps the most desirable acoustic element of all, and the most difficult to design for directly – you cannot instruct a blackbird where to sing. What you can do is create the conditions that attract birds. consider berry-bearing shrubs, trees for nesting and roosting, a reliable water source, and an absence of disturbance. A garden that supports bird life will, in time, reward that investment with an acoustic richness that no water feature or wind-responsive planting can fully replicate.
Don’t forget insect life either. The sounds of buzzing bees as they gather nectar or the chirp of grasshoppers all add to the acoustic palette. If you are lucky, and have a pond, you might also hear the occasional croak of a frog.
Light, shadow, and the time of day
A garden is not a static object. It is a time-based experience, and perhaps the most significant dimension along which it changes – more than season, more than weather – is the quality of light across the hours of the day.
Many gardens are designed for a notional peak moment, for instance, a sunny afternoon in midsummer. This is understandable, but it misses most of what a garden can actually offer. The light of a March morning, low and directional, casting long shadows across a frosty lawn, is a completely different sensory experience from the flat, generous light of a July midday. The golden hour before sunset in September – warm and deeply flattering to every surface it touches – is different again. An aletheic garden should be designed to be used across these different qualities of light, not just in the one moment when it looks its best.
The science behind our response to light quality is relevant here. As I explored in an earlier post on light and health, the spectral quality of natural light shifts continuously across the day – bluer and more stimulating when the sun is high, warmer and more red-shifted at the beginning and end of the day. These shifts are not merely aesthetic; they regulate circadian rhythms, influence cortisol and melatonin production, and have measurable effects on mood and alertness.
Roger Ulrich’s foundational 1984 study in Science, which found that hospital patients with views of nature recovered faster than those facing a wall, was among the first to suggest that the quality of our visual environment has direct physiological consequences – a finding that has been substantially extended and refined in the decades since.
For the aletheic garden, this suggests that orientation matters enormously. A space designed for early morning use – for the particular quality of stillness and low light that makes a garden feel private and uncrowded regardless of what lies beyond its boundaries – needs a different aspect from one designed for evening relaxation. East-facing spaces catch the morning sun and fall into gentle shade by early afternoon. South-west facing areas hold the evening light longest. Understanding how the sun moves through your specific space across the day, and across the season, is the foundation of designing for light rather than merely accepting it.
Shadow is the other half of this, and it is undervalued in garden design to roughly the same degree that light is overvalued. Dappled shade – the shifting, variable shadow cast by a tree canopy moving in a light breeze – is one of the most consistently restorative visual experiences the garden can offer. It is non-rhythmic, endlessly variable, and engages the visual system in a way that neither full sun nor deep shade can match.
Kaplan and Kaplan’s Attention Restoration Theory identifies exactly this quality of soft fascination – stimuli that engage attention gently and without demand – as the mechanism by which natural environments allow the directed attention system to recover from fatigue.
A patch of dappled shade on a warm afternoon is, in this sense, not a luxury but a neurological resource.
Practically, dappled shade is created by canopy – trees with open, airy crowns rather than dense, solid ones. Birch and willow species are particularly good for this: their small leaves and open habit create a fine, moving shade that is qualitatively different from the heavier shade of a sycamore or a horse chestnut. Acacia and false acacia (Robinia pseudoacacia ‘Frisia’), multi-stemmed Amelanchier, and the lighter Sorbus species all perform well in this role in gardens.
The goal is not to reduce light but to animate it – to turn a static, uniform brightness into something variable, alive, and endlessly interesting to be beneath.
The transition between inside and out
The threshold between interior and garden is one of the most consequential design decisions in the whole project of creating an aletheic space, and it is one that receives surprisingly little deliberate attention in most domestic design. We think about the garden, and we think about the interior, but the moment of passing between them – the quality of that transition – is usually an afterthought.
It matters because transition is itself an aletheic act. Moving from the enclosed, controlled, artificial environment of the interior into the open, variable, living environment of the garden is a shift in sensory register that the body notices immediately. The air changes. The light changes. The acoustic environment changes. If that transition is abrupt – a single step from a heated room through a narrow door into the open – the body experiences it as a mild shock, pleasant or unpleasant depending on the conditions, but in either case not fully prepared for what it is entering.
A designed transition slows this shift and makes it intentional. It might be a conservatory or garden room that sits between the two – a space that is enclosed but plant-filled, warmer than the garden but more connected to it than the main interior, where the body can begin to adjust its expectations before full exposure. It might be a pergola immediately outside the main exit point, providing overhead shelter that allows the garden to be entered gradually – protected from rain or direct sun, but open to air movement, sound, and the view of the planting beyond. It might simply be a wider, more generous doorway with a deeper threshold – a step or two of transitional material between the interior floor and the garden surface.
The indoor-outdoor transition also has implications for the aletheic practice of moving between clothing and unclothed states. A space that requires a long walk through the interior to reach a private outdoor area will be used less frequently and with less ease than one where the transition is short, direct, and contained. Practically, this might mean locating a changing area, a hook for a robe, or simply a place to leave shoes close to the point of exit – small provisions that reduce the friction between the interior and the garden and make the transition feel natural rather than deliberate.
A narrow veranda or transitional space that runs along the edge of a house, neither fully inside nor fully outside – captures something of what this transition can be at its best. It is a space of pause, of adjustment, of being simultaneously sheltered and exposed. It is not common in most British domestic architecture (but maybe it could be), but the principle it embodies – that the boundary between interior and exterior is worth dwelling in, not rushing through – is certainly worth exploring.
Coming up in part 3
The next post covers overcoming challenges of the space and making the garden usable year-round. I also discuss World Naked Gardening Day, which in the northern Hemisphere is the first Saturday in May.
In this series of posts I explore what distinguishes an aletheic garden from a conventionally biophilic one, and offer a practical framework for designing outdoor spaces that go beyond aesthetics to foster genuine, unmediated connection with the natural world – and with ourselves. Part 1 covers the principles and some of the factors to consider when planning an aletheic garden.
Note: This post also explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of nudity and naturism within biophilic environments. It contains an illustration depicting nudity and the human form.
A garden is already halfway there
Of all the spaces we might adapt for an aletheic experience, the garden is probably the most obvious. It is already outside. It is already, to varying degrees, alive. It is the one space in most people’s lives where the boundary between the human and the natural world is at its most permeable – where weather arrives uninvited, where things grow and die according to their own schedule, and where all of the senses are engaged by stimuli that no designer fully controls.
Most gardens are designed to be looked at, or to be a place to relax on a summer’s day – which is fine. They are planned for summer afternoons rather than year-round use. They are often overlooked, exposed, and implicitly public – spaces for display rather than retreat. However, they have the potential to be genuinely restorative, aletheic spaces.
The aletheic garden begins from a different premise. It is designed not to impress, but to reveal. Its purpose is to create the conditions under which a genuine, unfiltered connection between human and the environment becomes possible and, for those who want it, to make that connection as complete and unmediated as the natural world itself.
What makes a garden aletheic rather than just biophilic?
Biophilic design is typically concerned with bringing nature into the built environment. Plants, water, natural materials, views of greenery and a host of other nature-inspired elements are brought together. It works, and the evidence for its benefits to wellbeing is now substantial. A garden designed along biophilic principles is likely to be a more pleasant, more restorative space than one that ignores those principles entirely.
But an aletheic garden asks something more. Where biophilic design tends to work through the visual sense – through what the occupant can see of nature – aletheia works through the whole body. It is concerned not with the appearance of naturalness but with the truth of it.
The distinction is not merely philosophical.
A garden with well-chosen planting, a water feature, and some attractive natural materials is biophilic. A garden in which you feel genuinely exposed to the air and the light and the sound of the environment around you – one in which the barriers between your body and the natural world have been reduced to the point where you stop observing nature and start participating in it – that is aletheic.
For many people, that participation is most complete when the body itself is uncovered.
The skin, as I have written elsewhere on this site, is our largest sense organ. Clothing – however necessary in most contexts – acts as a permanent filter between the body and the environment. A garden designed with genuine privacy, and which allows for a sense of security, makes it possible to remove that filter entirely. The result is a completely different quality of sensory experience.
Privacy and enclosure: essential to facilitate total immersion and unconcealedness
None of what follows is possible without this. A garden that cannot be used with confidence – where you are conscious of neighbouring windows, of passers-by, of the possibility of being observed or interrupted – might never become a genuinely restorative space, regardless of how well it is planted or designed. The psychological precondition for aletheic experience is a sense of safety, and in a garden, safety begins with enclosure.
This is not a modern insight. Jay Appleton’s prospect and refuge theory, first set out in The Experience of Landscape (1975), proposed that humans have an evolved preference for environments that offer both a wide view and a sheltered retreat – the ability to see without being seen. This is included in Terrapin’s 14 patterns of biophilic design fifty years later.
We respond to enclosed, sheltered spaces with a measurable reduction in anxiety, because such spaces satisfied a fundamental survival need for our ancestors on the open savannah. The walled garden, the woodland clearing, the hedged enclosure – these are not merely aesthetic preferences. They are responses to deep biological programming.
In practice, this does not require high walls or solid fencing, though these have their place. Some of the most effective privacy is achieved through camouflage and permeable screening. It is effectively achieved in a garden by planting. This might include dense structural shrubs, tall grasses, climbing plants on open framework structures, or a carefully positioned tree canopy. The advantage of planted enclosure over hard boundaries is permeability: light still enters, breezes still move through the space, sound is softened rather than blocked, and the enclosure itself becomes part of the sensory experience rather than a neutral backdrop to it.
The sightline audit
The practical starting point is a simple audit. Stand in your garden – or in the space you are designing – and identify every sightline that makes you conscious of being observed. These are the points that need addressing first, and they will shape almost every subsequent design decision.
There are a few things to consider.
If you can see a window, then someone on the other side of the glass can see you. Those windows are likely to be upstairs – ground floor windows are likely to be obscured by garden fences or walls. However, if you know your neighbourhood well, you might know when the upstairs rooms are most likely to be occupied, or not. You can’t take that for granted, though.
Distance matters. Again, if you can see them, they can see you. But if you can only see a shape, rather than detail, the same applies to the observer (unless they choose to use binoculars, in which case, the problem lies with them, not you). Your judgement needs to be about whether your body is seen or whether the fact that your choice to be unclothed becomes known.
Fabric shade sails and parasols can be effective site line blockers. They are often portable and their careful placement can obscure views whilst still allowing air to flow. They also, of course, provide welcome shade in the sun is too intense.
Know your neighbours. If you are on good terms with your neighbours, and if you think they would be sympathetic (or at least not hostile) to the idea of your creating of an aletheic garden, then a conversation may be worthwhile.
Finally, consider the seasons. Warm spells do occur in early spring (and sometimes late autumn). This means that deciduous plants may not be in leaf, thus not providing screening at these times.
What’s going to be in part 2?
Part 2 of this series explores the sensory palette and gives ideas about what to use to give a truly immersive, sensory experience in the garden.
Aletheic gardening FAQs
What is an aletheic garden?
An aletheic garden is an outdoor space designed not simply to look natural, but to create the conditions for genuine, unmediated connection between the body and the natural environment. The term draws on the Greek concept of aletheia – truth or unconcealment – and goes beyond conventional biophilic design by engaging all the senses, prioritising privacy and enclosure, and treating the body itself as part of the environment rather than a detached observer of it.
How is an aletheic garden different from a biophilic garden?
Biophilic design typically works through the visual sense – plants, natural materials, views of greenery. An aletheic garden works through the whole body. The emphasis is on what the space feels like rather than how it looks: the texture of surfaces underfoot, the movement of air on skin, the concentration of scent in an enclosed space, the sound of water or wind in grasses. Privacy and enclosure are foundational, because without psychological safety the deeper sensory experience the aletheic garden offers is not fully available.
Can aletheic garden design work in a small garden?
Yes – and in some respects a small garden is better suited to aletheic principles than a large one. Enclosure and intimacy are easier to achieve at a smaller scale, scent concentrates more powerfully in a confined space, and water features and tactile planting work just as effectively in a modest area. The key is honest prioritisation: deciding what the space most needs to feel like, and designing toward that rather than trying to accommodate everything.
What plants are best for a private, sensory garden?
For enclosure and screening, dense structural plants such as yew, holly, and evergreen viburnums are reliable year-round choices. For scent, star jasmine, lavender, sweet box (Sarcococca), and Daphne offer fragrance across different seasons. For tactile interest, ornamental grasses, lamb’s ears (Stachys byzantina), and rosemary reward physical contact. For acoustic interest, bamboo and grasses respond well to air movement, and any berry-bearing shrub will help attract the birdsong that is one of the most restorative sounds a garden can offer.
How can I make my garden more usable in cooler weather?
The most effective interventions are shelter from wind rather than attempts to raise temperature. Dense structural planting on the windward side, a pergola or overhead canopy above the main seating area, and surfaces with good thermal mass – stone or dark porcelain that absorbs heat during the day – all extend the comfortable use of the garden significantly into the shoulder seasons. A south-facing aspect makes a considerable difference, as does reducing the distance between the garden and a warm interior so that moving between the two feels natural rather than effortful.
Is naturism relevant to garden design?
For those who want it, yes – and the design implications are practical rather than purely philosophical. A garden that offers genuine enclosure and privacy makes it possible to engage with the outdoor environment without clothing, which significantly increases the quality of sensory experience available. The skin, as our largest sense organ, receives information about temperature, air movement, texture, and humidity that clothing filters out. Designing for that possibility – through thoughtful screening, a sheltered microclimate, and easy access from the interior – is a legitimate and evidence-supported design goal.
This article further explores the concepts of risk, peril, and awe within biophilic design, highlighting their psychological significance. I argue that these feelings reveal truths about our existence and relationship to nature, encouraging humility and recognition of our transience as humans. Ultimately, it suggests that experiencing awe fosters a deeper connection with the environment.
Note: This post explores the psychological and wellbeing benefits of naturism within biophilic environments. It contains illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
Experience awe for a deeper connection to nature
I have previously written about risk, peril and awe. These are regarded as patterns of biophilia that are only just being developed as elements of biophilic design.
Risk / peril is thought of as a feeling of an unidentifiable threat. The biophilic solution leads to the knowledge that a reliable safeguard exists.
Awe relates to the stimuli that defy an existing frame of reference and which leads to a change in perception.
These two patterns can be the ones that can be most revealing of themselves and of ourselves. This is the bridge between biophilia and aletheia.
The patterns of risk / peril and awe are deeply rooted in our innate psychological and biological responses.
Aletheia is all about revealing the truth about oneself and the environments we use, so when a space where truth and unconcealedness are central, the experience becomes about confronting reality directly and authentically – and almost reverentially.
Awe and reverence
I am not remotely religious or spiritual. I am a humanist and am content in my belief that we have only one life. I try to make sense of the world through logic, reason, and evidence, and always seek to treat those around me with warmth, understanding, and respect. I don’t believe that there was a divine creator – I think we are the products of nature, evolution and happenstance.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t look on the world without a sense of awe. I do. I also respect and even revere nature and I am sympathetic to the concept of Gaia as expounded by James Lovelock – not as a superorganism, but as a metaphor for a self-regulating system of living and non-living processes.
A forest canopy in Southern England. Image by the author
Nature is full of places that are jaw-droppingly astonishing and awesome in the true sense of the word. Humanity has created spaces with the specific aim of eliciting an emotional response – often religious (or at least worshipful), all the way back to the stone age.
Humanity has also created great art and music that inspires awe and reverence that can trigger profound emotional responses.
Awe is an emotion that can make one recognise vulnerability and help reveal the truth of our place in the grandness of nature and the vastness of time and space.
This is a healthy reaction. It helps us to recognise our personal vulnerability and also our need to be connected to the environment for our individual and collective survival.
As Carl Sagan reminds us, the Pale Blue Dot in space that is Earth is all that we have.
We are transient
If we are lucky, we will spend 80-odd years alive – about 0.03% of the amount of time modern humans have existed. That is not even a flicker in the 4.5 billion years that the Earth has been around.
It probably does us some good to experience awe as well as the feeling of humbleness as we reflect on our transience and in our position as just one of over eight billion humans alive today, and the countless billions who will ever have lived.
Strip away the artificial social armour of clothing and stand naked, alone in nature to get a real sense of the truth of our place in the universe.
Unhidden, unconcealed, unprotected. This is the reality of our existence – even for those of us fortunate to live comfortably.
This article discusses how incorporating non-rhythmic sensory experiences, like water sounds and flickering flames, into built environments enhances well-being, productivity, and emotional health. These unpredictable stimuli promote relaxation, reduce stress, and improve cognitive function. Implementing natural elements and dynamic technologies can create immersive experiences that foster a stronger connection to nature in indoor spaces.
The benefits of incorporating non-rhythmic sensory experiences into the built environment
Fast running water cascading over rocks. Picture by the author
Biophilic design has gained significant traction over the last decade or so as a way to support well-being, improve quality of life in built environments and even improve productivity. For some designers – especially people in my own industry of interior landscaping – this starts and finishes with plants. However, there is much more to it than just greenery.
I have written before about the need to stimulate all of our senses to be truly biophilic. One way to achieve this is by incorporating non-rhythmic sensory stimuli. These include elements such as the sound of running water, the sight of flickering flames, rustling leaves, or the sensation of a gentle breeze. Ambient scenting may also be considered a non-rhythmic sensory stimulus, although this is a much more complicated issue and worthy of a separate article.
The incorporation of non-rhythmic sensory experiences into the built environment can offer additional ways to enhance well-being, productivity, and overall quality of life by making the biophilic experience more rounded. This is one of the 14+ patterns of biophilic design recognised in the iconic report by Terrapin Bright Green (which has been recently updated in its 10th anniversary edition, and which is very much worth a read).
The science behind non-rhythmic sensory stimuli
Non-rhythmic sensory stimuli are characterized by their variability and unpredictability, which is in contrast to the often monotonous and repetitive patterns found in the artificial settings of the built environment. These stimuli are common in natural settings. Research suggests that such patterns engage our senses in a way that promotes relaxation, reduces stress and may even enhance our cognitive abilities.
One study Joye et al. (2013) suggested that non-visual sensory stimuli, such as the sound of water or wind, can significantly reduce stress and improve mood. The study found that these stimuli activate the parasympathetic nervous system, which is responsible for the body’s “rest and digest” response. It has been suggested that this could counteract the effects of chronic stress. Similarly, the visual unpredictability of natural elements, such as the movement of flames or shifting shadows as the sun shines through vegetation blowing in the breeze, might capture attention in a non-intrusive way, fostering a sense of calm.
One of the most significant benefits of non-rhythmic sensory experiences is their ability to reduce stress and anxiety. In a world dominated by structured routines and artificial environments, the introduction of natural, irregular patterns can provide some form of mental escape back to nature. For instance, the sound of running water, whether from a fountain, an indoor waterfall or even from an electronic soundscaping system has been shown to reduce stress, as measured by skin conductance (Alvarsson et al., 2010), something that could be valuable in high-stress environments such as some offices, hospitals, and schools.
Moreover, non-rhythmic stimuli can evoke positive emotional responses. The sight of dancing flames in a fireplace or the gentle movement of curtains in a breeze can create a sense of warmth, comfort, and nostalgia. These experiences tap into our evolutionary connection to nature, fostering feelings of safety and well-being. Over 30 years ago, Roger Ulrich (1993) wrote that exposure to natural elements can elicit positive emotions and reduce feelings of anger, fear, and sadness, which are often exacerbated by sterile, artificial environments.
Cognitive and productivity benefits
Incorporating non-rhythmic sensory experiences into indoor spaces can also enhance cognitive performance and productivity. Research by Kaplan and Kaplan (1989) on Attention Restoration Theory (ART) suggests that natural environments, with their innate variability, provide a restorative effect on mental fatigue. Non-rhythmic stimuli, such as the sound of a breeze or the sight of moving water, can serve as “soft fascinations” that allow the brain to recover from the demands of focused attention.
In the workplace, it has been suggested that the introduction of non-rhythmic elements might be linked to improved concentration, creativity, and problem-solving abilities. Anecdotal reports suggest that people working in environments with natural sounds, such as flowing water or bird songs, experienced higher levels of satisfaction and productivity compared to those in traditional office settings.
Similarly, the use of dynamic lighting systems that mimic the shifting patterns of natural light can help regulate circadian rhythms, improving alertness and reducing fatigue. Research carried out at the BRE and presented at the Wellness and Biophilia Symposium in 2019 showed a relationship (in some scales) between dynamic lighting and improved self-reported wellbeing.
Practical applications in the built environment
The use of non-rhythmic sensory experiences into indoor spaces is now being incorporated in some workplaces, and can be achieved through a variety of design strategies. Water features, such as indoor fountains or aquariums, can provide both auditory and visual stimulation. . Similarly, the use of natural materials, such as moss, foliage, wood and stone, can enhance tactile experiences and evoke a sense of warmth and authenticity.
An indoor water feature in an airport
In addition to these physical elements, technology can play a role in bringing non-rhythmic experiences indoors. For example, dynamic lighting systems that mimic the changing patterns of natural light can stimulate the brain not unlike being outdoors throughout the day and soundscapes that replicate natural environments, such as forests or beaches, can be used to create a calming atmosphere in offices, schools, and healthcare facilities.
Virtual reality systems that simulate natural settings can also provide immersive sensory experiences, particularly in environments where access to nature is limited. I once visited a place where there were no windows in one part of the building, so screens were set up linked to cameras mounted on the external walls so the view from outside could be brought in.
I can help you with your biophilic designs
If you are a designer or are planning some biophilic interventions in your building and would like some advice on how to incorporate non-rhythmic stimuli, please get in touch. I know lots about plants, a fair bit about water and scenting and I can put you in touch with plenty of people that are experts in some of the other patterns.
I recently attended the Biophilic Design Conference in London, where Ulysse Dormoy discussed the health impacts of modern office lighting, emphasizing the need for full-spectrum lighting in built environments. This post also explores the benefits of total immersion in better light and explains possible additional wellbeing benefits of naked forest bathing and naturism. This post includes illustrations depicting nudity and the human form.
Is modern office lighting as good as it could be?
On 17th November 2025, I was lucky enough to attend the second International Biophilic Design Conference in London.
There were several really interesting presentations about the benefits of reconnecting with nature, and one of the really interesting talks was about office lighting. It was given by Ulysse Dormoy, an expert in the subject.
Ulysse Dormoy’s presentation spoke mainly about the role of far red (FR) and near infrared (NIR) wavelengths and their impact on human health. These wavelengths are just beyond the visible spectrum, and are essential for human health. This energy penetrates soft tissue and drives the reactions that take take place in mitochondria – organelles in every living cell (plants as well as animals) that power life.
We need light for more than just vision
The modern built environment – especially office buildings – relies on highly efficient LED lighting to illuminate our spaces. Modern, energy-efficient LEDs used in offices are often optimized to peak in the blue spectrum and a narrow band of red (which is difficult to achieve in LEDs without losing efficiency). This is fine for vision.
However, LED lights used in workplaces are frequently almost devoid of the NIR and Far-red components prevalent in both sunlight and older light sources. Couple this with the treatments applied to glazing to minimize excess heat getting into buildings from sunlight, then we have a problem that might affect human health.
For humans, the absence of NIR means the loss of a key input for mitochondrial health, called photobiomodulation (PBM). This leads to impaired cellular energy management that may be linked to accelerated ageing and a reduced healthy lifespan.
The presentation highlighted the disconnect between the necessary natural light spectrum and the light provided by the modern built environment. Considering humans spend approximately 90% of their time indoors, the quality of artificial light becomes a major concern for cellular health and ageing.
Modern lighting schemes may not be as optimized for wellbeing and health as you might expect. There are two issues:
Lack of infrared light (NIR/Far-red)
Older incandescent sources naturally emitted a high proportion of Near-Infrared (NIR) and Infrared (IR) energy. Modern, highly efficient light sources, particularly LEDs, are spectrally deficient in these wavelengths. They are not needed for vision, so why expend energy producing them?
However, the absence of this infrared light is now thought to be a significant health hazard, as these wavelengths are vital for photobiomodulation (PBM) and maintaining mitochondrial function.
Loss of appropriate diurnal variation
The natural environment provides a continuous, dynamic shift in the ratio of blue to red light across a 24-hour cycle. As the sun tracks across the sky, the spectral quality of daylight changes. More red light at the ends of the day, more blue when the sun is high in the sky. The disruption of this diurnal variation in the built environment affects the body’s circadian rhythm and the corresponding cellular processes it governs.
The energy-efficient modern LEDs used in offices are often optimized to peak in the blue spectrum and a narrow band of red, while being nearly devoid of the NIR and Far-red components prevalent in both sunlight and older light sources. It is midday all day.
What does this mean?
For humans, the absence of NIR means the loss of a key input for mitochondrial PBM, leading to impaired cellular energy management that seems to be linked to accelerated ageing and reduced healthy lifespan. The core message is that human biology relies on a full-spectrum signal that is largely absent in the current built environment lighting design.
Near-Infrared (NIR) light, a key component of the Photobiomodulation (PBM) effect, must be absorbed through all accessible tissues of the body, not just the eyes, to exert its systemic effects on mitochondrial health.
The mechanism of PBM, which involves the absorption of photons by the mitochondrial enzyme Cytochrome c Oxidase (CCO), relies on light penetrating the skin and subcutaneous tissues to reach the underlying cells.
The long wavelengths of NIR (typically 700 nm to 1100 nm), are specifically beneficial because they penetrate deeper than visible light.
Unlike blue or green light, which is largely scattered or absorbed in the top few millimetres of the epidermis and dermis, NIR light can penetrate several millimetres, and in some cases, several centimetres (at high power densities) through biological tissue.
Studies indicate that for musculoskeletal treatments, more than 90% of the light energy is typically absorbed within the first 10 millimetres of soft tissue. However, depending on the wavelength (e.g., 810 nm) and power, measurable amounts of light can reach depths of several centimetres, allowing photons to interact with mitochondria in muscle, bone, and even the brain through the skull.
Recent research has suggested that long wavelengths of light, delivered to the body (e.g., the back), can also improve retinal function without direct eye exposure, implying a whole-body route for mitochondrial health benefits.
The benefits of uncovering
Unlike visible light, which is perceived by the eye, Near Infrared / Far red (NIR/FR) light affects the body through direct tissue penetration. Therefore, to maximize the systemic benefits of Near-Infrared (NIR) light on mitochondrial health, full-body exposure is beneficial, aligning perfectly with the principles of naked wellness.
By removing clothing, the maximum possible surface area of the skin is available to absorb the essential NIR and FR wavelengths from the environment (whether from natural sunlight or from spectrally complete indoor lighting systems). This maximizes the photon density reaching the underlying cells and, consequently, maximizes the activation of Cytochrome c Oxidase and the resulting boost in ATP production across the whole body.
This connection provides a compelling, evidence-based argument for integrating naturism into the design of truly restorative, biophilic, aletheic environments, turning the practice into an act of maximizing cellular health and biological efficiency.
An additional benefit of forest bathing
I’ve discussed forest bathing before, and the main impact – apart from the psychological connection with nature – seems to be related to phytoncides, the volatile chemicals emitted by plants.
However, there is another factor that may help with the wellbeing effects of the practice.
Direct sunlight is natural, unfiltered light, which is rich in red light. This is not only good for the human body, but provides the energy needed for plants to photosynthesize.
Chlorophyll – the green pigment found in plants – strongly absorbs the red wavelengths (used for photosynthesis) but transmits or reflects the Far-Red wavelengths (which are less useful for energy fixation, but good for mitochondrial health in animals, such as humans). This skews the light spectrum toward Far red in the shade of a forest canopy.
Furthermore, as far red and NIR light penetrates shade, the benefits of exposure to this light can be achieved in an environment where sunburn risks are reduced by the shade of the woodland canopy. Naked forest bathing is not only good for reconnecting with the majesty of nature, but also a very effective way to maximize the amount of beneficial far-red light absorbed by the body.
What about the built environment?
Biodynamic lighting, which incorporates more red and far-red wavelengths are available. Such systems can be programmed to mimic the diurnal cycle of light quality. They are more expensive than standard lights, but could be used in places such as wellness rooms, found in many office buildings. They could also be used in the home.
Spas and health clubs could create ‘light showers’ – spaces where the body to could be immersed in full-spectrum biodynamic lighting. Imagine a space that you could sit, stand or walk through that provides real benefits to bodily health rather than tanning booths that can be risky if used too much.
Whilst exposure to NIR won’t give you a tan, it might bring real health benefits.
