My friends used to call me a “plant murderer.” No, seriously; they started an entire mock funeral tradition for every single houseplant I was unable to look after. My roommate Tyler would play “Taps” on his phone while our friend Jessie would deliver dramatic eulogies, like “this peace lily never had a chance,” or “this fern’s bright future was cut tragically short by Amber’s deadly touch.” To be fair, at first, I found it to be pretty funny, until it reached a point where I just couldn’t anymore.
The reality is, I did everything in my power to ensure that plants survived in my care. I would binge watch YouTube videos about plant care for hours on end, install several plant-tracking apps on my phone, and even set multiple reminders on my phone for specific watering days. None of the methods worked. Apparently, impossible to kill spider plants? Succumbing to a gruesome death in three weeks. Succulents that genuinely thrive on neglect? Simultaneously overwatered and underwatered at the same time. Worst of all, I managed to kill an air plant, a LITERAL AIR PLANT, which means it needs next to nothing to survive. Overall, my apartment turned into a botanical graveyard.
The turning point came during the pandemic bears resemblance to what happened to me. Along with everyone else confined in their homes, I too had a change of heart with plants. I went ahead and bought a simple pothos online—supposedly the cockroach of the plant world in terms of survivability. While I was busy dealing with tight deadlines for work, I got an Amazon package which came with the plant inside. I’d completely forgotten that the plant was in my hallway for about three days now, thinking I had tossed it in the trash once the deadline was out of the way. Never thought it would be coming during my work binge weekend.
Seeing the little green pot made me feel completely different. For some reason the package was closed and somehow, against all my expectations, the plant managed to live till the coming of the deadline. Opening the box gave me the joy of seeing a resilient little vine ready to surge towards a sliver of light peeking through the packaging. Wondering how this happened made me tear up right there in my hallway filled with takeout containers and Amazon boxes.
I felt a little bit silly, but as I gazed at the plant, I softly said, “I promise, I’m going to keep you alive.” “I promise,” after which I named it Franklin because of its resemblance to a typical pohots.
The first time in my life, I felt nurturing for something green was when Franklin did not just survive but thrived. In a matter of months, I was proudly crowned with the “green thumb” award since he was cascading down my bookshelf like a vine. In addition to the self talking, I had started noticing other plants, when I’d rarely leave the apartment. Certainly more surprising supplemental and equally as thoughtful was rearranging my living space to interact with the plant at a eye level and getting window box lights to give him better light.
Franklins furious growth changed me, or rather complimented me.
As I unconsciously participated in Franklin’s reign of glory, I ended up witnessing new mind altering adjectives. “Biophile” via Reddit when someone had posted about biophilic architecture designs. Franklins glory was without a doubt crazy inducing aka doom scrolling worthy. With bio meaning life and philia to love, it meant someone who loves living things. Drawn from to and connected naturally to the world.
Turns out this unique blend of love had a designated title all along.
Hang on a second. Was I *actually* becoming a biophile? The same me who’s infamous for homicide against houseplants?
That night, I went down an internet rabbit hole, biophilia Wikipedia pages were open on every tab. The concept wasn’t completely new to me; biologist E.O. Wilson brought it to the forefront in the 1980s. But the notion of humans having an innate connection to other living things is far older. There seems to be this whole hypothesis that humans are genetically hardwired to need some sort of connection with Nature and other life forms. Like, they’re literally wired for connection, because for a good chunk of human existence, tuning into nature wasn’t a choice – it was a matter of survival.
The more I read, the more I felt something was clicking into place. My infatuation with Franklin wasn’t merely an achievement unlocked in the game of plant parenthood. It was about reconceiving something deeply fundamental to my being that I overlooked. And this is frankly a bizarre notion, or thought —maybe all my previous plants dying was my lack of actually engaging with them as living organisms. Instead, I had reduced them to decorative objects that required mechanical upkeep.
That epiphany profoundly altered my methods. I no longer adhered to specific watering dates; instead, I started to regard how the soil felt and the condition of the leaves. I’d check in with each plant (yes, there were more plants after Franklin—I’m up to 23 now) while having coffee in the morning. I was simply observing. “Hey buddy, your leaves are a bit droopy today. What’s going on with you?” I know how foolish it sounds. My boyfriend Marco witnesses these monologues and simply rolls his eyes.
“You do realize that they can’t hear you, right?” he once remarked.
“Perhaps not with ears,” I said, conscious of how ‘out there’ I came across, “but they respond to attention.”
And the weird thing is—they do respond. Not because they’re alive (although who knows, really), but attending to something allows me to prevent potential crises from escalating. An underlying hue of yellow at the edge of a leaf. The start of an infestation. A clearly desperate, plant begging for more light and facing the window.
But my newfound biophile identity extended beyond just plants. With that opened door, I began to perceive everything alive around me quite differently. The spider who was setting up a web in the corner of my window was someone I used to exterminate without a thought. No, I now stared at her in awe as she constructed her web like a master builder. The new birds at my window feeder became creatures whose faces I could recognize. I even began to hold some strange respect for the mushrooms that were sprouting in a moist niche in the courtyard of my building.
Lia, my friend who has worked as an environmental scientist for years, laughed when I shared my excitement over this newfound epiphany. “Welcome to actually being human,” she responded. “This, I believe, is the way we ought to exist—integrated with everything that is breathing.”
That exchange with Lia turned out to be what I consider my biophile initiation. She asked me to join a camping trip to Olympic National Park with a party of friends of hers—people I had never met before and who I knew were outdoor enthusiasts. I panicked. In my past, staying at a hotel without room service was the height of ‘roughing it’.
Oh my God! was that trip an experience worth remembering. I spent three whole days exploring alien forests, and the sensation was out of this world unlike anything I’ve encountered before. From falling asleep to nearby streams to waking up to light peeking through towering trees – this combination of activities is truly life altering. One morning while taking a stroll just before dawn, I came across a giant moss filled log which I chose to sit on. The silence was profound as I was hearing my heartbeat.
Looking away I came across a deer not too far from where I was sitting. For the next couple of minutes, we both stared blankly at each other and in all honesty it felt like an eternity. It was a captivating experience unlike everything I have encountered in life and after realizing this, I began having thoughts about the whole universe and existence while not believing the fact that I have become so familiar with nature around me.
And just like that I began crying. With ferns in her mouth, probably very perplexed by what was going on, a deer nearby decided that I posed no threat and a started to have some kind of spiritual experience, tears flowing profusely as I sat on a log covered with moss.
“That’s the real stuff. That’s what brings me back out here again and again.”, said Lia as I countered back to camp with a cup of camp coffee, taking one look at my face and realizing the unfortunate state I was in.
In spite of trying to further delve into what had the nature trip, I focused all my attention at trying to make sense of being a biophile. That is, until I came to the conclusion of which was the most preferable way: by reconsidering the concept of nature I had come to accept. The reason for this was simple, my workplace provided a challenging job within a marketing field, which meant a barrel of poring over screens and staying indoors throughout. living at the heart of downtown Portland, conveniently close to all things urban also had its downsides.
Still, I strive to maintain these connections even with my urban lifestyle. Some changes have been small: I have replaced my artificial air fresheners with essential oils made from real plants. I now prefer to walk through the park and spend more time commuting as it feels better than walking through the shopping district. Also, I take my morning coffee to the balcony where I spend 10 minutes observing the birds, weather, and buildings interacting with light.
Other, more significant changes, have been made, such as volunteering for a local watershed restoration project once a month. The first time showed up I recall telling myself: the girl from the city in embarrassingly clean hiking boots and new gear, struggling to not face plant while descending into the creek, attempting to use a water testing kit. The goal was to not make contact with the water and maintain a clean sample bottle.
I was accompanied by one of the project leads, Ramon, who didn’t bother covering up his amusement at my expense. When he asked if it was my first time attending the event, anything resembling a negative answer was immediately ruled out.
“Someone’s got to be the first at everything. And showing up is what is most important.”
After participating in volunteer work for six months, I’ve grown rather fond of what I’ve started referring to as ‘our’ little urban creek. It is fascinating how my perception has changed over time: the water levels changing, the plants which are starting to sprout, and the birds which have begun to nest. It even makes me think about it during the work week, and I often wonder how the creek is doing. It makes me feel somehow protective, so I automatically start picking up trash whenever I pass by a waterway. I learned that Ramon now tells other new volunteers as “one of our regulars,” and surprisingly, that makes me really proud.
Focusing on food, the change that occurred was perhaps the most surprising. I began my gardening journey by planting cherry tomatoes, bell pepper, and basil on the balcony. Having the ability to say that you’ve literally eaten your own produce is far more satisfying than it looks, and it feels so different. It is even more satisfying than I thought it would be. Because of this, I decided to join a community garden, where I met some of the most interesting neighbors including an 82 year old woman named Mrs. Chen, who grows incredible bok choy and even sweeter, has been teaching me her composting secrets.
Being a biophile in the city can be challenging. There are times when the noise, concrete, and artificial surroundings make everything feel claustrophobic. I have learned that when I feel this way, overcoming any dose of nature can be healing. Small doses of nature works wonders for me. Taking a scenic ten-minute stroll through the rose garden, repotting my plant baby while marveling at the tranquility of the frog symphony coming from my speakers, or gazing at my olympic forest trip photos and reminiscing about the serene olympic forest trip photos or olympic forest pictures olympic forest pictures.
The most profound internal change has occurred to me. Recognizing biophilia nature deeply connects to my life and existence helps me comprehend my role in the universe. I can see the world beyond my eyes. It’s not a matter of “nature” over there, “we” are nature. Whether we acknowledge it or not. That brings joy and responsibility.
When paying attention to life, being alive enables us to feel aliveness in everything around us. In absence of focus however,feeling alive indicates passively residing within our surroundings can be tranquil in small comforts, life-sized wonders alonsatia gulderon, even utuding. Compassion, coordination, and envelop morexperts unlock us.
But also obligation. One delve’s into the interconnectedness of life; it becomes impossible to ignore the impact human civilization inflicts upon those connections. Personally, it has affected everything from the way I shop to how I plan for retirement. For instance, do I want my capital towards ecologically damaging businesses? (Spoiler: I didn’t, and even though my financial advisor thought I was experiencing some sort of midlife crisis at thirty-one, I opted for greener investment strategies.)
There are still pieces that I need to find to complete this puzzle of a biophile. To be sure, I don’t have a solution on how someone can be these days and live seamlessly integrated with values like mine. I still take long showers. Last night, I ordered food that was packaged in nonbiodegradable containers. This past month, I absurdly flew to a conference instead of taking the train. Yes, the train would have been more sustainable but would have consumed three days, as opposed to four hours.
It’s a work in progress—but I think that’s what being a biophile really embodies: not striving for absurd standards, but forming connections. Focused efforts to steer attention to where we fit amongst life in the web of existence, and letting that awareness influence decisions where they permit.
What about Franklin, my first ever plant friend that set me off on this journey? He is now massive, with his vines climbing up my entire living room window. Sometimes when I am watering him, I imagine how different life would be if that pothos had not fought so fiercely to survive inspite of my neglect. Or how my life would be different if I never opened up to something so different from me.
Because if you are still invested in this very long account of my self biophile revelation, lets see if I can interest you into an experiment. Choose one living organism – might be a houseplant, a tree outside the window, or even that spider in the corner of your washroom. Make it a point to focus and follow the selected organism for a week. Not just a passive look, but genuinely watch its actions. How does it evolve? How does it change in response to its surroundings? What do you notice?
Paying such close and meticulous attention will, earmarked and pre-defined expectations, produce true surprises in the way of emotion encountered. Perhaps also lies within you waiting to be kindled.
And if you, too, happen to be as notorious of a plant killer as I was, you should probably begin with a pothos plant. I’m telling you they are very forgiving. Just don’t keep them in the box for three days. Even Franklin deserved better than that.
