Nature vs/in the City

Nature and the city have come to symbolize two extremes in our collective imagination. On one side stands nature: a primordial refuge, imbued with sanctity and renewal, essential to our physical and mental health. On the other lies the city: the epicenter of progress and possibility, yet often experienced as alienating, polluted, and dystopian. 

Of course, it’s not surprising that this dichotomy came to be. Life in the absolute wilderness operates under a wholly different logic than modern, urban existence. Distances between homesteads span miles; daily life demands physical labor and attunement to weather and seasonal rhythms; and the absence of roads, power grids, and communal infrastructure creates technological and cultural solitude. This stark contrast is precisely what gave birth to the pastoral ideal.

For those who feel disenchanted by the fallouts of late capitalism—as epitomized by the mechanized, work-oriented city, where life can seem governed by an oppressively rigid system of value, fixated on routine survival and detached from any deeper meaning—nature presents itself as a powerful imagined escape. It suggests the possibility of a simpler, more harmonious way of living. In the visible beauty of the natural world, one may feel a renewed sense of connection to an unseen, more profound order. It is, in short, Thoreau’s Walden pond, where one is invited to “come forth to this hill at sunset to behold and commune with something grander than man.”

A quote from “Walden” by Henry David Thoreau, a reflection on the virtues of simple living and solitude within nature. Photo credit: Wikimedia commons.

This vision of nature is, however, a romanticized myth. While certainly capable of instilling peace, clarity, moments of reflection—and even an awe that human creations can’t match—nature doesn’t automatically confer spiritual insight or represent the ultimate path to human fulfillment. (If you’re curious about a contemporary anecdote to that effect, I recommend checking out this video essay). That same pastoral longing—for peace, renewal, the sense of dissolving into something larger than oneself—is one I personally experience not in remote wilderness but in the city. Its kaleidoscopic neighborhoods and diverse cultures, its subway lines that stretch perpetually into the unknown, are my version of boundless wilderness. Anything smaller becomes claustrophobic. I find reflection not in the still waters of a bond but in the glass of a train window, looking out on a city as intricate and alive as a living cell.

But let’s move beyond the idea of nature as only vast, virgin wilderness, and the city as its sterile, entirely man-made opposite. As Kevin Loughran puts it in Imbricated Spaces, “Where city ends and nature begins is of course a social construction. The built environment is made from materials that were once earth; [and] though a paved street may symbolize society’s domination of the natural world, cracks in the concrete reveal that human intervention is far from the last word.” 

Nowhere is this interplay more visible than in the design of urban parks. It is true that early parks, despite being literal integrations of nature into the city, still reflected the sociological separation of the two concepts: they envisioned themselves as retreats or sanctuaries from bustling urban life. In recent years, however, landscape architects have begun to challenge that separation, embracing a more integrated approach. Take New York’s High Line: an abandoned railroad track turned public park, stretching for nearly 2 miles in the heart of Manhattan. Here, industrial aesthetics—metal rails, girders, timber planks—coexist with self-seeding “wild” greenery that mimics the spontaneous overgrowth that appeared after the line was first decommissioned. 

In other words, the High Line reflects a truth that exists independently of any intentional urban green space design: nature’s resilience and capacity to adapt and endure within the harshest of contexts—i.e., overgrown parking lots and grass breaking through concrete cracks. As Richard Mabey writes, “It is not the parks but the railway sidings which are thick with wild flowers.”

The High Line is an abandoned railroad track turned public park, stretching for nearly 2 miles in the heart of Manhattan, New York City. Photo credit: Iwan Baan.

Another example of this blurring is the environmental movement. Although its origins lie in the preservation of wilderness, its momentum increasingly comes from cities themselves.Urban areas are at the forefront of environmental leadership, thanks to progressive policies and technological innovation. Their compact, walkable layouts, robust public transit, and strong social networks all work to reduce ecological footprints—and also counter some of the most damaging effects of late capitalism, as detailed at the beginning of this essay. It is not cities, but rather the vast, monotonous landscapes of suburban sprawl that give rise to long commutes, unfulfilling workdays, and disconnected communities.

In conclusion: the lines between nature and the city are far more fluid than they are often made out to be. Maybe the question isn’t where nature ends and the city begins—but how we learn to see one within the other. 

Works Cited

Loughran, K. (2016). Imbricated Spaces: The High Line, Urban Parks, and the Cultural Meaning of City and Nature. Sociological Theory, 34(4), 311-334. https://doi.org/10.1177/0735275116679192

Thoreau, H. (1854). Walden; Or, Life in the Woods. Ticknor and Fields: Boston.