Why connecting with nature shouldn’t mean disconnecting from science

I am a nature writer. I like to think I have a pretty solid relationship with the more-than-human world: I watch birds, I collect frogs, I help my kids find beetles under logs. I think nature is complicated and wonderful. Sometimes I think it’s beautiful. But never in my life have I considered it sacred, and never would it have occurred to me to consider my relationship with nature as “spiritual”.

Current trends suggest I’m missing something.

“Connectedness with nature” is a crazy term, but it is supported by a strong (and expanding) academic foundation. The authors of a 2025 study disturbingly claim that higher levels of “nature connection,” or “a sense of oneness with nature,” are associated with “greater spirituality” and skepticism toward “science over faith.” It’s a finding that might surprise many in the natural sciences – it certainly surprises me – but this sentiment permeates recent nature writing.

Where the Druids of old worshiped nature, cultivating sacred groves of mistletoe and oaks, we of the 21st century find enchantment and communion in our own sacred space: the nature section of the bookstore, somewhere between gardening and personal development. The fact is that it is in nature writing that many of us find much, if not all, of our natural connectivity. We get it on the fly, mediated, translated. We are vicarious birders, second-hand botanists, armchair explorers. And I think that’s OK. Lives are busy and most of us live in the city or suburbs. One of the great things about being human is the fact that we can be transported to deep forests or high hills by the ink marks on wood pulp.

The problem, I think, is not how we connect, but what we think we connect with. Nature is not a fantasy or a parable. It exists on the same earth plane as us – it is us – and it is always wonderful, always fascinating, always spectacular, examined through a scientific lens. It is difficult to see what would be gained by dissociating science from a sincere love of nature.

Perhaps it would help if we reconsidered our enthusiasm for finding lessons in nature. Perhaps we really can learn from moss how to stay together and respect natural laws, learn resilience from grass, and learn from fungi to accept the end of cycles, as naturalist authors have recently advised. But we can also learn from the shoebill how to force our weakest child out of the nest to starve to death, and from various internal parasites how to force our hosts to commit suicide. Turning to nature for guidance seems as wise as asking ChatGPT to solve our personal problems (both resources literally have all the answers). Perhaps wise humanism is about learning our own lessons from each other.

Then there remains the old question of where the human is in all this – that is to say, the human with the book contract. According to some, the naturalist writer must above all learn to remain silent. But the sad truth is that all writers love the sound of their own voice. We all need to find a balance between what happens there and how things happen here – there is enormous value in each, done well, and the best nature writers report on both boundaries with clarity, expertise, sensitivity and skill. Sometimes “out there” refers to the non-human – the animals, plants, and landscapes among which we live. I wish more often it was allowed to refer to other humans, from different backgrounds and with diverse perspectives.

I hope nature writing continues to grow, flaws and all. I hope it will only become richer, more complex, more multidisciplinary, more messy. We will have to, if we are to keep pace with the ever-changing “nature,” whatever we mean by that – with real life, the living, breathing world, and our place in it all.

Richard Smith is the author of An indifference of the birds and the jay, the beech and the limpet