Nature has been designing much longer than we have

There is something about green that has always made me feel good.

Plants, trees, tropical gardens, the different shades of green after rain — I can stare at them for a long time without getting bored. And among all the plants around our home, this Monstera has become one of my favourites.

But what makes it special to me is not only how beautiful it looks today. I know where it started.

Years ago, there was a Monstera growing in our backyard. At some point the plant was destroyed, and what remained didn’t look like much. Somewhere among it, I found a small piece of root that was still alive.

I decided to propagate it.

Nothing complicated. I just wanted to see whether I could bring it back.

Eventually I planted that little root near my room. I liked the idea of having something green outside my window and being able to watch it grow.

And it grew.

And grew.

Years passed, and that tiny piece I rescued became this enormous tropical plant. Some of its leaves are almost three-quarters of my height now. When I look at it today, it’s difficult to imagine that this entire thing came from that little root I found in the backyard.

Maybe that’s part of why I’m so attached to it.

These days, I travel to Galle only about once a month. Whenever I come home, this is one of those little things I genuinely enjoy seeing again.

I look at how much it has grown. I notice a new leaf unfolding. Sometimes there is a damaged leaf, sometimes a perfectly fresh one. Sometimes the whole plant has changed slightly since the last time I saw it.

It feels like meeting an old friend who has quietly continued living while you were away.

Just after a shower by nature

I took this photograph just after the rain.

The entire leaf was covered with tiny drops of water. Everything looked cleaner, greener and somehow more alive.

What caught my attention wasn’t some spectacular scene. It was simply one leaf.

The water sitting on its surface. The soft green colour of a younger leaf. The tiny network of veins running through it. The light passing through all those natural openings.

It looked incredibly fresh.

There are moments like this where nature doesn’t need any additional decoration. The composition is already there. The texture is there. The colour palette is there. The hierarchy, patterns, contrast and details are already there.

You only have to stop long enough to notice them.

And I think that’s what I was doing when I took this photograph.

Just admiring it.

Those holes aren’t imperfections

One of the most beautiful characteristics of a Monstera is obviously its leaves.

As the plant matures, its leaves develop those distinctive holes and splits known as fenestrations. Monstera species are native to tropical regions of the Americas, where they grow in humid forests, often climbing upward toward better light.

There are different scientific ideas about exactly why those fenestrations evolved. One proposed advantage is that the openings can allow light to pass through the upper foliage to leaves and vegetation underneath. Other research has suggested the shape may help the plant capture sunlight efficiently under the scattered and unpredictable light conditions of a tropical forest.

I love that idea.

A leaf doesn’t necessarily need to be a completely solid surface to work beautifully.

The empty spaces are part of the design.

As a designer, that thought stays with me.

Sometimes we have this instinct to fill everything. Add another element. Add another card. Add another colour. Add another piece of information.

But nature constantly reminds us that space itself can have a purpose.

Sometimes what you leave open is as important as what you put there.

Then there are the veins

Look closely at this photograph and another detail starts appearing.

The veins.

A strong central structure branches into smaller and smaller pathways until an incredibly complex network covers the entire leaf.

Whenever I look closely at leaves like this, I can’t help comparing them to ourselves.

Our bodies are also filled with networks — veins, arteries, nerves — carrying what is needed from one place to another. A plant is obviously biologically very different from a human being, but visually there is something strangely familiar about these patterns.

Especially in this young leaf.

Its light green surface makes every little vein visible. What from a distance looks like a simple green leaf suddenly becomes an incredibly sophisticated system when you move closer.

And nobody sat down and designed it.

Nature did.

Green has always been different for me

I think this is why I love plants so much.

Green feels refreshing to my eyes. It gives a space life without asking for attention.

Put a plant in an empty room and somehow the room immediately feels different.

Warmer.

Alive.

That tropical feeling is something I’m particularly drawn to. Maybe growing up in Sri Lanka has something to do with it. Green is everywhere here if you pay attention — huge leaves, coconut trees, vines climbing old walls, moss after rain, little plants somehow finding their way through cracks in concrete.

Nature doesn’t always ask permission before it creates something beautiful.

I love that.

And over time, I’ve realised that this relationship with nature has found its way into my work too.

Nature is one of my favourite design libraries

As a designer, I’m constantly looking for inspiration.

Of course, there is Figma. There is Pinterest. There are design systems, galleries, websites, books and thousands of beautifully designed products available online.

But some of my favourite references aren’t on a screen.

They’re outside.

Nature understands repetition without becoming boring. It understands contrast without becoming uncomfortable. It creates complex systems that somehow still feel organic. It uses colour in combinations we might never think to put together ourselves.

A leaf can teach you about hierarchy.

A flower can teach you about symmetry.

A forest can teach you about systems.

The spaces between branches can teach you about negative space.

The changing shades of a single green leaf can teach you more about colour than staring at a colour picker.

And this Monstera reminds me that imperfections can sometimes become the most recognisable part of something.

The holes are what make the leaf beautiful.

From a little root

Maybe that’s ultimately why this particular plant means something to me.

I remember it when it was almost nothing.

A little surviving root from a plant that had been destroyed.

I planted it without knowing exactly what it would become. There wasn’t some grand plan behind it. I simply gave it a place where it could grow.

Years later, I’m standing in front of leaves that are almost as big as me.

There is something beautiful about that transformation.

We usually notice things when they become impressive. A huge tree. A beautiful garden. A successful person. A finished piece of work.

We rarely see all the quiet growth that happened before it.

This plant makes that visible to me.

Growth doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it happens one tiny leaf at a time.

And perhaps that is why, whenever I’m back in Galle, I still walk over to this Monstera and look at it.

It doesn’t do anything extraordinary.

It just grows.

It catches the rain.

It turns toward the light.

It unfolds another leaf.

And somehow, every time I look at it, I find something new to admire.

This photograph captured one of those moments — my little masterpiece, freshly showered by nature, showing off every vein, every drop of water and every shade of green.

And I think I’ll always love that.

Nature has been designing much longer than we have.

I’m just trying to pay attention.