Discovering how one’s personal environment translates to so much of one’s life is a remarkable revelation. As humans, we often perceive ourselves as having some authority over how we live—a perception that strikingly ignores the consistent and powerful impact of our surroundings. This misperception is understandable; after all, losing sight of pragmatic influences when we are “home” is relatively natural. We feel a gradual sense of control simply because we know how to navigate within our locales, yet we fail to see the immediate world around us. My own experience has illuminated how natural it feels to conform to the immediate environment, if only because human nature bends toward taking the path of least resistance. That path usually means neighborhoods and broader environments alike are no longer seen as such. Beyond anything else, however, I have come to believe we are usually shaped by our environments through multiple processes of adaptation, and these processes, even if sometimes challenging, encourage us to evolve. When the natural elements of landscapes contrast, the differences influence one’s very being, for a simple reason: the alternate realities keep us mindfully alert of all external possibilities. It is through that dynamic that living between two worlds has continuously affected me.

Before presenting actual examples, I must outline the basic specifics. I reside in Seoul, South Korea, but regularly stay at my grandmother’s home in rural Jeju, an island in the southern part of the Korean peninsula. Few dualities are as contrary in environmental ways, social considerations aside. Equally important is how the rural home greatly illuminates the urban, and vice versa. I phrase it as above because the more natural Jeju environment feels more “real” to me—a perception I believe many others share. To hold natural landscapes and the simpler lives they support in high esteem is a viewpoint promoted by literature and popular feelings passed down through generations. Inescapably, people often equate the bucolic with the more wholesome life, just as city existences are typically associated with anxiety, the pressures inherent in finding one’s way in literal crowds, and ambition. The latter, in fact, is inextricably linked to ideas of urbanity, that the opportunity to move forward is only possible in a city setting. All of this notwithstanding, my goal here is simply to compare and contrast, relying only on my own experiences.

When immersed in the rural Jeju setting, I am engulfed by a reliable and pleasurable sense of relaxation and comfort. Such feelings, not unexpectedly, materialize through the familial relationship, but that is far from the only influence. On a very basic level, for example, there is satisfaction in not needing to wind my way through a densely populated arena, a reality largely in place whenever I am in Jeju. There, I do not reflexively need “to prepare myself”—this is so visceral that its import cannot be overstated. Shifting from Seoul to my grandmother’s, I am also quickly aware of my physicality changing. I breathe more easily. My muscles feel nimbler, and stronger. I rarely feel the shifting tension that always feels in the city. This effect is highly practical. To walk down a local street in Jeju feels notably different because those I pass or encounter on Seoul streets share the same freedom of movement. This freedom then strongly affects my mental and emotional states, in unfailingly positive ways. Yet I do honestly sometimes miss the bustle of Seoul when I am in Jeju. I likely, in a sense, confuse the natural and unnatural because the latter has itself become natural to me. At the same time, a tangible feeling of relaxation remains. Safety, I presume, does not play in this as I have few fears of being assaulted in Jeju. Rather, the feeling is reflexive. I am merely appreciating—consciously—that I am not moving within a herd of strangers.

In Seoul, as may be imagined, everything is different. Dense populations create a range of circumstances and reactions not usually considered by the city dweller, if only because city living itself allows very little if any, time for reflection. In all fairness, that kind of living is exciting because it is challenging. One cannot know what awaits around any corner in the city, and this element of surprise builds a degree of excitement on par with the tensions and wariness vital in city living. That living, I stress, offers tremendous convenience, abundant opportunities, and countless other pursuits common to the average person. Still, when in Seoul, I do not, perhaps, engage in the sort of rationalization I perceive in other people in Seoul. I have always found it fascinating how residents of Seoul frequently express an excess of appreciation for their town, as though they feel compelled to justify lives that are usually rushed and, not incidentally, costly. Seoul has much to offer, certainly, but so many people trumpet the advantages as a means of validating a difficult and expensive way of life.

All the above leads to my primary focus, developed only after lengthy consideration of my alternate homes. If I can enjoy the benefits of Seoul life, I am also keenly aware of the greater cost, a cost that continues rising every day. Sterile park settings aside, Seoul is a manufactured place, one where nature is an impediment to be replaced in the city. One of my earliest and most memorable experiences in the city occurred in midtown at a park on a warm summer day. At first, I believed it to be a refreshing setting. Yet I was eager, within only a few minutes, to return to the sidewalks. The park was packed with people, many of whom wore very little in an effort to combat the oppressive heat. I did the same but to little advantage. In fact, I was extremely aware of a highly disagreeable effect: feeling increasingly dirty. The hot and polluted air, abetted by the massive traffic emissions, destroyed any possible enjoyment, and within minutes, I felt an urgent desire to shower. This feeling, again, transpired in a park setting.

A dissimilar Jeju experience also comes to mind—one just as enriching as the Seoul park scenario was disturbing. Sitting outside my grandmother’s home at dusk, I experienced a quiet and calm, unlike anything I had ever known. Yet my environment was nothing exceptional; such atmospheres are created constantly in rural Jeju neighborhoods. Nonetheless, in such moments, everything comes together in what I can only describe as a soul-satisfying way. Trite or otherwise, crickets were chirping, and tiny flashes of light announced the presence of fireflies. The light was varied, a show unto itself. The time stays with me simply because nothing happened, at least not beyond being enabled to “feel” the world around me in absolute peace. At that moment, I suddenly understood why my elders would sit in silence in such settings. It is a kind of surrender to what is real and greater than the self, even as it reinforces one’s place in the natural scheme of things. The powerful effect of reverence also emerges. One comprehends the value, and omnipresence, of insensate and sensate life. The richness of those few hours still lives in me today, and for that, I remain inexpressibly grateful.

While no radical environmentalist, I have thus come to trust in how these experiences have shaped my thinking and my belief system. Going back to at least the onset of the Industrial Age, human beings have turned to the facile idea of convenience as a crucial need. Reality tells a different story. Convenience, no matter the goal or process, is simply what it purports; it is far more necessary to consider what is lost in its pursuit. The first time, years ago, the news reported pollution levels in certain major cities as literally unacceptable also comes to mind. This classification still astonishes me today because it upholds the misguided human demand for profit and convenience over preserving the natural world. We have systematically established ideas of a “better life,” dismissing the best life of all: the one appreciative of the natural. To be fair, social movements since at least the 1960s have loudly and persistently decried the abuses of the industry as fouling natural environments. Unfortunately, in national and human affairs, opportunities to profit are typically unconcerned with such critical truths, just as governments internationally prioritize gain over the real and natural.

When I consider these matters, it is the unaccountable hubris of human ambition that most astonishes me. Humanity is notoriously arrogant, industry and environmental damage aside, yet this arrogance takes on new meaning when a deeper truth is understood; namely, the planet will survive humanity, and should our species eradicate itself, the planet reclaim itself in time. Whether we believe we dominate Earth matters little because few beliefs could be so erroneous. As is widely known, for example, the duration of human habitation on the planet has been relatively, and extraordinarily, brief. Perversely, we have created immense—and negative—changes in this very short period. Earth, however, will have the “final word” as the natural world reclaims itself over time. If that time is immeasurably lengthy matters not. What does matter, however, is that humanity must finally grasp and accept what has been before it for centuries. Harming the environment inevitably means harming humanity. Globally, then, people and leaders must ultimately accept true stewardship of the planet—because nothing better serves the interests of humanity than the preservation of what nature provides.

Additionally, and perhaps obviously, there is no avoiding that accepting the above responsibilities of stewardship is neither an option or a luxury. Human beings make a great deal of noise about survival in terms of what is required to feed, shelter, and sustain individuals and families. As I consider this, the obliviousness of humanity becomes even more appalling. While such efforts are, of course, vital and admirable, no focus could be more shortsighted. Where is the good in addressing immediate needs when the foundation of human—and all—life is in jeopardy? What end is served in transitory redress when the natural world, upon which life depends, is ignored and abused?

In conclusion, I return to the initial consideration of my Jeju and Seoul experiences. I feel fortunate to have experienced such contrasts; I have been both enabled and motivated to better investigate what is behind the dueling existences. To reiterate, I am far from blind to urban advantages. I have moved within the city and taken in much that it offers, and I regret nothing of these times. The greater advantage, however, lies in the perspective I have been able to develop. If the city is exciting, it remains so on a largely superficial level, and genuine human gratification requires more. It requires the opportunity to do nothing, to battle with no crowds, to be able to see and have a glimpse of how trees are whole ecosystems in and of themselves. It requires, perhaps more important than even a direct appreciation of nature, the setting and time in which, distracted by nothing beyond bird calls and breezes, to feel one’s self and one’s place in the natural scheme of things. Similarly, as humans, we have a responsibility we must accept. As the dominant species, and with no reference to faith or religion, we have the duty to preserve what preserves all life. If we are indeed the most intelligent of species, it is far past time that we proceed accordingly. Nature—sometimes brutal, sometimes beneficent—is always the foundation of the world upon which we rely for survival, and our ongoing and frivolous treatment of that world must be seen as the outrage it is.

We must remember as well that this Earth will go on without us—our stewardship of its lands merely a reflection of what the world looks like for the short time we live within it.