As I mentioned in my last column ^[1], my husband and I have recently returned to our home in Scotland after having lived in Southeast Asia for many years. It is lovely to be back home, and I really appreciate being able to be outside in the fresh, clean, Scottish air.

One of the very first things which we have done since returning is build a summer house at the top of our garden. This little summer house gives me a place to sit amongst the trees, looking out onto the outstanding views of our local loch and mountains.

Without wishing to sound as if I'm on commission from the Scottish tourist board, it really is beautiful and so very peaceful. The colors change all the time, and the light is something to behold.

Like the holidaying ladies in the E. M Forster novel, I have “A Room With A View.”

I don't remember Forster's book very well, but its title describes the importance that one of the ladies attached to having the view they were promised in their hotel in Florence. When I read the novel as a youngster, so many years ago, I certainly never imagined it relating so well to my own future desires and pleasures.

Views, nature, the outdoors, and landscapes have always been important to me, but since my multiple myeloma diagnosis, their importance has really escalated. I can tell from many of the articles and comments in The Beacon that I share this with many readers. I've been wondering why.

I can think of a few reasons.

One reason, I think, is that in the last two years I have spent many months in hospital, totally deprived of any sort of natural environment. If I had any view at all, it was of a gray wall! I used to dream of just looking at a plant or any living organism, never mind a real live Scottish landscape. I remember wondering if all the patients felt that way, or if they were perhaps too sick to even notice their lack of any view.

I used to tease the nurses in Singapore that I was going to escape the hospital and run off to the country. So having the treat of a summer house available to me on a daily basis is delightful and seems like some sort of reward for what I've endured. When I sit looking at my view, listening only to the bird song, I feel at peace and very far away from the cancer treatment rooms.

Simple, natural pleasures seem much more important these days.

Secondly, I feel safe in the outdoors, in the garden, and in my summer house. I don't worry about getting yet another infection in these places, and that makes me relax and feel well. I've come to hate crowded places, and when I'm beside people who are coughing and sneezing, I become very anxious. The idea of going to a cinema or the theater or being trapped anywhere around people who seem to be exuding germs is my idea of torture. The clean air and the room with a view are just perfect.

Thirdly, and this is harder to describe, the beauty of this environment fills me up with something – dome sort of joy of being alive, of coming this far through the treatment, of being able to take in this time and place and be thankful for it. It is hugely enriching. I want to hold onto it, enjoy it on my own, and share it with others.

I hope each of you has your own little summer house – a lovely, safe place, where you can breathe fresh air and delight in a special simple space.

Like my room with a view.