Nature as Teacher -Biophilic Living
Nature as Teacher – Biophilic Living
Long before biophilic design became a recognised field, I understood something simple yet profound: human beings thrive when we live in meaningful relationship with the natural world. The term biophilia, meaning “love of life,” was first used by psychologist Erich Fromm and later explored by biologist Edward O. Wilson. It describes our innate affinity with nature and living systems. But biophilic living is more than architecture, interiors or adding plants to rooms—it is recognising how deeply our surroundings shape the quality of our lives. Natural light, fresh air, water, landscape, texture, sound and seasonal change all influence how we feel. The materials we touch, the views we rest upon and the spaces in which we pause affect our energy, focus, emotional wellbeing and sense of belonging. Environments that invite reflection, restoration and connection are not simply beautiful; they create the conditions in which life is more fully lived.
Over time, I’ve come to see biophilic living as part of a much larger philosophy. Our relationship with nature shapes us, but so do our homes, the objects we treasure, the communities we nurture and the stories we carry forward. Every meaningful environment reflects the relationships that formed it. This understanding has guided my work for over three decades. It has never been a trend or a decorative gesture—it is a philosophy of living. A space is not just something we decorate. It is something that continually shapes us. Biophilic living asks us to design in alignment with life itself, by recognising the living relationship between body, environment and the natural systems we belong to. At its heart is a simple truth: we are not separate from nature.
The spaces we inhabit influence how we think, feel and move through the world. Light regulates our rhythms. Materials guide our sense of touch. Air, sound, texture, temperature and proportion create a constant conversation between ourselves and our surroundings. Every environment is speaking to us; the question is whether it supports us or quietly works against us. My work draws on enduring principles of biophilic design—natural light and ventilation, honest materials, sensory richness, spatial harmony, connection to landscape, refuge and openness, movement, rhythm and the subtle transitions of the seasons. These are not decorative gestures; they are the foundations of environments that feel alive.
Every space becomes part of the way we live. I do not design by following trends or by filling rooms with beautiful objects. I create environments that offer coherence, clarity and belonging—places as emotionally considered as they are visually resolved. Every decision contributes to the atmosphere of a space: the quality of light as it shifts through the day, the warmth of timber beneath the hand, the balance between openness and enclosure, the placement of a chair beside a window, the objects that hold memory and the view that draws the eye beyond the room. When these relationships are composed with thought and care, a home becomes more than attractive—it becomes restorative. It can calm the nervous system, encourage attention and create ease. It can support the rhythms of family life, offer refuge during difficult seasons and provide the quiet stability from which new chapters begin. The most meaningful spaces do more than look beautiful—they help us live more beautifully.
My work moves naturally between interior and exterior spaces because the two cannot truly be separated. The landscape beyond a window shapes the atmosphere within, while architecture determines how light enters, how air flows and how seasons are experienced indoors. A garden can become another living room rather than a distant backdrop. A doorway can create a moment of transition. A terrace, courtyard or conservatory can soften the boundary between shelter and openness. Design, in this way, becomes a dialogue between the inner and outer worlds. It is not imposed or merely decorative—it is responsive to architecture, landscape, the people who will live there and the unique rhythm of the place. When this dialogue is coherent, a space regulates rather than overstimulates. It allows the eye to rest, creates moments of refuge and connection, and offers beauty without noise and richness without excess. Its impact is often felt before it can be explained.
Nature teaches us through relationship, rhythm, adaptation and balance. A garden grows in layers. A tree responds to light, weather, soil and season. A landscape is shaped slowly through time. Nothing exists in isolation; each part belongs to a larger living system. A meaningful home is not created by selecting objects and arranging them beautifully, but through the relationships between light and material, proportion and movement, memory and function, enclosure and openness. Nature also reminds us that beauty does not require perfection: weathered stone, aged timber, shifting light and irregular forms hold a depth that flawless surfaces rarely do. They speak to time, imperfection, change and renewal. To design with nature is to create places that can evolve, not remain fixed.
The goal is never to impress. It is to create places in which people recognise themselves—places that hold the rhythms of daily life and remain meaningful as life changes. A home should offer calm, beauty and belonging without demanding constant attention. It should support who you are while leaving room for who you are becoming. A home is not merely constructed—it is cultivated. It gathers memory, ritual, conversation and change. It is shaped by the lives unfolding within it. When the relationship between person and place is thoughtfully considered, the result is not just a well-designed interior—it is an environment that feels alive, emotionally intelligent and deeply inhabited. You know it the moment you enter.
The medium changes. The philosophy never does.
Delahrose Roobie Myer
