One of the strangest things (among many) for me to get used to while living in America is the lack of home.

Oh, people know how to go and purchase a bed in a bag, watch a decorating show to learn how to hang pictures in alignment and can go to Target and pick out pillows with matching table linens like nobodies business. But, there is very little home feeling here.

When going to a lot of homes, they always feel generic; as though they were just created as they are supposed to be without any regard to who lives there. The warm, welcoming feeling that I grew up with generally escapes me here when I visit people. There’s a lack of connection between tenants and home.

And it doesn’t just end there; most buildings here are sterile; more for impressive design awards rather than regards to the inhabitants. Everything is so perfect, so pieced together that nothing looks inviting. It all looks so done.

Then there are homes that have so much stuff. Clutter here, there and everywhere. People afraid to let go of things. Generally when going into these places I am easily overwhelmed, I don’t know where to look, to sit, to be. I often wonder how people can afford to have so much stuff and then complain of having no money. It escapes understanding from me, these extremes.

Jane Alexander says it best in her book Spirit of the Home:

Growing up in a European household, our focus was always on creating a personal, cosy and inviting home. It was always simple but always so warm; you knew about the people who lived in the house and always felt the need to linger in it. My mothers Danish sensibilities kept everything just right without it being just right.

I moved a lot as a child and in a lot of cases, my parents rented homes. But despite this, no matter where we lived we claimed the home as ours and always set it up as best we could. I find in America when people rent, they tend to disregard their space, letting it fill up with crap or run it down because it’s not theirs. They save real living for the day they have a real house. I don’t understand how one can be disconnected for so long.

As I embrace my French side more and more, my style and home life is leaning more and more French. I’m returning to my roots, to my understandings as a child where the home was simple, inviting, personal. Where I had things that were of use, meaningful or pretty and nothing else. Where I thought about placement, about cleaning, about living.

I’m not one for decorating or latest gadgets. I’m not for keeping up with the Jones�’ or having a braggable space. But I am one who enjoys a beautiful home, a space that feels calm and safe, somewhere I enjoy being and a place that is infused with my personality even if it’s just my home for six months or a year.

I often wonder, if more people in America embraced a simpler, more meaningful way of living in their home if some of the depression, anger, feelings of competition, despair, and boredom would be alleviated.

It was the roses that first struck me when I pulled into the drive of the house. The front and side yards were lined with bushes that were blooming like mad. I knew that my little patio rose bush of one blossom would be happy here, and that perhaps I could too.

After the boxes had been moved and unpacked, the floors cleaned, tea sipped and baths taken, the next order was to fix up the garden, which, after a month of neglect, was in need.

I’ve never read a garden book or dished with other gardeners so I’ve no way of knowing if my vicious pruning does more harm than good. But after two hours of basking in the sun, deadheading the roses as I imagined deadheading to be, pulling out weeds and cutting back the trees, the garden seemed a little happier.

When the sun set that night and I sat out on the patio to admire my work I wasn’t alone; the woodpecker, stellar jay and squirrels were there too. Each seeming to say, “Job well done. Your roses will be OK and so will you. Sleep well tonight.”

And I did.

Here’s a collection of photos of the roses.

I’ve spent the morning losing myself at my favourite nursery; roses were in full bloom, lavender was smelling divine and the rosemary was far too perfect to pass up. This, gardening, in one of my indulgences.

I have a fairly large, beautiful balcony, shaded by lushes trees on one side and the lake on the other. It’s private, spacious and dry which has made it one of my favourite rooms of my entire flat. I keep several containers of flowers, bushes, roses and herbs (all in green containers. I like simple, natural things). I have two bird feeders, which, in the birding community has become known as the birdie crackhouse. They are, in fact, singing right now. The finches are particularily happy due to the final absence of a pesky stellar jay and hawk. The babies are still being fed by their mums, which is a simple site so sweet to see.

Tea time is spent outside with good linens (caught on sale from Anthropologie!) and comfy cushions on the teak table and chairs. Evening family time is spent with the kitty outside and us talking with wine. It’s a good life, this balcony one.

This afternoon I was putting in the new flowers I purchased and weeding out old ones. There’s currently dirt all over because I confess to not being the tidiest of gardeners. In fact, I like to get a little violent throwing dirt around and hacking off branches.

For me, this is my happiness. I choose flowers based on what I think is pretty. I don’t know the names or the care they require. I don’t know if I’m doing everything right – all I do is plant, water and pray to sweet baby jesus (although, sometimes I sing softly to the roses. They seem to like this).

All that matters, I think, is that this give me pleasure. It makes me feel connected when I garden or sit outside to watch the sun set on the lake or even just sip tea and listen to the boats go by. Perhaps I’m not the fanciest gardener nor do I have the most hippest home around but, I am content. And, I think, that is enough.

This morning whilst admiring the first tulip to bloom in my garden, I noticed that I had a problem – aphids. I fetched a bag of live ladybugs from the garden shoppe, gave them a ‘hip hip’ talk on the drive home and then put them in the fridge until dusk (their supper).

A quick spritz of water to the flowers and spritz of a 50/50 mix of soda pop and water to the ladybugs (this prevents them from flying for several days and therefor keeping them more inclined to laze about the plants and eat the naughty buggers destroying them), I began to set free half the bag into my garden.

They climbed everywhere; on the tulips, on the bag, on me. Shortly my garden was coloured with red dots; dots that would soon have bulbous bellies which would make us all very happy.

Launch the Ladybug Photographs.