Column | Being at home and having a view

Garden Distractions and the Concept of HomeGarden Distractions and the Concept of Home As I sit in my garden, I find myself unable to focus on reading. The allure of nature proves too captivating. The elder blossom swaying gracefully, the cabbage whites fluttering in a timeless dance, and the sunspots dappling the grass offer an irresistible distraction. Despite living here for many years, I am still struck by the beauty that surrounds me. I marvel at the vibrant roses, the distant church tower, the towering ash tree, and the harmonious blend of pink, red, and orange among the verdant leaves. Yet, amidst this serene setting, I question the true meaning of feeling at home. While I am surrounded by beauty and comfort, I wonder if there is an intangible element that transcends physical surroundings. In Yolanda Entius’s book, “Om en bij,” she explores the concept of home along the borders of her garden in France. She writes of the physical characteristics of her home and garden, but also of the profound sense of belonging she experienced within its walls. This sense extended beyond the tangible aspects of her surroundings to include the people who shared her life there. Reflecting on my mother’s recent move to a nursing home, I realize that creating a sense of home is not merely about providing a comfortable and aesthetically pleasing environment. It is about fostering human connections, nurturing memories, and sustaining a sense of purpose and belonging. My mother’s new surroundings offer all the physical comforts one could ask for, yet she feels a profound sense of loss and displacement. She is uprooted from the familiar surroundings and relationships that have defined her life. No matter how beautiful the garden, it cannot replace the human connection and purpose that she longs for. Just as a plant cannot thrive without being firmly planted in the soil, so too can humans not flourish without a sense of rootedness and belonging. Green surroundings may inspire a sense of well-being, but they cannot fully compensate for the absence of human connection and a meaningful existence. Therefore, as I appreciate the beauty of my garden, I am reminded that creating a true sense of home encompasses both physical and emotional dimensions. It is not simply about finding a comfortable place to live, but about cultivating relationships, fostering memories, and discovering a sense of purpose that makes life meaningful.

I’m sitting in the garden and as usual I’m having trouble reading. Not because of reading but because of the garden. The last elder blossom swaying on the wind, two cabbage whites fluttering around each other like a perfect cliché, provide such a distraction. Those sunspots on the grass!

I find it incredible that I live here, not for the first time, and I look at the richly filled roses (and stand up to smell them), at the church tower in the distance, at the towering ash tree, and imagine yet another for I noticed that pink, red and orange go together so beautifully in the green – I can’t read it anymore.

I also think that, despite that surprise, I really feel at home here. And what that is, feeling at home. It’s the fifth year in this house and I still have to wonder if it’s there, the feeling of being at home, while at the same time it’s completely there.

I read Om en bij by Yolanda Entius, subtitled ‘Along the borders of my garden in France’, but which is just as much about where you feel at home and why. And where not.

She writes about what that French house, where she immediately felt ‘at home’, looks like and what the garden looks like, but also about her old house. There is something else bubbling through everything, something that is not dependent on beliefs and elderflowers, something much deeper within yourself that largely depends on who is in your house and in your life.

And it’s not just that either. My mother, 93, recently moved into a room in a nursing home.

It is a nice bright room, her things look nice, cozy, there is a large garden around the house. I recommend all that. My mother does her best. But it’s as if I ripped a plant out of the ground and put it in a sunny corner without digging it back in: here boy, that’s nice for you. The plant doesn’t think so.

Nothing has actually changed, I’m happy, you just have more care here. But my mother says: “My life is over. Only I am still here.”

The people are the friendliest, yes, she thinks so too. But she also says: there is nothing left to look forward to. All those people who are no longer there, those from her youth, those from her later years, that son who absolutely should have still been there. Sometimes she asks worriedly if anyone else has suddenly disappeared? Sometimes she says she’ll get used to it. And yes, the garden is beautiful.

People feel more comfortable in green, that has been researched. I immediately accept it, the view of stones and asphalt makes it more difficult to have any confidence in life, although not all greenery is equally invigorating. You have particularly mind-numbing greenery, not a butterfly to see, not a bird to hear, not a flower to wave in the wind. Then I’d rather be on an Amsterdam street.

But a sympathetic garden is not a panacea either. When there are no prospects left, just views of indifferent trees: nice perhaps, but they have nothing to do with me. As if you don’t live in the middle of it, as part of it, but as an abandoned flower pot in the garden.

Then those elderflowers can sway so much that you don’t get home.

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