I Don’t Do Vases
by azulomo | 3 min read
A ritual with no rules
I Don’t Do Vases - But I Do Wildflowers In Drinking Glasses, Everywhere I Go…
It began quietly. Not as a bold intention or a charming Pinterest-worthy tradition. Just a habit. A whisper of one, really. A thing I did without thinking — after the keys had turned, the bags were down, and the silence of a new place settled in. No matter where I was staying — countryside cottage, beachside rental, borrowed flat in someone else’s city — I’d find myself stepping outside. Wandering a little. Not far, just enough to notice. Enough to let the stillness in.
And then I’d start picking…
Not the polished, florist-approved stems with clever Latin names, but the wild ones. The ones with awkward angles and unidentifiable petals. A daisy with a bent neck. Something yellow that might be fennel, or might be entirely invented. A stalk of dry grass with a bit of end-of-summer drama. Whatever was growing nearby — common, scrappy, stubborn — ended up in my hands. I never went looking for beauty. I went looking for belonging. I just didn’t know that’s what I was doing yet.
There was something oddly grounding about it — the bend, the blur, the way these little wild things never asked to be picked, but never seemed to mind. I never brought scissors. I never needed a plan. It wasn’t about making anything pretty, not really. It was about contact. About participating in the landscape, even if just briefly. In that quiet act of picking something growing freely — and placing it gently in a glass meant for water or wine — I found a kind of soft ownership. Not of the land, but of the moment. A pause. A signal to myself that I’d arrived — not just physically, but emotionally.
Turns out, belonging sometimes comes in the shape of a bent daisy in a water glass…
Once back inside, I never reached for a vase — even if one was available. A vase always felt like a capital-D Decision. Like it belonged to someone with a plan. I was looking for something smaller, simpler, something that didn’t demand arrangement or artistry. So I’d reach for a drinking glass. A mug. An old jar that once held olives or peach jam. Something ordinary. Something unbothered.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
It changed the room — not in how it looked, but in how it felt. A little softer. A little more mine. The kind of softness you don’t photograph, because it doesn’t land in your eyes — it lands in your chest. A strange little bouquet of weeds by the sink, catching the afternoon light, does more for my nervous system than any amount of curated cushions or symmetrical shelves. It says: “You’re here now. You can relax.” Not because it’s perfect, but precisely because it isn’t.
A Small Act of Claiming Space
At azulomo, we’ve come to believe these small, human rituals are everything. They’re not aesthetic. They’re atmospheric. They don’t decorate — they anchor. A bunch of wildflowers in a jam jar isn’t trying to be anything. It’s not a centrepiece. It’s a quiet claim. A soft declaration that this place — even if it’s temporary — can be your own. Just for now.
It’s one of those intimate, ordinary things that makes you feel settled in a space without having to settle. And that’s the essence of soulful hosting, isn’t it? It’s not a grand gesture. It’s not always about a scented candle named after an Italian coastline. It’s the low-key confidence of knowing that if you show up as yourself — with your awkward weeds and your unstyled moments — it’s more than enough. In fact, it might be the most memorable thing about your stay.
Wildflowers as Philosophy…
This tiny ritual has followed me everywhere. Through countless guest stays, unrenovated corners, stormy nights, and radiant mornings. I’ve placed my foraged arrangements in seaside kitchens, mountain cabins, chic urban flats, and once, quite proudly, in a hotel minibar (oh yes, I certainly did!) They’ve stood on bookshelves, bathroom counters, and once on the back of a toilet that had a view of the Alps. It’s never about where you are — it’s about being there. Fully, presently, honestly.
It’s not for show. It’s for soul.
The azulomo Way ~ Small Moments, Big Presence
At azulomo, we design for the kind of presence that can’t be bought, only felt. That means homes that welcome you not with polish, but with poetry. A little lived-in. Completely human. We believe the deepest comfort often comes from the smallest things — a bunch of wildflowers in a drinking glass, the light falling just right on a bare wall, the quiet knowing that this space is already enough.
We don’t do vases (well, that’s a lie! I love my vases, vessels, ornaments, whatever you’d like to call them, I love them all, but when away from home…) We do soul.
And if you find yourself in one of our spaces, and spot a crooked little bunch of foraged something-or-other perched beside the kettle or windowsill, you’ll know: someone paused here. Someone grounded themselves here. And now, it’s your turn.
“This isn’t a post about interior styling. It’s about how a few wild stems in a drinking glass can shift your whole energy. About grounding yourself in the unfamiliar, claiming space in a gentle way, and remembering that home isn’t something you arrive at — it’s something you create. One scruffy daisy at a time. At azulomo, we believe those quiet little rituals are what make a stay feel soulful. They’re not big. They’re not showy. But they mean everything.”
