The window in my bedroom is always open - even in winter I open the sash for at least a couple of minutes to let in fresh air. I was never a fan of indoor plants. All these giant ficuses and strict monsteras seemed alien in my chaos of mugs, books and towels. But one spring I bought a pot of mint. Simply because it smelled funny at the market - even through other people's palms, bags and the morning hum. I brought it home and put it on the window - and suddenly everything became different.

Mint smells like you live on the seaside. Even if there is concrete and a hoarse bus outside your window. I started to notice that now the morning smells not of coffee, but of freshness, even if I slept through all the alarms again. When my friends come over, I almost always tear off a couple of leaves and throw them in the water - it's funny how a simple green leaf can say: "You're home."

Sometimes I tear off some mint and add it to a simple cup of tea - or put a sprig in my pocket before a long journey. So I carried it in my coat when I went north and waited for the train in a draft. I stood on an empty platform and heard the mint rustling in my pocket - and it smelled like a home that I didn't have yet.

Now I have four pots - in the kitchen, in the bathroom, on the balcony and, of course, in the bedroom. Each mint has its own character. One reaches for the sun, another is always climbing out the window, the third grows stubbornly downwards. I noticed that sometimes people are very similar to mint - they are always drawn to where there is more air and light.

I recently started making mint syrup. The recipe couldn't be simpler - two bunches of fresh mint, a glass of water and half a glass of sugar. You need to boil the water with mint for about ten minutes, strain, add sugar and heat again until dissolved. The cooled syrup can be added to anything - to iced tea, lemonade or even to morning oatmeal, if you want something sweet and cold.

I love this smell when the syrup is still hot. It fills the entire kitchen, seeps into the rooms and mixes with the smell of my shampoo and an old blanket. I think happiness is sometimes just like that - small, smelling of fresh mint and what you managed to save at home.

Maybe one day I will replace mint with lavender. Or rosemary. But for now I have a green army on the windowsills, and each leaf is a small answer to my eternal question "where is my home?" Sometimes home is just a window with a pot that you open even in the rain.