Over the past few weeks, the garden has been slowly waking up.

A bit of movement here, a new bloom there.

And we’ll just forget about that insanely odd hot spell that most of the country had several weeks back - glad that’s over.

As many of you know, we are at 6,000 foot elevation here in northern-Arizona and typically winter still makes appearances up to early May. For now, it’s been gorgeous and I’m jumping into spring.

I’ve gathered some of my recent garden glimpses (shared regularly on Substack Notes) for you to get a peek here in your in-box. I hope you enjoy.

Before our walk-about, a quick reminder:

I opened a special Spring Porch Invitation that runs through next week only. Alond with a limited release of original glass and wood artwork from the art studio.

The Invitation

Early Spring Garden Glimpses at Juniper Hill Cottage

Hellebores enthusiastically taking over the late winter garden.

They begin in February and some varieties will still be blooming in May if they enjoy good shade and moisture.

While most of the garden still sleeps, these little beauties seem perfectly content blooming through the cold - deep burgundy, soft pink, and the most subtle shades in between.

No wonder they’re my winter garden obsession.

Tiny white narcissus tucked into the river rock border on the south side of the cottage- one of those easy-to-miss little spring arrivals that rewards anyone who slows down enough to notice.

(Ibis is photo bombing again.)

And across the walkway, a reclaimed old steel chair keeping watch in the garden -doing what old garden pieces do best: adding a little soul and story.

The pansies are still holding their place, but the sedum is already rising up through the soil and enthusiastically taking over.

Early spring always begins this way - one season making room for the next.

Just look at those faces.

Violas and a Euphorbia… it doesn’t get much sweeter than this on a spring morning.

Tulips, snapdragons dancing in the wild spring breeze, and Nellie supervising—naturally.

Is spring dancing where you are?

The annual late-winter shuffle in the kitchen garden: frost cloth off, shade cloth on. I’ve got the whole transformation for you in under a minute.

The garden always seems to know what season it is - even when I’m still catching up.

Thanks for stopping by the porch for a moment.

And in case you haven’t had a chance to check out the monthly Garden Keeping Journal, here is April’s checklist for you. Beginning in May, these monthly guides will be available to paid subscribers.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. So how is spring coming along where you’re at? Is it painfully slow? Are you getting more time outside in the garden? I’d love to hear. 👇🏼

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I know, it’s Wednesday.

Typically you’ll find me in your email in-box on Fridays. But today I wanted to pop in (quickly) with this Spring Porch Invitation offer for you which runs through Friday, April 24.

Over the past months this little publication has grown into something I truly enjoy and value - a circle of readers who enjoy celebrating slower, simpler, more beautiful lifestyles.

To mark the spring season, I’ve gathered a small batch of handmade pieces from Baldur Studios (my little art studio) here at Juniper Hill Cottage in Prescott, Arizona to share with the members who help support the publication.

The gifts include small turned wood pieces from my father’s workshop and handmade glass beads crafted at my torch - simple objects made slowly over time. Each one is a little different.

• Annual Porch Companions - receive a small turned wood bowl
• Studio Stewards - receive a bowl and a glass bead

(And if you’re already an annual Porch Companion or Studio Steward, this thank-you includes you as well.)

Whether you choose to join as an Annual Companion or Steward - or simply continue reading from the garden steps - I’m grateful you’re here.

Thank you. Truly.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. I’ll share a more glimpses of the studio pieces over the next several days in Substack Notes, on the app, if you’d like to see them.

National Gardening Day is next week, on the 14th.

Honestly, for me it’s a daily celebration year-round. Even in the winter, while I might not be out in my garden actively growing things or enjoying the garden, I’m most definitely planning ahead for the coming season and dreaming up new ideas and projects.

Because gardening - even if it’s just a single pot on a windowsill - has a way of reminding us of something deeper: that we are connected to the natural world, and that tending something living changes us in small but meaningful ways.

Whether you have acres to work with, or just a small balcony or bay window and a few pots, the case can easily be made that gardening is good for your mind, body, and soul.

So in honor of National Gardening Day, I put together 10 reasons why gardening is good for you.

Gardening for your Mind

#1 Social Connection

Gardening brings people together and creates community. Share it with your family and neighbors - whether it’s the bounty from what you’ve grown, or the process of creating that space. Social networks are the glue in life.

#2 Stress Management

Just being outside, to be honest, is known to improve your mood and reduce stress. And if you are engaged in doing something creative and fun, it will only motivate you to spend more time outside. Gardening for many is a meditative and centering activity.

#3 Satisfaction

I don’t know anyone who doesn’t feel joy and satisfaction from watching something they planted grow and thrive. Gardening lets you exercise your creative juices.

When you watch your efforts develop and your garden grow, you will build self-esteem and pleasure in a task well done.

But gardening doesn’t just help our mindset - it gets our bodies moving as well.

Gardening for your Body

#4 Fresh Air

If you are fortunate enough to have a private garden space, or even just a small balcony, working on your garden gets you outside. In the fresh air.

Sun, fresh air, and the vitamin D generated by the ultraviolet rays that also feed the plants are good for your well-being.

#5 Exercise

If it’s just a small pot or two on a windowsill, this one may not apply. But virtually any other size garden will have you moving and stretching and possibly even hauling heavy loads of soil and digging holes.

Moving is a good thing and something we should all do more of. And gardening is something you can do your entire life - even when you’re a bit stiff and getting older - with just a few modifications.

#6 Immunity Booster

We’ve probably all heard about the studies that show that early exposure to the land and gardening creates a healthier immune system. Exposure to dirt and microbes is said to reduce allergies and risks for autoimmune disorders.

So get in there and get dirty.

#7 Freshness and Flavor

If you choose to garden with culinary herbs or fruits and vegetables, you won’t believe what you’ve been missing at the grocery store.

How many times have we all heard that a fresh tomato still warm from the sun isn’t even remotely like the ones you can buy at the store?

Plus it’s budget-friendly if you grow your food from seed.

Beyond the practical benefits, gardens nourish something a little deeper as well.

Gardening for your Soul

#8 Wildlife

Gardens bring wildlife for the food and shelter that your space offers.

When you start to attract wildlife, you ultimately create a boost to the local ecosystem and can even improve the microclimate of your little corner of the world.

It’s a joy to watch birds and butterflies flourish in your garden (assuming they don’t eat your strawberries!).

#9 Environment

If you choose to garden organically, and if you are adding trees and native water-wise plants to your space, you are improving the balance in your little ecosystem and helping the larger environment.

#10 Beauty

Gardens and nature are aesthetically pleasing, and often gardens can truly be a work of art.

I often say that there is pure joy in beautiful surroundings. Create your own garden in a way that you find charming and appealing and spend time there every day just observing it - just because it’s pretty.

Thanks so much for following along.

I hope you found a little motivation in one or two of these ideas. Even if you’re not new to gardening, maybe this will remind you why you fell in love with it when you first started.

Personally, I find gardening to be my truest solace. That, along with working at my glass torch in the art studio here at Juniper Hill Cottage.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. What’s growing in your corner of the world right now? Garden beds, balcony pots, or even just a hopeful windowsill - I’d love to hear.

Leave a comment

In today’s Porch Journal I’ve got a few behind-the-scenes glimpses from life here at Juniper Hill Cottage - a 1924 craftsman bungalow located in the high-country of Northern Arizona. It’s a small house - where life is well-lived.

Lately I’ve been sharing what I call Cottage Glimpses, over on my Substack daily notes.

They’re not grand design moments or perfectly styled rooms. Just corners of daily life in an old house.

Our front door wearing a brass dragonfly knocker.

Apparently I’m leaving the eucalyptus holiday wreath up until the scent gives out. A lovely gift from my beautiful Mama.

And this original 1924 window on the porch - the craftmanship and detail give me joy every day. (We just finished renovating the window last week - which was in pretty rough shape, and I couldn’t be more thrilled with the result.)

The evenings are warming now, so we are easing into our daily evening porch sittin’ ritual. Best way to end the day EVER.

It’s the little things ✨

A little corner of the garden room in the soft morning light.
A straw garden hat hanging beside a well-used apron.
A ristra of dried chiles by the window.

Ordinary things, really.

And no, this isn’t staged for this image!

But somehow those are often the very things that make a home feel warm, lived-in, and beautiful.

A Cottage Glimpse - Before & After

Another corner of the garden room at Juniper Hill Cottage - this one my little office (aka writing desk).

Here’s a progression, to show how it evolved over the years - beginning in 2010 (when it was 87 years old) through to today, when it’s become my lovely writing and work space in this beautiful, historic 1924 cottage.

My desk now is essentially sitting where that grill lived on the porch.

That’s my office, and where I write - just a corner, but it couldn’t be more perfect.

Some evenings the cottage seems to glow from within.

The moon hanging low over the neighborhood. The old alligator junipers standing guard, heavy with berries that will later fall in great messy waves across the property.

But for now… they simply frame the house, making me feel rooted and tucked in.

I’m curious - do you have a favorite little corner at home? I’d love to hear.

Thank you for spending a little porch time with me today!

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. 👉🏼 I’ll be sharing something a little special here next Wednesday - a small spring campaign and a handful of original artworks from the studio. More soon…

Did you know you can ‘like’ and comment on this letter?

If you’d like to join the conversation, you can follow the link below to read and respond in the Substack app. It’s free and ad-free.

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Today I wanted to share a little more of the story behind The Whiskey Porch - how I arrived here, and why this work matters so much to me.

And it begins with a simple question:

These are questions I glossed over for a really long time.

Because from the outside, my life looked full - busy, exciting, and by most standards, extremely successful. But somewhere along the way, I found myself on the wrong side of that equation.

It was a wake-up call I didn’t see coming - but one I’m deeply grateful for, because it came early enough that I still had time to choose differently.

What followed were some of the hardest decisions I’ve made. Bold shifts. Letting go of a lifestyle that looked right on paper, but didn’t feel like me. Learning to trust something deeper than logic.

I don’t share this story often.

But it’s at the root of who I am now - and why I do the work I do here at The Whiskey Porch.

I spent decades working in fast-moving, high-performance environments.

Leadership roles first in Silicon Valley, where the pace never really let up. Start-ups, the dot-com boom. And then the bust. Everything was measured, driven, and constantly in motion.

In the middle of that, my personal life took a sharp turn.

I made the decision to leave my first marriage with very young kids and start over - something that required more risk, resilience, and courage than I can easily put into words.

Over time, I rebuilt - a new life in Arizona. A career with the NFL in strategic planning. A beautiful, spacious home in Phoenix that checked all the boxes. From the outside, it looked like I had found my footing again - strong, stable, successful.

But underneath it, something still didn’t sit right.

The life I had built worked. The kids and I were thriving. It looked the part. But it didn’t feel like home anymore.

Being a woman in a leadership role in the high-stakes, big-ego world of the National Football League was, by most measures, an accomplishment. It wasn’t a path I had set out to pursue - and to be honest, I wasn’t even a professional sports fan.

As a finance executive, my work spanned everything from player salary cap strategy to ticket pricing, and even navigating a league-wide player lockout. The stakes were real - lots of zeros and commas. And the pressure was intense and constant. Did I mention the politics?

At home, life as a single mom with my young twins was full and happy - they were my world. I had no regrets.

But over time, it became clear that my professional work itself wasn’t meaningful to me - not in the way life should be. The politics, the posturing, the scale of it all - it was real. And so was the stress, the pressure, the intensity I felt in my bones.

I found myself craving something entirely different. Fresh, cool air. Time with my hands in the dirt. Big trees for shade. A life that felt rooted - connected to place and to people. A place where I wasn’t defined by my career, or moving through the world mostly anonymous.

My now-husband and I began spending more time exploring the mountains and small towns of northern Arizona.

With some hesitation we started talking about what it might look like to step away from the pace and scale of city life and corporate careers.

That’s where something shifted. It was the first glimpse of what home could feel like.

At first, these occasional day trips north into the mountains of Arizona, were an escape - just to breathe the cooler air and spend a day among the ponderosa pines.

Prescott drew us in: historic streets, tales of Wyatt Earp and the wild west, old cottages, and a slower rhythm that felt worlds away from the pace of the city. What started as a simple getaway slowly became something more.

Then one weekend, almost on a whim, we walked through a small, overgrown and decidedly neglected 1924 Craftsman bungalow tucked beneath the old alligator junipers.

It was in pretty bad shape, but something about it felt right - many things, in fact.

The next day we made an offer - less out of careful planning and more out of a heartfelt instinct we couldn’t quite explain.

Looking back now, 16 years later, that little bungalow was the first real step toward the life we were searching for.

(If you’re curious, I shared the full story here - We Accidentally Bought a Bungalow.)

At first, the idea felt almost whimsical - that we could truly shift our lives. Downsize. Simplify. Step away from the pace and scale of the big city and corporate careers without disconnecting from the world.

What I know now is that it’s not a dream at all.

It’s a decision. A series of very real choices made over time, with intention. And when those choices align with what matters most, the result is a life that works elegantly. And comfortably.

Living this way has reshaped how I see home, design, and the rhythm of everyday life.

🌼

A house isn’t truly a home without a garden. Home and garden are not separate spaces - they’re part of the same living space, shaping how we move through each day.

🌼

Beauty isn’t found in trends or rare, exciting moments. It lives in the everyday. Beauty is a necessary part of a meaningful life, and worth creating and seeking out.

🌼

Smaller does not mean less. Thoughtfully designed small-not-tiny spaces are often more functional and enjoyable than the square-footage-impressive houses we used to think we needed.

🌼

And slower living isn’t about withdrawing or a boring lifestyle. It’s about engaging with it more fully. Doing more of what you’re most passionate about. Not doingless. A more intentional pace brings depth and meaning to the ordinary days that ultimately make up most of life.

I’ve been shaping spaces for as long as I can remember.

My younger brother used to joke that I was born with graph paper and a drafting table in my mind.

It’s a little ironic that I spent much of my career designing systems and strategic financial plans, because in every spare moment I was working with spaces instead - inside and out. Remodeling homes, planning gardens, sketching ideas, imagining how a place could feel better to live in.

By the time I officially started The Whiskey Porch in 2019, I had been a designer, artist, and creator for most of my life. But that was the moment I chose to turn those instincts into a business - to help others create spaces that reflect how they truly want to live.

Writing came naturally alongside the design work.

What began on my website blog eventually led me here to Substack, where the conversation could grow into something more like a community. Because over time I’ve realized that what I do isn’t just about designing spaces - it’s about a way of seeing the world.

Home, garden, beauty, and everyday living are all deeply connected.

Helping others create spaces that feel personal, functional, and full of life is one of the great privileges of my work. It’s a gift to spend my days bringing a little more beauty into the world - and into the lives of the people I work with.

I just turned 60 a few weeks ago. I’ve learned so much, and come so far.

Life’s never been better. And the future never more exciting.

When I look back now, the definition of success that once seemed so clear has changed completely.

For me, a life well-lived isn’t measured by titles, seniority, salary, pace, or scale anymore. It’s measured in simpler ways - in the feeling of being rooted in a place that truly feels like home, in meaningful work, and in beauty woven into the everyday.

I suspect the answers are very different for each of us.

But asking the question may be the most important step of all.

Thank you, for being here and being part of this journey.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. I’d love to hear your answer to the questions in this letter☝🏼. You’re welcome to share in the comments if you feel like chatting.

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Happy Spring! It’s the Spring Equinox, also known as the Vernal Equinox. That beautiful time of year when day and night are nearly equal, gently shifting us toward brighter, warmer days.

Importantly, also, it’s my granddaughter’s 5th birthday today.

Happy birthday sweet Nora Rose. 🎁

For me, the Spring Equinox symbolizes fresh starts and the true joy of observing nature awakening around us. This feels like New Year to me much more than January 1st does.

It’s the ideal moment to pause, reflect, and thoughtfully welcome the new season into our homes and gardens.

If you’re new here, welcome.

Letters from the Porch is where I share seasonal reflections, garden notes, and simple ways to live a little smaller, simpler, and more beautifully. Coming to you from the high country of northern Arizona.

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I’ve got seven beautifully simple ideas for celebrating the turn of the season.

​1. Sunrise tea

Begin the day slowly with a warm cup of herbal tea at sunrise. On warmer mornings I’ll step into the garden and gather a few leaves of mint, chamomile, or lemon balm to steep in hot water.

Right now the garden is only just waking up here in Prescott, Arizona, so I’ll probably reach for some herbs I dried from last season.

​2. Garden wake-up

Step outside and give the garden a gentle wake-up. A little tidying, a handful of wildflower seeds, or clearing winter debris is often all it takes to start the season moving again.

​For more helpful garden tips, explore my Garden Keeping Journals.

​3. Bring the outdoors in

Open the windows and let the fresh air move through the house. A small arrangement of daffodils or budding branches on the table makes the whole room feel like spring.

I’ve got daffodils just starting and the hellebores are still doing their thing — a small bouquet in an antique vase on my desk is a real treat.

4. Outdoor seating refresh

Swap in fresh cushion covers or bring out your favorite outdoor blankets. Small touches make porches and patios feel welcoming again after winter.

​5. Equinox porch gathering

Invite friends or neighbors for an easy-going gathering on your porch or patio. Lanterns, cozy blankets, and seasonal treats set a welcoming scene and highlight the joy of simple outdoor living. Later in the season we do this daily, and right around sunset. But today maybe it’s a late afternoon gathering instead to capture the warmth.

​6. Cook

Prepare meals that highlight fresh spring ingredients like asparagus, leafy greens, and garden herbs. Enjoying these dishes outdoors makes the most of the longer, warmer evenings.

Last night I made a big pot of Pozole Rojo. It took nearly five hours, but I love the slow rhythm of cooking like that.

The best part is that it’s always even better the next day - which makes tonight’s Equinox dinner easy.

7. Get creative

Spend a few minutes sketching or watercoloring the scenes around you. Artistic skill isn’t necessary - just appreciation for nature and the gentle rhythm of the season.

A nice quality journal or sketchbook is always a fun way to make this even more special.

I keep meaning to learn how to draw botanical pencil illustrations… one of these days.

My plan for this equinox weekend is to spend time with some dear friends who are coming up the mountain for a few days, and also to sow some Columbine ‘Black Barlow’ seeds in my patio shade border.

Celebrating the Spring Equinox is about savoring the seasonal cycles of this earth and reconnecting with the natural rhythms of the season.

However you choose to mark the day, I hope you are noticing the returning light. I’d love to hear what your plans are and how spring is showing up where you’re at.

​Wishing you a beautiful and inspired start to spring!

With contentment & possibility,

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Hello my lovely readers.

Welcome to the porch.

This letter is the third in a short series exploring smaller living - from the original invitation, to the idea of right-sizing, to the intentional choice itself. In the final piece next month, I’ll share the surprising gifts that begin to appear on the other side of that decision.

Most people don’t choose smaller living until they have to.

The decision arrives through necessity (sometimes with a bit of kicking and screaming) - aging, loss, finances, changing bodies, changing energy. And by then, the choice can feel reactive rather than intentional.

And difficult. And exhausting.

But what happens when that decision is made earlier? Not as an escape, and not as an ideology - just as a thoughtful, long-range choice about how you want to live?

I’ve come to believe that choosing earlier changes everything.

It allows scale, comfort, beauty, and adaptability to be considered together. It turns downsizing from something endured into something shaped.

In a smaller, more intentional home, details matter more. Light. Storage. Circulation. How rooms connect to one another and to the garden beyond. Hospitality becomes flexible rather than formal. Beauty stops being decorative and starts becoming essential and fully integrated into your space.

There’s no single right answer to how much space is enough.

But there is something powerful about asking the question before urgency forces it.

When smaller living is forced, or never happens, it can be a harsh ending.

I see it happening over and over - in this anguished, resistant struggle. Older folks who have lived a large life, in a large home, raised kids and pets and gardens. Where their homes just continue to accumulate the stuff of life in dusty corners and forgotten boxes crammed into corners.

And then suddenly, after years of resisting the downshift, these folks are forced to make an urgent decision (or even more often rely on their adult children to make the choice) of where to go at a moment’s notice because their finances or health just no longer support the maintenance and upkeep of their home.

My father was one of these who chose to hang on to his large and beautiful home - partly because he was in denial that he could handle it all and arrange things for his passing as he suffered with a terminal illness. And partly because he at that point was just too overwhelmed to think through a decision like that - understandably. We ended up rescuing him on death’s door (literally kicking and screaming) and getting him setup in hospice care for one last week of life with some dignity. He thanked me.

The ensuing 18-month process of getting his belongings and property sorted, dispersed, and managed was painful, overwhelming and complicated.

It didn’t have to be like that. It broke my heart into a thousand pieces.

Choosing earlier changes the design equation

Stories like that have altered the way I think about our homes and the choices we make about them.

There’s so much more grace in making that decision to let go of the stuff and the space MUCH earlier in life.

Granted there’s that period in life where literally everything expands - with children, comes the need for more space and the things of life to support them as they grow and learn.

But there’s a definite moment where the last kiddo has flown the nest (or been gently pushed out). As it should be. They are out in the world building their own path and popping in only occasionally to be “at home” with you and their larger family.

I can promise that they do not need their childhood room and en-suite bathroom to feel welcome and “at home”.

There’s that moment when you have a full life still ahead of you, and no longer need those trappings of the square footage and massive storage spaces and extra bedrooms.

The opportunity to make a thoughtful plan, to align your home space with how you truly live now, becomes a planning advantage.

You can imagine an elegant solution that allows you to live life to the fullest and ALSO to age gracefully in a flexible and adaptable situation. And make that shift in a thoughtful and easeful way.

Your priority can be your lifestyle rather than maintaining what you currently have.

Smaller spaces demand better design

Smaller homes are often perceived as less desirable - because so often the design is non-existent. But thoughtful edits and adjustments can completely shift that reality.

It does require imagination, thoughtful design, and effort. It can take time. Whether you are remodeling an older smaller home, or building one. Even new builds are often a bit soul-less. At first.

In my professional design work, I can spend weeks working closely with homeowners to address the finer points of layered and intentional lighting, integrated and effective storage, the circulation and flow of the spaces and the interior connection to the outdoor spaces.

The color plan and the quality of the finishes can be uplifted to bring warmth, and space, and elegance.

Gardens, porches, and patios expand your living spaces and should be fully incorporated into the larger plan.

The most insightful design moments happen when someone visits our cottage and is thrilled with the spacious feeling and thoughtful design - only to be shocked and amazed to find out how small it really is. Those reactions are proof that a well designed space can function not only for our personal needs and activities but even for entertaining and large gatherings.

The freedom in smaller living

Smaller living isn’t about deprivation. It’s about alignment.

I’ve written much more extensively about these advantages, but I wanted to include a short discussion on the many advantages.

First and foremost is the expanded time and energy for doing what truly matters most to you. That freedom of how to spend your time, and your resources, is the prize that is well worth the effort to downsize as soon as possible.

Lest I neglect to mention the obvious - a smaller home requires less maintenance, less resources to heat and cool, less effort and time to clean.

A smaller home virtually always offers significant financial breathing room.

Hospitality becomes less about impressing and more about connecting and sharing.

And, of course, there’s less space to store the stuff that burdens your closets and attics while living in mysterious, dusty boxes. It’s stuff - you can’t take it with you….

Agency rather than inertia

I think part of the inertia that many of us feel when we have an established home, that we’re used to, and reasonably comfortable in, is that we can’t imagine what it would feel like to start again.

Maybe you’re in your forties or fifties when it’s just you and your partner - the kids are off in the world. Or you’re in your thirties and not planning to have kids.

Don’t focus on what’s challenging about that shift. Instead, focus on what would be exciting and amazing and freeing.

What might shift - in your home, your time, or your sense of freedom - if you chose more deliberately, sooner rather than later?

ICYMI - the first two segments:

And, finally, next month I’ll be sharing The Gift of Downsizing - I hope you’ll join me for that final segment.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. As ever, I truly love to hear your thoughts and comments and get a conversation going. Please drop a note in the comments and let’s connect.

In Sweden, we have a few lifestyle concepts that may be part of the reason Swedes are often considered among the happiest people in the world.

I wanted to share an introduction to one of them: lagom, which translates to “just enough.”

But culturally, lagom goes deeper than that. It’s about living in moderation. Finding balance - in life, at work, in your finances, and even the size of your home.

It’s about thinking of the whole, not just the self.

To be fair, this idea can be, ironically, overdone. This isn’t about balancing a math equation.

At its core, lagom offers something almost radical in a culture that constantly urges us toward more, bigger, better. It invites us to resist extremes. To embrace contentment.

How to Lagom:

Apply it to everything, or only to the bits that feel out of balance.

Consider where you might find that sweet spot - where your choices feel peaceful and steady, without tipping too far in either direction.

You might decide to truly enjoy a luxurious meal or special treat, without guilt, as long as it doesn’t throw your health and well-being off course.

Do it.

And when you do, enjoy it fully. Just maybe not every single day.

Or consider living in a home that’s smaller than most, but big enough for you.

Everyone’s lagom will be different, and very personal. And that can be liberating beyond measure.

I didn’t always recognize how deeply this way of thinking shaped me. Swedish is my first language. My mother came to the U.S. in the 1950s, and although I was born here, we spent my early childhood in Sweden - and every summer there after that.

It wasn’t until I began raising my twins that I fully understood the calm and contentment lagom gave me.

And it wasn’t until I began writing, years later, that I learned how to articulate it.

I’d love to know - have you ever heard of lagom? What do you think about the idea of moderation in your own life?

With contentment & possibility,

Did you know you can ‘like’ and comment on this letter?

If you’d like to join the conversation, you can follow the link below to read and respond in the Substack app. It’s free and ad-free.

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P.S. As ever, thank you for being here. Truly.

This in-between seasonal angst we sometimes feel right around mid-February? It’s real.

The shine of the New Year has softened. The days are stretching just enough to notice.

And yet… it’s still winter.

The spring equinox is still 3 weeks away.

Up here in the high-country of Northern Arizona, winter lets go in fits and spurts. The storms have a way of reminding us not to rush things. In April and May, just when the last bit of snow begins to melt and the roads feel clear again, another cold front rolls through as if to say, “Not so fast.”

Meanwhile, the smallest signs of spring are quietly pushing through. The bobbing heads of the snowdrops. The fluttering of all the song birds singing with glee.

Spring will come.

But this stretch - this doorway between seasons - in an invitation.

To relish in the anticipation, to prepare for the shift, and seek the beauty in the process.

I’ve come to love this late winter rhythm. There’s something deeply satisfying about this pause, while the world still moves a little slower. Not rushing into spring… but getting ready for it. Thoughtfully. Intentionally.

If you’re feeling that restless energy too, here are a few gentle ways to embrace this season - to harness all that spring fever without missing the beauty of this in-between moment.

Room to Breathe🧹

One of the gifts of late winter is that we’re still spending more time indoors. The pace is steadier. The light is changing, but we’re not yet pulled outside at every opportunity.

I’ve found this is the perfect time to make space.

Not in a frantic, tear-the-house-apart kind of way. Just a steady, thoughtful reset.

A Deep Clean (Before Spring Arrives)

I know - it’s not technically spring yet. But I’ve always wondered why we wait for the first warm day to begin that deep cleaning ritual.

Honestly? I would much rather be outside wandering the garden or exploring a trail when the weather finally softens.

So I like to get ahead of it.

A good, thorough refresh now - after the holidays, after the winter nesting - clears the air in a way that feels energizing. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. Even choosing one room, one cupboard, one forgotten corner can shift the mood of the whole house.

By the time spring truly arrives, the heavy lifting is already done.

A Gentle Declutter

There’s something about the holidays - all the décor, the layering, the cozy abundance - that eventually begins to feel… a little crowded.

And maybe even a little stale.

Late winter is a wonderful time to thin things out again. Pack away what no longer feels seasonal. Donate what you’re not using. Clear a surface. Edit a shelf.

I always start with our main living spaces. Just enough to feel lighter. Brighter. Like fresh air has moved through.

And it’s helpful to remember - it is just stuff.

The Linen Closet Reality Check

This one always surprises me.

How do we accumulate so many towels? So many sheet sets? So many “maybe someday” quilts? Honestly, even my basket of rags is exploding with too much.

Late winter is a practical and oddly satisfying time to pull everything out. Fold, wash, organize what you truly use. Let go of what you don’t. Wash and donate anything still in good condition.

There’s something freeing about knowing exactly what you have — and that it’s enough.

Making space now creates breathing room for whatever the next season brings.

Crafting room to breathe is one of the practices within my Small, Not Tiny series — choosing sufficiency over excess, and learning how much lighter a space can feel when it simply holds what matters.

Garden Beginnings 🌱

If you’re anything like me, this is the time of year when the garden starts whispering again.

Not loudly. Not insistently. Just enough to stir the imagination.

Starting Seeds (With a Little Patience)

It may still be cold in the mornings. The soil may not be ready. But there’s something deeply satisfying about opening those seed packets and imagining what’s to come.

You don’t need a greenhouse or an elaborate setup. A small tray on a sunny windowsill. A few herbs. A tomato or two. Something to tend while we wait.

That said - this is still late winter.

Up here, at 6,000 ft elevation, the season often has a few more cold snaps tucked away for as late as May. So protect those tender starts. Pace yourself. Let anticipation build instead of rushing it.

The garden teaches patience better than almost anything.

Kitchen Garden Dreaming

I often hear people say they would love a proper kitchen garden… if only they had more space.

But the truth is, you’d be amazed what can thrive in a thoughtfully designed small area. A collection of pots on a deck. A raised bed in a courtyard. A narrow strip along a sunny fence.

Late winter is the perfect time to sketch ideas. Flip through inspiring images. Consider what you truly want to grow - and why.

When spring arrives, you’ll be ready.

The Garden Shed Reset

Confession: fall cleanup is never as graceful as I imagine it will be.

By the time the first deep freeze or snow threatens, tools are being tucked away quickly. Pots get stacked. Twine and gloves are shoved into corners with the best of intentions.

And then… we forget.

A quiet afternoon now, sorting and organizing, makes that first true spring day infinitely more satisfying. There’s nothing quite like opening the shed and finding everything ready.

It’s a small act of preparation - but it sets the tone for the entire season.

For those who enjoy a more detailed seasonal rhythm, the Garden Keeping Journals go deeper into what to plant, tend, and prepare each month.

Elevating the Spaces We Live In 🏡

By late winter, I start noticing my surroundings differently.

The scuffs on the walls near the back door. The desk that’s become a holding zone instead of a workspace. The small irritations that didn’t matter in December but feel heavier now.

This is a wonderful season for thoughtful shifts at home - both small and significant.

Beautiful, Functional Desks

Many of us spend hours each day at a desk or kitchen table that’s… less than inspiring.

It doesn’t have to stay that way.

You don’t need a large office or a full remodel to create a space that feels calm and purposeful. Sometimes it’s as simple as clearing the surface completely. Moving the desk closer to the light. Adding one lamp that casts a warm glow during these still-early evenings.

Adding a trailing plant in a gorgeous pot and a pretty tray will bring warmth and color.

In mountain winters, where the light can feel both brilliant and fleeting, paying attention to how your workspace feels makes a real difference.

A thoughtfully arranged desk supports everything you’re building and managing.

A Gentle Color Re-Fresh

Color has an outsized effect on how we experience our homes - and yet it’s often the last thing we consider.

By late winter, I can usually tell if a room is feeling tired. Maybe the palette feels heavy after months of cozy layering. Maybe it just needs a subtle shift - a new pillow cover, a different throw, a fresh coat of paint in a space that’s been waiting - or well loved.

You don’t have to overhaul everything.

Sometimes it’s simply asking: Does this feel good to me?

A small, intentional color adjustment now can make a space feel renewed long before the garden begins to bloom. And once the nice weather hits, you won’t want to be indoors painting.

Beginning the Bigger Conversations

And then there are the larger dreams.

The kitchen that almost works.
The bathroom that needs more light.
The outdoor space you’ve been meaning to reimagine for years.

One thing I’ve learned - both personally and professionally in my design work - is that meaningful and thoughtful remodels always take longer than we think. Much longer.

The design conversations, the planning, the decisions… they deserve time.

Late winter is an ideal season to begin.

Not to rush.
Not to panic.
Just to start the discussion.

By the time autumn rolls around, you’ll be grateful you gave those ideas room to breathe.

Embrace That Hygge Time of Year

All this talk of preparation and freshening and dreaming… and, this is still winter.

And I don’t want to rush her out the door.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about hygge and my Swedish upbringing - that gentle, cozy contentment that carries us through the darker months. The candlelight. The layered blankets. The slower evenings. The permission to rest.

Up here in the high country, I’ve learned not to be fooled by one warm afternoon. So we pace ourselves. We cover what needs covering. We let things unfold in their proper time.

Anticipation is part of the sweetness. Savour the in-between! Spring will come…

Stay warm.
Stay hopeful.
And let the anticipation do its sweet work.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. I’d love to know what late winter looks like where you are. Are you already in bloom? Still tucked under blankets of snow? Dreaming of summer evenings on the porch? Hit reply and tell me.

Leave a comment

In today’s Porch Journal, I’m sharing a few vintage botanical illustrations inspired by winter woodlands.

I know many of you are deep in the dark and chilly days of the season right now.

Here, in the high-country of northern Arizona I find so much comfort in the steady presence of trees. The huge Ponderosa Pines and Alligator Junipers that surround us offer a kind of reassurance: strong, grounded, and enduring.

I’ve long been drawn to botanical artwork, though I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe it’s the careful observation of the artists. The patience. The detail and skill. The way these pieces ask us to slow down and really see.

I’ve always hoped to try my hand at pencil illustrations one day, but for now I content myself with collecting - a few old botanical prints hang on the walls of our little 1924 Craftsman bungalow, and digital images of many more.

I love their beauty, yes, but I also love the history behind them.

Pinus Deodara (Deodar Cedar)

From A Description of the Genus Pinus, 1824, Aylmer Bourke Lambert - England

There’s something so inspiring about botanical studies like this one - the patience, the precision, the deep respect for the plant itself. These works weren’t rushed. They were created through careful observation and devotion, and you can feel that still, centuries later.

Pinus larix (Larch)

From A Description of the Genus Pinus, 1824, Aylmer Bourke Lambert - England

I love that Larch is a conifer that breaks the rules - soft needles, golden fall color, then bare branches in winter.

Attributed to Pierre-Joseph Redouté — France

Amygdalus communis (Almond), late 18th–early 19th century - Botanical illustration, watercolor and ink

From A Description of the Genus Pinus (1824)

Aylmer Bourke Lambert — England, Botanical illustration (engraving with hand coloring)

Lambert wasn’t out hiking and sketching in the wilderness himself. He was more of a scholarly botanist and collector - working from specimens and correspondence sent to him from explorers and nurseries around the world. That actually makes these plates feel even more remarkable: they were part of a global exchange of scientific discovery during the early 19th century.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing some close looks at my hellebores - the true drama queens of the winter garden - in my daily Notes on Substack. I’d love to have you join me over there.

And if you’re a fellow gardener, I also share a Garden Keeping Journal on the first Saturday of each month. The March edition goes out soon to all subscribers.

I enjoy sharing these small moments and spaces that shape our lives. Let me know what you think.

Thank you for spending a little porch time with me today!

With contentment & possibility,

Did you know you can ‘like’ and comment on this letter?

If you’d like to join the conversation, you can follow the link below to read and respond in the Substack app. It’s free and ad-free.

Get more from Miriam🌼Carlson-Maier in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

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P.S. I read every comment, and I always enjoy hearing from you. If you’d like to join the conversation, comments in the Substack app are the easiest way.

Hello my lovely readers.

Welcome to the porch. Come on in, stay awhile.

Today we’re talking about what makes a home comfortable. Somewhere between “bigger is better” and “tiny is virtuous,” most of us are tentatively asking the same thing:

“What’s just right for real life?”

In my last Design Dispatches post, Smaller, Simpler, More Beautiful, I explored why extremes tend to fail us - why more space doesn’t always mean more ease, and why radical reduction can create its own kind of strain.

Today is about the what. Not a manifesto. Not a square-footage debate. Just clarity.

When you imagine a smaller home, what do you hope it gives you more of -time, calm, beauty, freedom?

Our culture loves extremes. Oversized homes on one end. Tiny homes on the other. Both are highly visible, highly symbolic, and highly polarizing.

But most of us don’t actually live - or want to live - at the edges.

Most are looking for a home that feels:

• lighter, but not fragile

• simpler, but not cramped

• beautiful, but still cozy

That’s the missing middle. And it’s where “small, not tiny” lives.

Call it the Goldilocks question if you like - not too much, not too little, but just right for the way life actually unfolds.

Have you ever felt caught between “too much house” and “not enough room to breathe”?

Tiny homes are ingenious. I mean that sincerely. They are brilliant exercises in efficiency and constraint. Rather romantic really.

But here’s the distinction that matters:

Tiny homes optimize space. Right-sized homes absorb change and embrace life.

Most people don’t need a home that requires constant optimization.

They need a home that can handle guests, illness, work shifts, aging bodies. A home that flexes with evolving relationships and families expanding and shrinking - without becoming a daily performance.

Tiny living works best when life is stable and predictable. For many others, it becomes rigid. Every item must justify itself. Every disruption creates friction.

And friction isn’t the same thing as simplicity.

Where in your life do you need flexibility more than efficiency (or square footage) right now?

A right-sized home focuses on proportion, flow, and livability - not just reduction.

It tends to have:

• Rooms that can change roles without collapsing

• Circulation that respects the footprint, rather than wasting it

• Quiet, integrated storage for what you actually use and need

• Clear thresholds - an entry moment, a porch, a garden gate - that let the home live a little larger

• Spaces that earn their keep, instead of sitting idle or over-specialized

• Space in the budget for fewer, but better details

This is the difference between a home that looks efficient on paper and one that feels generous day after day.

Which spaces in your home work hardest for you - and which ones fight you?

Every home is a set of tradeoffs.

The trouble with trends is that they pretend there’s a perfect answer. There isn’t. There’s only a better fit for real life.

Often that means:

• fewer rooms, but better ones

• a smaller footprint paired with stronger indoor-outdoor living

• less storage, but smarter storage

• simplicity that allows flexibility, not rigidity

If you’ve ever walked into a home and thought, “It’s small, but it feels right,” you’ve felt good tradeoffs at work - proportion and thoughtful design doing more than square footage ever could.

A right-sized home doesn’t ask you to perform restraint or prove virtue. It simply supports you - comfortably, reliably - through ordinary days and inevitable change.

In my next post, I’ll get practical: how smaller homes succeed or fail based on circulation, storage, thresholds, and flexibility - the unglamorous details that make rooms earn their keep.

For now, I’ll leave you with the Goldilocks question to ponder:

What would be just right for you - not in an ideal life, but in your real one?

Leave a comment

In the next Design Dispatches letter, I’m planning to explore Living Smaller, On Purpose. On deciding what’s enough before life decides for you. I’ve got that planned for two weeks from today.

Thank you for being here with me.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. These letters are meant to be a conversation, not a conclusion. If you’re wrestling with what “small, not tiny” means in your own life, I’d love to hear where you are in that thinking.

In today’s Porch Journal I’ve got a few glimpses from the garden here at Juniper Hill Cottage - a 1924 craftsman bungalow located in the high-country of Northern Arizona.

It’s winter, but it’s beautiful.

The Shenandoah grasses all tucked in for winter - I gave them a little ‘bun treatment’ to help them ride out the cold months ahead. Practical? Yes. Slightly silly? Also yes.

But it's reminiscent of hay stacks and I love how they look in this winter light.

I almost deleted this shot because the wind added just enough motion to soften the focus — but in the end, I decided I liked that sense of movement.

Moonlit Shenandoah grasses, tied and waiting through winter. My little ‘grass bonnets’ on the corner of the front garden.

As a bonus, there’s a partial view of Thumb Butte on the horizon. You’ll see it often if you spend time here. It’s a couple of miles away and rises nearly 1,000 feet in a short distance. It’s a steady presence of many evening porch views at Juniper Hill Cottage.

A few days later, we had a light dusting of snow as darkness was settling in. I couldn’t resist stepping outside to capture the small snowballs caught in the grass tufts.

Ravens riding the winter air above the house. Love their chatter - not sure if you can hear them, but they’re always part of the soundscape here.

These grasses are especially striking in late fall, when the plumes puff into soft, pinkish-auburn clouds.

They’re delicate and tricky to photograph, but with the sun behind them they seem to glow.

I love using tall grasses like these in a landscape - the movement and vertical lines bring such a beautiful contrast.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing some close looks at my hellebores — the true drama queens of the winter garden - in my daily Notes on Substack. I’d love to have you join me over there.

And if you’re a fellow plant lover, I also share a Garden Keeping Journal on the first Saturday of each month. The February edition goes out tomorrow to all subscribers.

I enjoy sharing these in-between moments - bits of life., and our spaces that shape it. Let me know what you think.

Thank you for spending a little porch time with me today!

With contentment & possibility,

Did you know you can ‘like’ and comment on this letter?

If you’d like to join the conversation, you can follow the link below to read and respond in the Substack app. It’s free and ad-free.

Get more from Miriam🌼Carlson-Maier in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

P.S. I read every comment, and I always enjoy hearing from you. If you’d like to join the conversation, comments in the Substack app are the easiest way.

In today’s Porch Journal I’ve got a few behind-the-scenes glimpses from life here at Juniper Hill Cottage - a 1924 craftsman bungalow located in the high-country of Northern Arizona. It’s a small house - where life is well-lived.

Morning tea, candles lit, and a little winter hygge mixed in.
A calm, cozy Friday at Juniper Hill Cottage, in the dining room - yes, we use it. Every. Single. Day.

Tucked behind the main house, on the back of the property, sits the Carriage House - home to my Creative Studio.

It’s a very small space, but it holds a lot. I work in glass, metal, wood, seeds. Flameworking, silversmithing, wood turning, and seed starting all happen here, often side by side.

I’m deeply grateful for a place where I can play, make, and explore without rushing.

Just around the corner from the studio entrance is my husband’s domain - his shop and home office when he’s not traveling.

Mountain bikes line the walls, race medals and trail memories everywhere. Marks of a life well lived on single-track trails in Arizona’s high country. A man-cave, in the very best sense of the word.

Two small spaces. Very different energy. Both well used.

These little “bumblebee cottages” - made in my studio when I have time - tiny garden homes made slowly, each turned by hand and paired with my own glass.

I like the idea of small homes meant for small visitors, each with its own quiet personality. Nothing hurried. Nothing identical. Just enough.

And while these are definitely tiny, I like to refer to our house as small-not-tiny.

For a little more on what Smaller, Simpler, More Beautiful means, a recent letter I wrote:

I enjoy sharing these in-between moments - bits of life. And our spaces that we call home. It feels right to begin sharing a few of these snippets here in these Porch Journals. Let me know what you think.

Thank you for spending a little porch time with me today!

With contentment & possibility,

Did you know you can ‘like’ and comment on this letter?

If you’d like to join the conversation, you can follow the link below to read and respond in the Substack app. It’s free and ad-free.

Get more from Miriam🌼Carlson-Maier in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

P.S. I read every comment, and I always enjoy hearing from you. If you’d like to join the conversation, comments in the Substack app are the easiest way.

Hello my lovely readers.

Welcome to the porch. I’m so happy to have you here.

Most of us don’t question the size of our homes until something starts to feel off.

It might be the rooms we never use (or that are just full of stuff; storage). The spaces that look impressive but feel oddly hollow. Or the realization that the way we live no longer fits the way our homes were designed.

Through my design work and lived experience, I’ve been thinking a lot about how much space we need to live well - and how often the current approach doesn’t match the way life actually unfolds.

For years, the choices have been framed as extremes: bigger and better, or radically small.

But neither seems to answer the right question.

For many decades, we believed that bigger was better when it came to our homes. More space. More rooms. More proof that we’d done things right. Success, translated into square footage.

Then the conversation shifted - almost abruptly - toward the opposite extreme.

Smaller was better. But only if it was very small. Tiny homes. Radical minimalism. A life pared down to its sharpest edges. Often romanticized. Almost always unrealistic.

I understood the appeal. I still do. Both ends of that spectrum promise relief - clarity, even. They suggest that if we just choose the right version of living, everything else might fall into place.

But as I’ve spent more time designing homes and landscapes - and simply paying attention to how people actually live - I’ve started to wonder if those extremes are asking the wrong thing of us.

Not aspirational lives. Real ones.

Lives shaped by daily rituals, changing seasons, work and rest, solitude and hospitality.

Spaces that support how we move through a house, how light affects a room, how a kitchen connects to a garden, how easily we can welcome others without maintaining vast spaces that sit empty most of the year.

Have you noticed how much space is designed for someday, rather than for everyday life?

What I’m really thinking about here is a shift away from extremes - away from living bigger than we need, or smaller than is truly livable - and toward homes that are intentionally sized for the way life actually unfolds.

I haven’t noticed many people actually making this shift - at least not yet.

What I see more often is a kind of tentative wondering. The idea of living smaller, simpler, more intentionally shows up as a daydream. Something imagined for “later,” or for a different season of life.

Most of us don’t make these changes until circumstances force our hand. Age. Loss. Limitation.

For me, I didn’t want that shift to come only through necessity. I wanted to choose it deliberately - to see what changed when scale, space, and daily life were considered with intention rather than urgency.

That choice reshaped not just where I live, but how I think about homes, gardens, and the ways design intimately supports a life over time.

I don’t think this is about retreating or opting out. It’s about making thoughtful choices.

I think it starts with a deeper, more honest evaluation.

What would shift if we stopped asking whether our homes are impressive enough -or minimal enough - and instead asked whether they are supportive? Supportive of how we actually live now. Supportive of comfort, beauty, and change. Supportive of both quiet days and shared ones.

This isn’t a call for dramatic leaps or rigid rules. It’s an invitation to step off the pendulum just long enough to notice what feels out of alignment, and what might feel more livable.

I’m working on a deeper look at the idea of small, not tiny. Why right-sized homes can offer a more inspired alternative to extremes. I’ll explore that in my next letter.

For now, I’ll leave you with this:

Where do you feel the tension between how you live and how your spaces support you?

And what might change if “smaller, simpler, more beautiful” became less of an ideal - and more of a practical guide?

I’d love to hear what you think - let’s keep the conversation going.

Leave a comment

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. In the next letter, I’ll explore what small, not tiny actually looks like in practice -and why smaller homes often offer a more livable alternative to extremes.

Thank you for joining me here. This is a longer, very personal January letter about truth, performance, and choosing depth over breadth. I’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming next week.

The new year has arrived, and winter has fully settled in. The light is beginning to return. The pace is quieter. Things feel a little more honest when the world isn’t rushing us forward.

I’ve never been one for resolutions or annual reinvention. I’m not interested in becoming someone new. What I am interested in - especially at this stage of my life -is choosing how to live more truthfully. More intentionally. With fewer layers between what I believe and how I show up.

A huge part of that truth lives here, in my writing - and in this ongoing conversation with you. The work I do here is not separate from my life; it’s a seamless extension of it.

Every letter, every note, every word carries me with it. After a lifetime of trying to find my center, my heart is fully invested now - in how I live, and in how honestly I speak about it.

As this new year begins, what I’m settling into isn’t another set of expectations or a broader appeal.

What I truly want this year, is a deeper commitment to what feels most alive and true.

I’ve spent much of my life craving acceptance and acknowledgment (as many of us do) and what you think and feel about my work genuinely matters to me. But I’m learning to stand more firmly in what matters most to me, and to trust that this is where the real work, and the real conversations, begin.

I’m so grateful you’re here.

When honesty narrows the room

Living more truthfully eventually asks something of us. To make choices.

Not long ago, I chose to do that here, in a letter called An Artful Cottage at Christmastime. I wrote more honestly than I had before - about home, beauty, and my deep belief in smaller, simpler, more beautiful ways of living. I didn’t soften the edges. I didn’t try to make it broadly palatable. I simply spoke from where I truly stand.

And the room changed.

Some readers quietly stepped away.

I don’t share that with resentment or regret - just clarity. When we speak more honestly, we become more specific. And specificity, by its very nature, narrows the circle.

What surprised me most wasn’t that some people left. It was the feeling that followed.

Relief.

That moment forced a thoughtful reckoning for me. I could pull back - smooth the edges, widen the appeal, return to a more careful performance. Or I could step more fully into what feels most true, knowing it might not be for everyone.

Choosing the latter didn’t feel easy. But it felt right. And with that choice came a deep sense of relief, as if a door had opened wider.

That realization made something unmistakably clear to me: this work I’m doing cannot be theoretical. It has to be lived. And it has to be spoken from the same place I live from. From my heart.

Convictions - A different perspective

My ethos about smaller, simpler, more beautiful ways of living didn’t arrive quickly, or easily. This was shaped over decades of striving, building, and proving. Of pursuing what our culture so often rewards: more success, more recognition, more accumulation. More. Bigger. More.

I followed that path earnestly, and for a long time. But somewhere along the way, I began to question what all that effort was actually meant to deliver.

It took time - and more than a few course corrections - to understand that beauty and contentment itself can be enough. That a meaningful life doesn’t have to be louder, bigger, or more impressive to be deeply satisfying.

This runs counter to much of what we’re taught here in the U.S., where expansion is praised and restraint is often mistaken for lack of ambition. Or worse, lack of decisiveness. Choosing otherwise isn’t always comfortable, but it can be deeply grounding.

I’ve written more fully about this journey before, including in a letter last summer called Creating Beauty Is Enough. And also on my About page. I won’t repeat those stories here.

But I want to be direct about this: these convictions weren’t adopted for effect. They were earned slowly, through lived experience, and they now sit at the center of how I choose to live - and how I choose to write.

And if you find yourself somewhere in that questioning - still striving, still proving, or quietly wondering if there might be another way - I want you to know that you’re not alone.

Many of us arrive here not because we failed at the “more” story, but because we lived it fully enough to see its limits.

That’s why this conversation here with you matters to me.

Truth vs. Performance

Lately, I’ve been paying closer attention to where performance shows up in everyday life - especially in the spaces I write about most.

In our homes, it can look like choosing what photographs well or follows the latest trend rather than what actually feels like us. Decorating for an imagined audience. Editing out the imperfect, the worn, the deeply personal.

In our lives, it can show up as staying busy, staying agreeable, staying just impressive enough - because slowing down or choosing less or smaller or simpler can feel like falling behind.

Don’t get me wrong. Performance isn’t always fake. It’s adaptive.

Most of us learn it early. But over time, it can quietly pull us away from what’s honest and sustaining. We begin arranging our lives not around what nourishes us, but around what will be understood, admired, or approved.

Truth feels different.

Truth is choosing what feels right even when it doesn’t translate easily. It’s trusting restraint in a culture that celebrates expansion. It’s believing that beauty doesn’t need to announce itself or be on-trend, and that a meaningful life doesn’t have to perform to be valid.

The moment I felt that room shift with those unsubscribes, the distinction became impossible to ignore.

A smaller circle

If you’re here - reading, subscribing, replying, engaging - it means more to me than I can put into words.

This isn’t a casual endeavor for me. I bring my whole heart to this work, and knowing that there are thoughtful, curious, kind people on the other side of these letters makes the conversation feel real and deeply worthwhile.

And if at some point you decide this isn’t for you anymore, that’s okay too. Truly. Not every conversation is meant to last forever, and I respect that.

Also - just so you know - I’ve turned off my unsubscribe notifications. I won’t even know. (Which feels oddly liberating, honestly.)

What I do love, though, is hearing from those of you who are here. Your replies, comments, and shared reflections remind me that this isn’t about broadcasting - it’s about connection.

If something in these words rings true, or even gently challenges you, I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts. Click the comment button💬 below.

This is a smaller circle, by design.

And it’s a good place to be.

Stepping into the light

As this new year begins, I’m welcoming the light as it slowly returns - not as a call to do more, but as a reminder that clarity often comes gently. That living well doesn’t require resolutions, or lists, or a new you.

Here’s to a year of going deeper rather than wider. Of speaking plainly. Of choosing what feels most alive and real, even when it narrows the room.

I’m grateful to be here with you, at the start of it. 💌

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. And now, back to my regularly scheduled programming :)

And, happy New Year to you. I am truly honored to have you here with me!

As I’m writing this letter to you late on New Year’s afternoon, I’m feeling so peaceful and comfortable, having just made a fresh pot of my favorite cardamom-cinnamon herbal tea and wrapped my wool shawl around my shoulders. I’m sitting here in my office which is really just a corner of our ‘sunroom’ - truly just a covered old back porch which is entirely surrounded by windows and skylights. Hence the name.

Our cozy cottage is filled with lovely music now, while the day has settled into a dark and foggy spell.

Drizzle and chatty ravens interrupt the peace now and then.

I had intended to send you this letter last Friday, the day after Christmas, but… yet another winter cold caught me and it wasn’t to be. So here I am today instead, excited to be back with you.

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The days after Christmas always feel a little different.

The rush has passed, the calendar opens up, and the season seems to settle into itself. Winter stretches out ahead - quieter, slower, more spacious - inviting us in.

This is a time of softer rhythms. Afternoons arrive earlier, evenings linger longer, and there’s a natural pull toward unhurried moments. Not everything needs to be filled. Not every day needs a plan.

And winter doesn’t ask us to stay indoors all the time, either. There is something grounding about stepping outside in cold weather - bundling up, breathing in the crisp air, noticing the stillness and the way the light glows. Hikes in the forest this time of year are my favorite way to spend a couple of quiet hours.

I’ve come to believe that winter is a season worth treasuring.

So often we talk about winter as something to endure - a stretch of time to get through until life begins again in spring. But winter has its own kind of beauty and wisdom. It asks us to slow down, to rest more deeply, and to pay attention to what sustains us when everything else grows quiet.

There is value in this inward season. In the shorter days and longer nights. In the pause between what has been and what is still becoming. Winter gives us permission to move at a gentler pace and to find meaning not in productivity, but in presence.

When we allow ourselves to see winter this way - not as a waiting room, but as a beautiful season in its own right - it becomes something to enjoy rather than survive.

There’s a word that often comes to mind for me during this time of year — hygge.

I know, I know. It was quite the “it-word” a couple of years ago - super trendy. (Which I found tiresome after it went around a couple of times.)

But it’s actually a very real lifestyle concept that I love and embrace.

It’s a Danish word, but it’s also thoroughly Scandinavian, and it describes something much bigger than décor or tradition. Hygge is less about any specific action and more about a way of approaching life - especially in the darker, colder months - with intention, comfort, and presence.

At its heart, hygge is about being in the moment. It’s about letting go of what’s happening in the wider world for a while and creating a sense of warmth and ease right where you are. That might mean turning off the phone, dimming the lights, and allowing yourself to simply be - without productivity, without urgency.

Hygge isn’t limited to a place or a setting. It can happen at home or outdoors, alone or with family and friends. It might show up during a quiet afternoon with a book, a favorite meal shared slowly, or even a bundled-up walk outside followed by the comfort of returning indoors.

For me, hygge often includes hot tea, candlelight, and music that speaks to my heart. (Just like this moment where I sit in the sunroom writing to you.)

After the holidays pass and the days find a calmer cadence, I naturally turn toward those small rituals - settling into my favorite wing-chair late in the afternoon, planning garden beds, paging through seed catalogs, sketching ideas, and dreaming ahead while the garden rests.

The word hygge dates back to the Middle Ages, when a related Old Norse term meant “protected from the outside world.” I love that meaning. It reminds me that hygge isn’t about shutting life out. It’s about creating moments of shelter and care within it.

Seen this way, hygge becomes one gentle way of embracing winter for what it is: a season that invites us to slow down, savor simple comforts, and find beauty in quiet moments.

The Art of Hygge

There’s no single way to experience winter well. What brings comfort and ease will look different for each of us, and it can change from day to day.

Still, there are small, simple moments that can help us settle into this season - moments that invite warmth, presence, and a sense of being at peace.

Here are a few of my favorite go-to’s:

• Pour a hot cup of tea or coffee and sip slowly, without distractions

• Light candles as the afternoon fades - not for atmosphere, but for ritual

• Open a book where you left off and read for pleasure, not progress

• Put on music that speaks to your heart and let it fill the room

• Cook a favorite comfort-food meal, slowly and without hurry (tonight I’m making beef chili)

• Wrap up warmly and step outside for a short walk or a few quiet minutes in the garden

• Notice the winter light - softer, lower, and often warmer than we expect

• Settle into a comfortable chair near a window or porch and simply watch the day pass (my wing chair lets me look out to the horizon and watch the weather float by)

• Pull out seed catalogs, sketch pads, or notebooks and dream a little about what’s ahead

• Share a quiet evening with family or friends, or savor being alone without feeling rushed

• Turn off the phone for a while and let the world be smaller

• Go to bed early, letting rest be enough for the day

These are just ideas - gentle invitations - ways of reminding ourselves that winter can be lived with intention and pleasure, rather than resisted.

Winter doesn’t need to be fixed or hurried along.

It asks only that we meet it with a little openness — to notice its quieter beauty, its slower pace, and the small comforts that make these days feel grounded and lovely.

When we do, winter becomes less about waiting for what’s next and more about being present with what is.

However you choose to move through this season - indoors or out, alone or in company, quietly or with small rituals - I hope you find moments of warmth, rhythm, and comfort along the way.

This truly is that hygge time of year. And it’s here to be enjoyed.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. — Let’s Talk

I’d love to hear from you! Please, tell me…

• How do you slow down and savor winter? Or, do you just honestly struggle to get through to springtime?

• Are there small rituals or moments that help you enjoy this season more fully?

• Do you find comfort indoors, outdoors, or a mix of both?

If you feel like sharing, leave a comment below - I always enjoy reading how others are living with the season.

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I’m so glad that you are here. Truly.

I’m going to say something that feels almost taboo in the U.S., especially this time of year:

I don’t always love the Christmas ‘season’.

I want to. I really do. But more often than not, I find myself feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated, and deeply exhausted by it - long before it even arrives.

And when I’m honest about why, it’s usually the same things.

The relentless focus on material stuff.

The pressure to buy gifts - more gifts, bigger gifts, earlier gifts.

Plastic decorations multiplying year after year, spilling across front yards and climbing every inch of the living room.

Shopping lists, sales emails, “last chance” reminders, and the sense that joy is somehow tied to consumption.

The noise is… relentless. The blaring carols in every store - yes, even the grocery store - played on repeat until what should feel festive starts to feel like sensory overload. By the time December really arrives, I’m already tired. And ready for the New Year to start.

It isn’t the music or the traditions that trouble me. It’s the loudness of it all. The expectation that joy must be bought, displayed, scheduled, and performed.

And… endured.

What’s meant to feel warm and meaningful can quickly become crowded, expensive, and emotionally draining.

And I know I’m not alone in that feeling - even if we don’t always say it out loud.

What I want most in winter is not more - it’s quiet. Beautiful, sweet moments. Traditions, cozy time, and savoring the in-between of winter.

If you’ve ever felt this same longing, then this letter is for you.

Over time, I’ve found a way to make peace with the season - not by opting out or being a Scrooge, but by choosing a different rhythm. One that’s smaller, simpler, and far more beautiful to live inside.

Peace comes from making a few intentional choices that help me feel steadier, and one of those choices is how I tend my home.

That’s why Santa Lucia matters so deeply to me.

Lucia (celebrated in Sweden on December 13th) marks the return of light - quiet, steady, and understated. Once that lovely moment has arrived, then I’m ready.

Not for rushing or lists or spectacle, but for beginning gently. I want it to feel less like an event and more like a settling in.

So in the days following Lucia (not in October, or the day after Thanksgiving), I begin to decorate.

Not all at once. Not elaborately. Just enough to mark the shift and the turning of the year. To bring warmth and softness, and a cozy peace.

I choose peaceful, cozy, not-cluttered spaces. The things I do bring out are deeply familiar, meaningful, and quietly special. Not restrained really; just elegantly understated.

Some of that comes from necessity and a conscious choice to begin downsizing in my late 40’s. Our bungalow is small, and storage is limited.

But what began as a practical constraint has become something I truly value. It asks me to be discerning. To pause and consider not just what looks nice, but what actually supports the way I want to feel.

I think perhaps many of us discover this eventually - that limits, when chosen intentionally, can be surprisingly generous.

Instead of adding more, I turn to what’s already here.

Each year I cut greenery from the garden - arborvitae, nandina, and juniper - tying simple swags with velvet ribbon and hanging one above each window. They smell wonderful for a week or two, then slowly soften and fade. That impermanence feels right to me. It reminds me that beauty doesn’t need to last forever to matter.

I gather what the season still offers: branches, berries, and pomegranates.

(And yes - for my local friends - pomegranates really do grow here in Prescott at 6,000 foot elevation. Our south-garden tree was loaded earlier this fall.)

Inside, the house remains calm. A few artful touches on the mantel. Glass and paper catching the winter light. The original 1920s brick doing most of the work - warm, grounded, and enough.

I don’t believe moderation is about deprivation. I think it’s about care. About choosing what supports us when we feel wobbly and seeking balance. About creating homes that don’t ask us to perform, but instead offer somewhere to land.

With the Winter Solstice arriving in just a couple of days, it feels like a natural pause point. A hinge in the season. The longest night, and then, almost imperceptibly, the light begins to return again.

I’ve come to think of the Solstice not as something to mark with fanfare, but as a reminder that change doesn’t need to be dramatic to be real. That even the smallest shifts - in how we live, what we bring into our homes, or what we choose to leave out - can move us closer to the kind of life we actually want to inhabit.

Nothing needs to be resolved all at once. The light comes back slowly. And that is enough.

With winter settling in for a while, it feels like the right time to come inside and rest. Make something warm. Sit down. Let the quiet do its work.

And if you’re already feeling the weight of excess - the cost, the clutter, the constant push toward more - I hope this letter offers a small but meaningful permission slip.

Even tiny shifts can change how the season feels.

It might look different for you - a quieter morning, fewer commitments, a candle lit at dusk - but the invitation is the same.

Next Friday’s Porch Sittin’ Letter will be about the real treasures of winter. Not things, but something far more sustaining and deeply human:

Hygge.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. If you’ve ever felt your own resistance to the louder parts of the season - what is it that feels most frustrating or overwhelming to you? How do you find that balance and peace? I’d love to hear from you in the comments section.

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I am just so honored to have you here - thank you! Come sit with me for a bit. Let’s get cozy.

Glad Lucia!

~ pronounced “glahd loo-SEE-ah”, meaning Happy Lucia ~

Every year when December settles in and the mornings arrive darker and slower, I find myself looking forward to the tender glow of Santa Lucia.

In Sweden, this moment near the winter solstice has always held a kind of quiet magic - an illumination against the deepest dark.

I share this not only because it is part of my Swedish heritage, but because it carries a kind of universal comfort. Santa Lucia is a reminder - especially in this deep stretch of winter - that small rituals matter. Light matters. Slowness matters. And that these simple gestures can belong to anyone, anywhere.

I have memories of a couple of processions that my little brother and I participated in when we were very young in Sweden. I seem to remember that he was not happy with the hat he was supposed to wear - but maybe that’s not accurate! I wish I knew where that photo is.

But I do have this one of my Mother which I believe was taken in Kristinehamn, Sweden.

Even now, so many years later, these images bring me comfort.

What Santa Lucia Means to Me

Santa Lucia - Sankta Lucia in Swedish - is celebrated every year on the 13th of December, which of course, is tomorrow. While it has long been woven into Sweden’s cultural rhythm, at its heart it is simply a celebration of light in the darkest moment of winter.

It is a holiday of softness and hope, not fanfare. A reminder that even in the heaviest dark, a glimmer of warmth can carry us forward.

For me, Lucia has always been less about historical ritual and more about feeling - the candle light and the hauntingly beautiful music.

It is one of the simplest yet most beautiful seasonal rituals I know.

Santa Lucia & the Winter Solstice

The Winter Solstice, which falls this year on Sunday December 21st, marks the shortest day and longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

In Sweden, so close to the Arctic Circle, the Solstice is deeply felt. The darkness settles early, lingers late, and shapes the daily experience of winter.

In the old Julian calendar, the Solstice was believed to fall on December 13th, which is how Santa Lucia came to be celebrated on that date.

Over centuries, the Christian feast day of Saint Lucy intertwined with much older pagan traditions.

While Santa Lucia carries echoes of its Christian origins, the modern celebration in Sweden is not religious in spirit. It’s a cultural moment - an honoring of light in deep winter, a pause for beauty, song, and stillness.

I cherish that symbolism and the seasonal celebration of hope.

The Procession

When I think of Lucia, I think of song.

As a child, for me, the celebration always held a certain mystery. The white gowns, the red sash, the candles glowing in young hands - it felt reverent, almost otherworldly. The procession was peaceful and slow, and I can still recall how the room changed when the singing began.

The Lucia song remains one of the most hauntingly beautiful melodies I know. Here is a translation in English:

Night walks with a heavy step
Round yard and hearth,
As the sun departs from earth,
Shadows are brooding.

There in our dark house,
Walking with lit candles,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Night walks grand, yet silent,
Now hear its gentle wings,
In every room so hushed,
Whispering like wings.

Look, at our threshold stands,
White-clad with light in her hair,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Darkness shall take flight soon,
From earth’s valleys.
So she speaks
Wonderful words to us:

A new day will rise again
From the rosy sky…
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia

If you’d like to hear and see the procession, I found this video which is lovely, although a bit long. But if you watch the first 2-3 minutes you’ll get the feeling.

Treats & Traditions

No Lucia celebration is complete without a few classic Swedish treats, each one tied to memory and ritual.

I’ll be adding each of these recipes to The Library soon.

👉🏼And if you’d like them early, just message me - I’m always happy to share them privately.

Lussekatter (Saffron Rolls)

Lussekatter (Lucia cats) are rolls shaped into a curling S, like a small creature of the dark tucked into itself, with two raisin or currant “eyes” watching. The shape comes from old folklore about warding off the winter’s shadows, and the vivid saffron color was believed to bring luck and light.

Today, these golden rolls have become a warm, glowing symbol of Santa Lucia itself - something bright to enjoy in the darkest days of winter. Lightly sweet and deeply fragrant.

Pepparkakor (Gingerbread Cookies)

Rolled as thin as possible - always plain, never iced - crisp, spicy, and perfect with coffee (or glögg). These are cut into simple shapes and typically rather small since they are very pungent and spicy.

Glögg (Mulled Hot Spiced Wine)

A warm, aromatic drink that fills the whole home with cloves, cinnamon, and tradition.

I make mine from scratch, letting the sugar caramelize fully when it’s flamed on the stove - something store-bought glögg never manages. Plus, those are just too sweet. (Hint - never buy those - they aren’t the same!)

When I post the recipe I’ll be sure to include a video of the making of it which is almost as much fun as the sipping.

How I Celebrate Today

While I’m no longer in Sweden, Lucia remains one of my favorite ways to mark the stillness of winter. It feels grounding - simple yet meaningful, a pause in the rush of the season.

While I’m not an early bird, up at dawn typically, I do often enjoy lighting candles in winter on the dining table where I enjoy my hot tea every morning. Tomorrow I will make a batch of Lussekatter to enjoy as a mid-morning snack. And, of course, we will listen to that song which is so magical.

On Christmas Eve, we will make the glögg, and sip it with the pepparkakor before we have a wonderful feast for the holiday.

These small gestures bring the holiday to life in a sweet and simple way.

An Invitation for You

Whether you celebrate on the 13th, on the Solstice, or simply when the moment feels right, Santa Lucia offers a reminder worth savoring:

That even in our darkest days,
the light will return.
And beauty lives in the simplest, quietest rituals.

Perhaps this week you’ll light a candle before sunrise. Or savor a warm drink. Or simply sit for a moment in the quiet to notice winter turning.

Whatever you choose, may it bring you a breath of calm and a touch of light.

Thank you for joining my here today xox.

With contentment & possibility,