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.

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.

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.

This letter is part of a three-part series exploring the timeless beauty and meaning of the American front porch. That in-between space where home meets the world. It’s a story of architecture, culture, and the art of living well. And today, we’re settling into the part of the story where porch, house, and landscape finally come together - a lesson in balance, craft, and contentment.

✨Welcome to the porch, dear reader.

You’re here! I’m so glad you stopped by. Pull up a chair…

And, in case you missed it last week, Part II is here The Lost Art of Porchology, and Part I is here Remembering How I First Fell in Love.

Today, we’re settling into the part of the story where porch, house, and landscape finally come together - a lesson in balance, craft, and contentment.

“To bring about harmony between the house and its surroundings, to get as close as possible to nature.” The Radford Architectural Company, 1908

This idea. I absolutely love it.

Because really, that’s the heart of it, isn’t it?

The bungalow, and especially its porch, was never meant to be grand or showy. It was built for comfort and proportion, for beauty that whispers instead of shouts.

Here at Juniper Hill Cottage, in the high-country of Northern Arizona, I think about that a lot.

The scent of the old junipers drifts through the screens while the afternoon light slides across the floorboards, and I can feel that same sense of balance those early designers were after.

Nature for you might be different. It might be a dense pine forest, a sweep of high-desert sky, or a small garden humming with bees.

Whatever form your surroundings takes, the porch becomes the gracious bridge between two worlds. The solid shelter we create. And the living landscape that surrounds us.

Gustav Stickley wrote in 1908 that in nearly all of us is “a deep, distinctive longing to possess a little corner of that Eden from which our modern and materialistic way of living has made us exiles.”

And honestly, a hundred-twenty years later, that longing feels more modern than ever.

The front porch might just be our small corner of Eden - a humble, handmade reminder that beauty doesn’t come from excess, but from relationship: between structure and sunlight, human craft and the natural world.

For those of us drawn to smaller, simpler, and more beautiful living, the bungalow porch offers a kind of blueprint.

In many corners of this country, there are forgotten cottages and bungalows tucked away in historic downtown neighborhoods. That’s where we have found our little corner of paradise, here in the mountains of Northern Arizona.

We don’t need to start over (build new homes) or shrink our lives to extremes. We can simply reclaim what already exists - renovate, restore, re-love. It’s as much about stewardship as design.

Maybe that’s where the real magic begins - in choosing to care for what already exists, and letting those small acts of stewardship draw us closer to the places we call home, and those that came before us.

I think that’s where contentment arrives - in realizing that our homes aren’t separate from the world or our community, but rooted deeply within it.

And maybe that’s why, even after all these years, I never tire of ending the day out on our own porch - with the sun settling behind the mountain peaks, and always a small moment of gratitude for the place we get to call home.

And that’s a wrap. For this series at least.

It’s probably fair to say you’ll hear me go on about porches, cottages, and smaller homes for as long as you’ll let me.

I’m so honored you joined me for this three-part ramble. And if you missed Parts I or II, you’ll find both linked at the top of this letter.

Be sure to keep an eye on your Substack Notes feed, too. I’m sharing an ongoing series called Porches & Cottages of Prescott, with plenty of peeks at our own bungalow and front porch along the way.

With contentment & possibility,

PS: Let’s chat:

Thanks for keeping me company on the porch these past few Fridays. I’d love to hear what you’ll take from the series. Or what kind of porch you’d build if you stumbled upon your own forgotten cottage.

Come say hello in the 💬 comments 👇

Leave a comment

This letter is part of a three-part series exploring the timeless beauty and meaning of the American front porch. That in-between space where home meets the world. It’s a story of architecture, culture, and the art of living well. And today we’re stepping into the shared history and sweet rituals that once made porch life the heart of American community.

🌟Welcome to the porch, dear reader.

You made it! Grab a seat - I saved you the comfy chair with the view.

And, in case you missed it last week, Part I is here Remembering How I First Fell in Love.

If “porchology” isn’t a real word, perhaps it should be. To me, it describes the cultural and social side of the American porch - the part that connects us not just to our own homes, but to one another.

Today we’re stepping into the shared history and sweet rituals that once made porch life the heart of American community.

From the mid-1800s through the years after World War II, the front porch was woven into the fabric of everyday life. It was a space of connection, where families cooled off after supper, neighbors lingered, and the rhythm of the street became a kind of shared heartbeat. The porch wasn’t simply a passageway between inside and out.

It was a destination.

During a century of industrialization and expansion, Americans were looking for ways to stay rooted in nature and community.

The front porch offered a shaded refuge from the afternoon sun, a place to pause in the breeze and still feel part of the world outside the door. It spoke quietly of privilege, perhaps, but also of time. Time to rest, to visit, to watch the day drift into evening.

And then, somewhere along the way, we drifted inside.

The automobile arrived, garages replaced porches, and air-conditioning and television made the indoors more comfortable than the street. Automatic doors closed behind us, and so did the habit of waving to a neighbor passing by.

For a while, porches were forgotten.

Two hundred years later, the idea might sound quaint or nostalgic.

But here we are, in an age of high-definition everything and endless digital connection, often feeling more isolated than ever. Even before the long pause of Covid (remember that nightmare?) many of us sensed that we’d lost something elemental - the gentle, unplanned connections that happened on front steps and wooden chairs.

So yes, “porchology” may not appear in any dictionary, but the longing behind it is very real. And universal.

It’s the study of belonging. Of what it means to be both sheltered and seen.

Maybe that’s why so many of us are drawn once again to the porch: we’re remembering that life feels richer when we spend a little more time in that welcoming in-between.

📫If you’re not yet subscribed, why not join me on the porch so you don’t miss the next installment? See the link below 👇🏼

And be sure to keep an eye out in your Substack Notes feed to catch my ongoing series on Porches & Cottages of Prescott, including lots of peek at my own cottage and front porch.

With contentment & possibility,

PS: Your turn:

Do you still wave to neighbors from the porch or front steps? Or has your “front yard” become digital? I’d love to hear how you stay connected in your corner of the world.

Drop a note in the 💬 comments 👇

Leave a comment

Continue Reading “Why Are Porches so Alluring?”

Part III: Finding Contentment on the Bungalow Porch.

It’s a look at how thoughtful design, scale, and craft can bring us back to a truer kind of beauty. It’s about discovering how the spaces we shape end up shaping us.

This letter is part of a three-part series exploring the timeless beauty and meaning of the American front porch. That in-between space where home meets the world. It’s a story of architecture, culture, and the art of living well, beginning and many great stories do… with that moment I knew I was in love.

Welcome to the porch, dear reader.

I’ve always been enamored with the Craftsman bungalow, though I didn’t realize it at first.

Let me explain.

Decades ago, while house-hunting in the Pasadena, California area for a possible job move, I found myself hypnotically drawn to the older bungalows that lined those leafy, cozy streets. I couldn’t explain it then, but something about them felt deeply familiar. And perfect.

Later I discovered this was a truly American architectural style - one that had also shaped so many of the neighborhoods in San Francisco, where I’d lived much of my life.

Looking back, I know now what always caught my eye first: the front porch.

There’s something about that space - the way it reaches out to the world while still holding you close - that feels irresistible. The charm and warm comfort of an open porch is so nostalgic.

And now, all these years later, living in a 1924 Craftsman bungalow here in Northern Arizona, I’m more in love with the idea than ever.

When we bought our home, we came to realize that the front porch had been enclosed sometime in the 1960s or ’70s - walled in and cut off from the light and air that once made it sing. Opening it back up was one of the most thrilling major renovations we tackled. It took us from summer 2019 to summer 2021 to get it just right, but it was worth every bit of effort.

It feels glorious now - open to the breeze, framed by the scent of large old Juniper trees, with late-day light spilling across the space. Friends and neighbors step into the space and pause. They look around, feeling welcome and at home even though they haven’t even entered the house yet. We always get a good laugh when we describe how it had been enclosed and not enjoyed for over 60 years or so.

Every evening, almost without fail, we end the day out there. The porch has become a natural extension of our rhythm. It’s a place to unwind, watch the light soften across the western horizon, or share a quiet glass of wine. I never tire of it, or of the way it seems to slow time itself.

And yet, as much as I love my porch, I often find myself wondering about porches - this enduring idea that’s somehow embedded in our collective imagination.

What is it that makes front porches so alluring?

That’s what I hope to explore in this little three-part series - reflections on architecture, culture, and the quieter art of living well.

Because to me, the front porch isn’t just a design feature. It’s a philosophy: a way of being in the world that balances shelter and openness, solitude and community, simplicity and beauty.

Perhaps that’s what draws us in most of all.

If you’re not yet subscribed, why not join me on the porch so you don’t miss the next installment? See the links below 👇🏼

With contentment & possibility,

PS: I’d love to know:

What’s your version of “porch sittin’”? A front stoop? A garden bench? A favorite café corner? Are you a wave-to-everyone-that-strolls-by, or a sip-your-tea-in-peace kind of porch sitter? What’s always within reach when you settle onto the porch - coffee mug, glass of wine, cold brew, good book?

Tell me in the 💬 comments 👇🏼

Leave a comment

Continue Reading “Why Are Porches so Alluring?”

Part II: The Lost Art of Porchology.

How porches once shaped American life and why we’re being drawn back to them again.

Part III: Finding Contentment on the Bungalow Porch.

Where porch, house, and landscape finally come together - a lesson in balance, craft, and contentment.

One of my goals here at Letters from The Whiskey Porch is to share well-curated, high-quality resources to help you along your own journey toward creating a smaller, simpler, more beautiful lifestyle - and a home with soul.

There’s something about design books that feels timeless and inspiring to me, especially in this age of pinterest, houzz, and instagram. I’m not anti-tech. I use these tools daily, and they absolutely have their place.

But amid all the scrolling and algorithms, a well-worn book invites you to slow down, linger, and rediscover ideas that have stood the test of time.

Over the years, I’ve built a small but beloved library of books and magazines that reflect that spirit. And given the micro-sized bookcase space in our cottage, a book has to work pretty hard to earn its spot on those shelves.

None of these titles capture my exact take on small living or Nordic bungalow design, but each offers a spark of inspiration - a window into how thoughtful design and storytelling can shape the way we live.

Some even showcase spectacular homes that are far larger than what I’d ever consider “small.” Some are showing their age a bit, and may feel rather dated. But all of them remind me that good design, proportion, and intention matter far more than square footage or passing trends.

So, with that in mind, I thought I’d share a few of the publications and books that have earned their place on my shelf, trusted companions in thinking about home, scale, and soul.

And, if you’ve been following along for a while, you may remember my earlier reflection on The Myth of Tiny, The Magic of Small - an essay about why living small isn’t about limitation, but about intention and grace. It pairs beautifully with the ideas in this collection.

Publications for Inspiration

American Bungalow Magazine

www.americanbungalow.com

This beautifully produced quarterly publication is one I’ve been reading for years. Each issue dives into the history and soul of the bungalow movement with well-written, in-depth features and spectacular photography.

While its heart is in the classic Arts & Crafts era, you’ll also find newer builds and remodels that reinterpret the style for modern living. I still pull out old issues when I’m looking for a reminder of what authenticity looks like in design.

Bungalow Basics: Foundations of Style

Bungalow Basics Series by Paul Duchscherer & Douglas Keister

Bungalow Basics/Thrift Books

These small-format books are true gems. Each volume explores a single architectural element, from porches to built-ins, with approachable text and excellent photography. They’re easy to flip through yet always manage to reveal something new about why bungalows feel so human in scale and spirit.

Bungalow Style by Treena Crochet

Bungalow Style/Thrift Books

A wonderful, approachable overview of bungalow interiors. It captures the warmth and craftsmanship of these homes while offering ideas that work beautifully for contemporary lifestyles.

Craft, Character & Kitchens

Bungalow Kitchens by Jane Powell & Linda Svendsen

Bungalow Kitchens/Thrift Books

Kitchens are often the first space homeowners want to modernize, and often where the bungalow’s integrity gets lost. This book is an excellent reference for understanding what made early 20th-century kitchens so enduring.

I’m not a purist, but I do believe that honoring the spirit and materials of those original spaces gives modern kitchens more longevity and soul.

Bungalow Nation by Diane Maddex & Alexander Vertikoff

Bungalow Nation/Thrift Books

This book celebrates the regional variations of bungalow design across the country, from California Craftsman to Prairie-influenced homes. It offers not just visual inspiration, but thoughtful commentary on the architectural elements that define the style: porches, fireplaces, built-ins, and furnishings.

Small House Design: The “Not So Big” Philosophy

The Not So Big House Series by Sarah Susanka

The Not So Big House/Thrift Books

This series has been around since the late 1990s, and definitely feels like it. But its message remains timeless. Susanka’s philosophy - designing for quality, not quantity - resonates deeply with me and aligns perfectly with our “small-not-tiny” ethos at The Whiskey Porch.

The books are filled with thoughtful design solutions, detailed floor plans, and clear architectural insights that still feel relevant today. Yes, the aesthetic leans a little East Coast, and some imagery now feels dated, but the design principles are gold: scale, proportion, connection, and beauty in restraint.

I occasionally pull one out when I’m stuck on a design challenge. It’s always grounding to return to the fundamentals of thoughtful space-making.

Why These Still Matter

Not every resource here is strictly about small homes, nor do they all reflect my exact style.

But they each remind me that good design has less to do with size or trend and more to do with intention - the pursuit of a home that feels right.

I hope this collection inspires you to explore, to notice, and to keep shaping your own version of “small, not tiny.”

Join the Conversation

Do you have a favorite design book that’s earned a permanent spot on your shelf?

I’d love to hear your recommendations in the comments below 👇🏼.

With contentment & possibility,

Big, Tiny, or Just Right?

We’ve all heard the Goldilocks story:

“Too hot, too cold.” “Too big, too small. Just right.”

When it comes to our homes, the same principle applies. Somewhere between the excess of “bigger is better” and the extremes of tiny living is a sweet spot: small, not tiny.

Of course, Goldilocks wasn’t thinking about sustainability. But maybe she was onto something: extremes rarely work, and the sweet spot is usually “just right.” The same is true for our homes.

Sustainability isn’t only about solar panels, recycled materials, high-tech systems, or less consumption. It’s also about space - how much of it we take up, and how much we truly need to live well.

For decades, Americans have equated bigger with better:

• more square footage

• more rooms

• more storage. For more stuff!

Then came the pendulum swing: the tiny-house craze, with its glossy Instagram shots and dreamy promises of financial freedom, minimalism, and living light on the land.

It all sounds so romantic, and in theory, tiny homes do check some sustainability boxes.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to: tiny is not the answer. Small is.

Why Tiny Doesn’t Work

I don’t dislike tiny homes. Far from it. In fact, I spent many childhood summers in Sweden living in a little red cabin tucked into a meadow, and those memories remain some of the most magical of my life. I get the romantic pull.

But the idea that tiny homes could broadly solve our environmental and housing challenges is, in my view, a myth.

• They’re expensive. Cost per square foot is often sky-high unless you’re skilled enough to DIY from the ground up. And have masses of time on your hands.

• They’re impractical. Most municipalities don’t know what to do with them, making it hard to find a legal place to park one.

• They’re not scalable. At best, tiny homes serve a sliver of individuals who want a dramatic lifestyle shift, or those with the means to own one as a second property for short getaways.

Tiny homes are not a path to widespread sustainability. Tiny homes are a niche movement. They are wonderful for camping or a summer retreat. Charming, yes. Even Instagram-worthy. But not a model that’s going to shift how the majority of us actually live day to day.

In researching this idea and trying to learn more about the realities of tiny-home living, I came across a couple of worthwhile articles. Maybe worth a read later:

• 6 People on What They Wish They Knew Before Living in a Tiny House

• Tiny Houses Might Not Always be the Bargain You’d Expect

The Magic of Small Homes

Now, small homes. That’s a different story.

Small (but not tiny) homes carry many of the same benefits as tiny homes, without tipping into the realm of impracticality. They’re more energy-efficient, easier to care for, far more affordable to maintain, and encourage simpler, less cluttered living.

But most importantly, small homes are realistic.

• They already exist in large numbers. Think about the millions of older bungalows and cottages waiting to be refreshed rather than replaced. I know my mountain “village” here in Northern Arizona is a perfect example - the downtown is overflowing with these gorgeous gems. All the while, massive brand new homes continue to be built on the outskirts of town.

• They’re comfortable, truly luxurious, when designed well. They are easy to live in, and make it possible to age-in-place.

• They can actually make a dent in housing availability and affordability.

Here’s the magic! As a designer, I know a smaller footprint doesn’t mean giving up beauty, elegance, comfort or flexibility.

With thoughtful planning, a small home can feel abundant: spacious, light-filled, functional, elegant, and deeply personal.

A clever floor plan or a perfectly placed window makes all the difference.

It’s not about the square footage.

A Cultural Shift

Of course, intentionally choosing smaller homes (and doing so before you are forced to due to age or illness) is about more than square footage. It’s about values.

That’s pretty ingrained in the “American dream.”

Do we need a formal dining room we use twice a year? Do we need storage for things we never touch, and never really needed in the first place?

What does a home that truly supports our daily life look like? Honestly?

It will take more than logic to spark a shift. It will take desire.

Tiny homes had the benefit of TV shows and viral aesthetics. Maybe it’s time for a new kind of story. A new trend. One that celebrates the beauty and comfort of small living.

Thoughtfully designed small homes are cozy, efficient, refined, and deeply sustainable. They free us from excess while still offering room to breathe.

Why I Care

This is personal for me. It’s why I live how I do and why I started The Whiskey Porch.

We chose intentionally to do a major downsize the moment our youngest kiddos headed off to college. We were both around 50 years old. No where near retiring.

We went from a big city to mountain village. From a large, new tract home with a pool to a small, historic cottage with no garage.

Best decision of our lives.

👉🏼You can read that story here: We Accidentally Bought a Bungalow

My design work is rooted in this same belief - that small, thoughtful, and beautifully crafted spaces offer a richer way of living. Admittedly, the majority of my clients are still those in oversized brand-new homes. But they appreciate this ethos and approach.

I’m not here to sell you on anything, but if you’re curious, you’ll see this philosophy woven through the projects and stories I share on my studio website.

Related:

On My Bookshelf: Design Classics for the Small Home & Bungalow Life - a collection of the timeless design books that continue to shape my approach to small-scale living.

Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

I truly believe small, not tiny could be one of the most meaningful cultural shifts we make toward sustainability and a more balanced life.

But it starts with us asking questions, telling stories, and reimagining what “home” really means.

So I’d love to hear from you:

• Could you see yourself thriving in a smaller home?

• What would feel like “enough” space for you?

• And if you’re already living small, what do you love most about it?

Drop your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to spark a conversation. After all, that’s how real change begins.

With contentment & possibility,

It’s called Organic Modernism. And it’s not just a design aesthetic, it’s a lifestyle choice that invites us to live with intention, beauty, and connection to the world around us.

What is Organic Modernism?

Organic Modernism is a design style that harmonizes the clean lines and minimalist structure of modern architecture with the warmth and authenticity of natural materials. Think: reclaimed wood, raw stone, natural fabrics, and an earthy color palette. The result? A space that feels serene, timeless, and rooted.

But one of the most defining features of this approach, and the part that speaks to me most, is how it integrates indoor and outdoor living. In Organic Modernism, nature isn’t an afterthought. It’s a design partner.

Sliding glass walls, connected materials, and garden spaces that feel like an extension of your home aren’t just beautiful - they effectively expand your living space and create more opportunities to rest, gather, and restore, year-round.

Our Nordic-Rooted Twist on Organic Modernism

While the definition above captures the foundation of Organic Modernism, our version here at The Whiskey Porch is intentionally less strict, and more soulful. As a Swedish native, I draw deeply from Nordic design and lifestyle traditions. That means:

• A reverence for natural light, especially in how it moves through a space

• A lifestyle that prioritizes simplicity, connection to nature, and seasonal rhythms

• Design that feels quietly luxurious, lived-in, and sustainable, never showy

This Nordic influence shapes the way I approach both interior and garden design. It brings a softer, more personal sensibility to Organic Modernism - one that’s deeply connected to place, and to the art of living well.

Value for Homeowners

This isn’t just about aesthetics. According to a recent Zillow study, homes featuring nature-forward design elements - like bluestone patios, outdoor kitchens, and organic landscaping - can sell for up to 3.1% more than expected. Buyers are drawn to homes that feel connected to their setting, and that connection adds real value.

Simple Ways to Embrace Organic Modernism

Here are a few ways to start introducing this design approach to your own home:

• Natural Materials: Choose furnishings and surfaces made from wood, stone, linen, or clay.

• Muted, Earthy Palettes: Embrace warm neutrals, sage greens, soft grays, and sun-washed tones.

• Seamless Flow: Create continuity between indoor and outdoor spaces with aligned flooring, oversized windows, or French/sliding doors.

• Nature as a Focal Point: Let your landscape (or a single specimen tree) act as a living feature in your design.

This is the core of what I specialize in here at The Whiskey Porch: crafting beautiful, livable, and authentic spaces that feel deeply connected to the land and lifestyle of the Southwest.

If you’re curious how Organic Modernism might shape your own home or garden design, I’d love to hear from you.

Leave a comment

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. To learn more about our services, go here: The Whiskey Porch Design Services