Written by contributor Emily Walker of Remodeling This Life.

For the last two weeks, my home was immaculate. When dishes got dirtied, they were immediately washed and put away. Laundry was folded and put away fresh and hot from the dryer.

There weren’t toys everywhere with only the three options of being picked up, tripped over, or stepped on; they were all in place at all times. There were no smudgy fingerprints to be wiped from walls and tables and the couch.

Every time I left my house and then returned, everything was just as I had left it. Clear counters, a coffee table I could set my coffee and feet on without having to shove 15 toys out of the way. Carpets that were still freshly vacuumed and dirt-free.

I will tell you the secret to the perfectly spotless, tidy living conditions which I lived in for two weeks…

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Written by contributor Emily Walker of Remodeling This Life.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately feeling frustrated with my home. I went back to working outside the home after six years, and as a result, went from having plenty of time in a day to make things just the way I wanted them in my home—to having just enough time to make things pretty good.

I’ve had to let go of perfection and be okay with pretty good. If the laundry is done and the kitchen is clean simultaneously, I am fine with there being toys everywhere (or at least I try really hard to be). I am not going to lie, it hasn’t been easy. Somehow, having kids right under my feet making art and toy messes zaps all my motivation to clean up. It feels like an uphill battle, and more than ever, it feels like if my home is anything, it’s not a simple one.

This morning, like many others, I spent some time grumbling inwardly (and a little bit outwardly, too) about how complicated it seems to just keep the living room clean for more than twenty minutes. The second a surface is cleared, it becomes a magnet for more stuff to get set there.

As soon as I clean the floors, someone tramples them with summer feet.

As soon as I get to the bottom of the laundry hamper, there is more thrown in.

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Today I’m over at (in)courage, sharing about my need for beauty, and that I’m okay with that. I used to not be okay with that. But I am now. From the post:

“This morning, I stepped over no fewer than five stinky, balled-up socks en route to the bathroom. After breakfast, I scrubbed congealed oatmeal off the kitchen table where the 4-year-old sat. I asked for happy hearts to reign during this busy day, and was returned with blank stares. And of course, there was a dirty diaper.

I’m not complaining. This is the stuff of life, and it’s all sign of living with humans, among those I’m rearing and guiding towards maturity. Hugely thankful for that.

And I’d argue there’s even a certain beauty to it all—the snot-encrusted face that grins with devotion as he hands me his paci to give it a try. (“No thank you. No… I’m good. Really. Please stop,” I say as he crams that sucker against my mouth.)

But this dirty, daily grind can honestly overwhelm me if I don’t add a splash of genuine beauty in to my everyday. It’s true… I’m a girl. I thrive on beauty.”

Head here to read the rest of the post and to share your comments.

Written by contributor Emily Walker of Remodeling This Life.

When I was a little girl, my Great Uncle Mo had a cottage on a beautiful lake in the wine country of Western New York. My parents had a cottage of their own hours away, so we spent most of our time at that cottage; but from time to time, we’d spend a day or a weekend at Uncle Mo’s.

Uncle Mo never married, so the family of my grandfather (his brother) was all he had. He loved having a place where everyone could come to swim and play, celebrate Labor Day, and eat hot dogs.

Not many of my childhood days were spent there, but my memories are clear—memories of standing on the rock break wall and skipping stones, sitting at his long rickety picnic table on rickety benches and eating hot dogs. Getting sun-kissed and exhausted from days of splashing in the water and playing in the grass.

Uncle Mo passed away when I was 17 years old, 16 years ago now. The cottage was sold and when the new owners were remodeling it, it burned to the ground. A new building stands in its place now, a building that I have never seen.

I still like to picture the yellow two-story cottage with a big screened porch overlooking the lake, creaky stairs leading to a second floor full of bunk beds to accommodate overnighters, a tiny kitchen, a living room with a folding table for playing cards and dominoes, and one little bathroom.

In that little bathroom sat Uncle Mo’s chair.
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Written by DIY contributor Katie Clemons of Making This Home.

I can’t tell you the precise definition or location of “home”, but I can tell you this: home is whatever you make it.

In my case, it’s been a progressive making and remaking since the day Martin (my German-born husband) and I met. We’ve been called nomads when we moved to Berlin, Germany, gypsies when we came back to the US, migrators when we moved into a tire house, adventurers somewhere in-between, and more often than not, “that interesting couple”.

It’s a lot of packing and unpacking. But here’s something I’ve learned:

The beautiful thing about home is that it really has very little to do with the building. It’s all about the people.

A home is just the setting for all the stories of our lives.
Photo by Katie Clemons

Today as you read this, Martin and I are holding hammers and nail guns. We’re building a little home that we’ve been dreaming about for almost a year. (I mentioned the launch of our project briefly in this post, DIY: Finishing What We Start.)

Our home is anything but normal; it’s 720 square feet in the back of an airplane hangar. It’s a place for fixing and storing small airplanes. One day, it’ll have a big office for my online journal shop, Gadanke. It’s exciting, but it’s not normal.

Photo by Katie Clemons

Chances are, there’s something about your house that might not be so “normal” or “perfect”, too, right? That’s okay. In fact, that’s part of what makes life so beautiful. Do you remember the squished apartment with the awful oven that you and your husband first lived in? Remember baking a birthday cake in there? Do you remember the year the Christmas tree tipped over? How about something crazy like when a bird flew in the chimney or your son brought home a new pet without asking?

If we always focus on what the Jones Family does at their house, how can we pause and celebrate our homes? Our worlds? Our dreams?
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