Renewal is an experiment. What will life be like if we choose to live in this house, on this street, in this neighborhood, in this city, and commit to doing what we can to bring it (back) to life? And that impulse drives even the simplest of projects.

This was a piece of an old, broken-down piano. What sort of life can it have if we choose to commit some time, creativity, and effort to it? It lives on as a sideboard in the cottage dining room, still bearing proudly its original piano label, right there, dead center of the top. It's as though it is saying "I may no longer be a piano, but there is life in me yet".

Cottage is renewed. This is cottage.

Cottage quirkiness is an expression of that inner sense that enables patience when a project (or a group of projects) goes unfinished for months, with no reasonable explanation. That inner sense that says, "I know this seems like the most important thing you have ever done, and that you feel that when you finish it all things will be set aright. But take a step back. It's just a _________(fill in the blank with whatever project you are working on). Stop taking yourself so seriously."

The turquoise shelf was a piano. The “R”-wall was some folding doors between someone’s kitchen and dining room. The lamp, well, that’s always been a lamp, but it was once cheapy brass with a terrible accordion shade.

What all these things have in common is that they were trash. And now they are here, in the cottage living room.

Cottage is renewed. This is Cottage

There are certain things that are sacred, untouchable, no doubt about that. But sometimes it’s tempting to elevate things to sacred status that just don’t belong there. Nostalgia is the temptation to elevate things to sacred status because they’re old. A preoccupation with novelty elevates things to sacred status because they’re young. Elevating things to sacred status because you like them is called pretentiousness.

All of that is preface to this: I am pretty sure this armoire (I am pretty sure its an armoire) is older than I am. Probably a lot older than I am. And it had a really beautiful wood grain and nice (though peeling) finish. And cool vintage brass casters. And matching pull-out drawers. A really nice piece, to be sure. But it’s for the kids’ room, and none of that stuff matters to them. Not yet, anyway. So we painted this thing a quirky shade of green they like, and put on bigger, more playful casters, and filled it full of baskets they can easily access. And it’s perfect for them.

And for those who might be shocked or disappointed: it’s not sacred. And the wood grain is still there. Somewhere under that great green paint.

Cottage is quirky. This is Cottage

Lying on the floor of the kitchen, I looked up and saw this, and was mesmerized. I’ve seen this corner before, but it was always from a roughly upright standing position. This time, I was lying underneath it, looking straight up. The angles, the way the colors contrast, the way the different surfaces meet and the textures echo one another; all of that was so engaging, so engrossing that I lay there and stared just for a moment. Then I got up and did the dishes. From yesterday. And maybe from dinner the night before that.

Cottage is perspective. This is Cottage.

There’s no furniture on the porch. There’s a plastic owl oddly perched on the rail. The mailbox is weird. The window pane on the left is broken. Those are (temporary) paper shades in the windows. The paint is peeling…and ugly. Those address numbers have got to go. The lattice work on the porch is doing anything but working. There are so many things that need to be helped, that need to be loved back to life.

But it’s warm inside. And glowing. And cozy. And comfortable. And home.

Cottage is home. This is Cottage.

In this case, just as in most cases, it is the inhabitants of the cottage that are imperfect. I think this is two or three meals’ worth of dishes. Just piling up. I think we watched a movie and read to the kids instead of doing the dishes. But that’s Cottage: let your hair down, and let the dishes stack up.

Cottage is imperfect. This is Cottage.

What do we mean when we say “Good fences make good neighbors”? I think we mean good fences maintain boundaries, surrounding an area with definitive edges. So by “good fence” here we mean a fence that hems in, protects, and provides an area of safety. But I get the feeling that we might also mean good fences carve out, marking off what’s mine and what’s not yours, helping us to keep our distance and mind our own business. So by “good fence” here we mean a fence that obstructs views, isolates, separates. And it seems to me that anything, fences included, that serves to separate neighbors is emphatically not good. Any fence that isolates neighbors is not a good fence at all, but a terrible fence.

Cottage is neighborly. And what sort of fences do good neighbors make? Cottage wants to see the neighbors, to chat with them, to befriend them, to be neighbors to them. Even if those neighbors don’t reciprocate. Cottage wants a fence that provides all the good things a fence does: safety, protection; but none of the bad things a fence can: isolation, separation. Good fences make good neighbors, but first good neighbors make good fences. And eventually we will plant some grass, too. And park the cars somewhere other than the side yard. And paint the house.

Cottage is neighborly. This is Cottage.

This may be related to Cottage’s being old. Old things are usually slow, right? But I guess those old things that are slow because they’re old are that way because they are deteriorating; they used to be fast, but as they’ve aged, they’ve broken down, and now just don’t work like they used to. That’s not the way Cottage is slow.

Cottage didn’t used to be fast, but through years of wear and neglect just broke down, fading into slowness. No, Cottage-slow is slow by design. Like this coffee press: it takes more steps, more patience, more time, more waiting, more watching, more precision. But the coffee we enjoy every morning after that slow process is just…right. And Cottage is that kind of slow. A slow that is slow on purpose; a slow that requires patient waiting; a slow that has always been slow, and is better for it; a slow that produces all the things that are just…right.

Cottage is Slow. This is Cottage.

There is no home that is perfectly designed to accommodate all the things we might want to put in it. This cottage is mostly right angles, and most of the stuff we put here is not, which means nothing fits just right. That is to say, this cottage refuses to completely bend to our wishes.

Which means that we adjust to it. When things don’t go where we want them, we learn to adjust our expectations for where things will go. When there isn’t enough closet space for all of the closet-things, we learn to be okay with closet-things becoming living-room-things.

But in this way, Cottage does adjust to us. As we adjust to Cottage, it takes on something of our particular personalities; in fact, Cottage begins to look like us, displaying our interests and character. That’s the process of a house becoming a cottage-home: we love it enough to adjust ourselves to it, and it returns love by weaving our things into a personal display, adjusting to us. And it gives our dog a place to sit.

Cottage is Home. This is Cottage.

These are 80 year old, 10 inch wide pine boards composing the ceiling of this cottage kitchen. When we moved in, we had no idea they were up there. These boards were covered with layers of cheese cloth wall paper which were (strangely) covered by styrofoam panels.

As we tore off styrofoam and peeled off wall paper, these glorious old boards peeked through. Their warm tone and grain begged to be uncovered, and we obliged. This is true of much of Cottage; it stands on its own. It doesn’t need to be all made-up to be presentable. There’s a quality to its age that should be put on display; it’s beautiful because it’s old. Its beauty has been earned through years of patience. It just needs someone to remove the layers of ill-directed effort and let it’s years show.

Cottage is old. This is Cottage.

And it is those little imperfections that can endear or ruin Cottage for you.

A person can respond to cottage imperfections with huffy complaining, pining for what this place could be if not for all its little problems. But it might be a good exercise for that person to ask themselves if their expectation of perfection is helping or hurting their experience of the world around them. Does my need for perfection make me happier, or constantly disappointed? Does my need for perfection help people in my world or hurt them?

Or a person could allow themselves to become endeared to this cottage; its imperfections are then seen as marks of the years of service this cottage has provided to its varied cottage-dwellers. Does this appreciation, this love, help cottage to be better at what its designed to do? Does this appreciation, this love, help people to thrive and excel as people?

The Kitchen floor squeaks,
but no longer bothers us.
We love our old house.

That’s a haiku up there, so read it with contemplation in your eyes, and while rubbing your chin artistically.

Cottage is imperfect. This is cottage.

It's winter here, and the temperature is an appropriately-cold 30 something. The air is that moist cold that mocks you for wearing a jacket, as though it will help. But cottage is warm inside, and for more than just that the heater’s on. Cottage offers a warmth that you can settle into, put your feet up. These surfaces are cool to the touch but welcome you to warm conversation, to a welcome rest.
Yes, drop the stroller on the plastic container left on the other side of the island, its fine. Yes, leave the dishes in the sink, they’ll get done. Sit down, you’re welcome here.

Cottage is warm. This is cottage.

And what is old is past. And what’s past is not new. And what’s not new is “so five minutes ago” and when we say that we mean it as an insult. And this cottage is so much more than five minutes ago; something closer to 29,000 days ago. But, then, here it is, still here. Still doing its duty keeping weather out and warmth in. What’s more, its telling stories, and it can tell stories because it has lived them. And it has lived them because its old. And this makes old really good.

Cottage is old. This is cottage.