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I’ve been trying to do some writing about this thing we call “home” and I keep stalling. I’m blaming it on my couch.

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I mean, what right to I have to say anything to anyone about home and beautiful spaces and loveliness when I have the ugliest couch in the world?

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I know it’s not my couch’s fault. Poor couch. It can’t help being ugly and old and worn. It can’t help having been sat on and jumped on and napped on and pee’d on for who-knows-how-many years. It can’t help not being fashionable or fancy or pretty.

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Okay, okay. I get it.

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I need to look beyond the tattered, today. I need to spend some time on my home, and quit fussing about my house.

I need to see the real furnishings, and love them for the gifts they are. I haven’t been doing that very well, lately.

Grace.

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I am a bit obsessed with the whole tiny house movement. I follow tiny house blogs and click on tiny house Facebook links and I’m amazed by the whole I-built-this-home-for-$4,000-out-of-trash-and-ingenuity-and-look-how-beautiful-it-is thing.

Then I count us all up and, oh yeah, there are, at the moment, eight people living in my house. A composting toilet couldn’t keep up with us. And where would we all sleep? And eat? And do stuff?

I’m digging a little deeper, exploring my inner tiny house longings, and I think I’ve come up with something. I think I can have a tiny house mentality without actually having a tiny house.

A tiny house mentality, according to moi, means spaces that are: simple, efficient, and beautiful. Spaces that have a sense of purpose about them. They know themselves and they desire to be what they are meant to be.

I’m putting my tiny house dream on hold, and instead, I’m looking at my spaces – my kitchen, my living room, my office – and I’m trying to love them for what they are, and to see them as they could be if they were as simple, efficient, and beautiful as I could help them become.

Maybe I don’t need to go on a house diet. Maybe, if big is what I’ve got, big can be beautiful, too.

Maybe I just need to be thankful and grateful, and love the one I’m with.

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It’s made almost entirely of goat hair, is only about 1 1/2 inches across, and I can barely feel the weight of it in my hand. A miracle of construction and efficient in its purpose. Not flashy, not stately or even very sturdy. It wouldn’t last a Saskatchewan winter.

He brought it in for me, rather than mow over it, because he knew I’d love it. And I do.

I love it for its simplicity. I love the sweet bowl, the cradle of it, and I imagine the tiny babies that would have nestled in it, covered by breast or wing until, growing big and getting crowded, they fly.

Everything that is mommy in me feels the pull of this tiny sculptured home.

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I’m working on a wee book about Home. Not about decluttering or decorating. Not really. More about loving. Maybe you’ll read it when I’m done? And think of me, pray for me even, as I try to squeeze bits of creativity and writing time into my days.