I didn’t set out to write an essay about our house. At first, this was just about a remodel—a practical project to shape our living space around how we wanted to feel, move, and gather as a family. But as with many things that matter, the process revealed more than I expected.
Over the course of two and a half years, what began as a renovation became something else entirely: a conversation with space. A way of tuning into how our environment shapes us—not just physically, but emotionally, relationally, and even spiritually.
This wasn’t about adding square footage for the sake of merely having a bigger home or keeping up with trends. My wife and I found ourselves asking different questions—slower questions:
What does it mean for a home to feel alive? How does space support our energy, our breath, our connection with the Earth and each other? What might it look like to live in a home that doesn’t just shelter us, but actually participates in our wellbeing?
We didn’t always have answers. In fact, most of the time, we just had instincts. A feeling in the body. A pause in the gut. A sense that something was off, or that something felt right. And so we followed those cues—sometimes clumsily, often slowly—toward a home that felt less like a project and more like a practice.
This essay is a reflection on that journey. It’s not a blueprint or a set of prescriptions. It’s a field note from the process of making a home that feels reciprocal—where the space itself contributes to our vitality rather than asking us to override it.
We made choices rooted in intuition and research, in values and relationships. We chose materials that breathe, light that softens, sound that soothes. We worked with craftsmen and neighbors, friends and family, who brought their hands and hearts to the work. And we made plenty of mistakes, which taught us just as much as the victories.
More than anything, we kept returning to the idea that aliveness isn’t something we install—it’s something we cultivate. It’s the result of noticing, adjusting, listening. And it’s ongoing. Our house continues to evolve as we do.
What follows is a series of reflections on energy, earth, light, earth, sound, community, lessons learned, and rethinking value. Each section is rooted in our lived experience. And all of it comes back to a single, animating belief:
Our spaces shape us. So let’s shape them with care.
If something here resonates—if it sparks a thought or opens a question—I hope you follow it. Not toward “better” design, but toward deeper connection. Not toward perfection, but toward presence.
Because in the end, a house isn’t just something we build. It’s something we build a relationship with. And maybe, if we’re lucky, it helps build us back in return.
Energy
When it comes to how our spaces affect us, I often return to the wisdom of A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander, Sara Ishikawa, and Murray Silverstein. That book opened a door I didn’t know I needed. It helped me recognize just how deeply form, flow, and materials influence our nervous systems, metabolic health, and the overall movement of life force through us.
One insight from that book has stayed with me: human beings evolved surrounded by the soft, irregular shapes of the natural world—trees, rocks, rivers, clouds. But most of what we build today depends on straight lines, hard edges, and artificial uniformity. Before learning this, I couldn’t quite name why I felt drained after spending all day inside most homes and buildings. But now I see it clearly. The space itself was working against the natural flow of energy, light, and breath.
That understanding changed the way we approached our home. We started asking, not just what would look good, but what would feel good. What would feel alive. And to be honest, we didn’t always get it right on the first try. We wrestled with decisions, debated countless options, and occasionally felt paralyzed by the sheer number of tile samples. But having that core question in the background—does this support energy or stifle it?—helped us find our way back.
Inside the house, we used clay plaster on the walls, which gave us the soft curves and rounded edges that invite movement rather than stop it. Energy can flow from room to room, and the corners don’t interrupt that rhythm. It may sound subtle, but we feel it. We painted the doors the same color as the clay plastered walls—a warm, neutral yellow—so that nothing jars the visual field. Everything feels held.
The hydronic underfloor heating was another decision rooted in intuition as much as logic. It turns the entire house into a gentle thermal mass, like a stone warmed by the sun. If you’ve ever tucked a hot rock into your sleeping bag on a cold night, you know the comfort I’m talking about. There’s a quiet generosity to that kind of warmth—as if the house itself is holding us.
We also thought deeply about where we didn’t want energy. I’ve spent enough time geeking out on EMFs and their effects on sleep and recovery to want simple solutions. We installed wall switches that let us cut off WiFi and electricity to the bedrooms without crawling behind furniture or fumbling with breakers. At night, we “power down” the space to give our bodies a chance to truly rest. It may sound small, but over time, it’s made a big difference in how rested we feel.
As for energy generation, we’re deeply grateful to the home’s previous owners who installed a solar array and oriented the old garage (now our mudroom) with a south-facing roof to maximize solar production. They had the foresight and care to make the most of Nevada’s abundant sunlight. As they put it: “Nevada is one of the sunniest states in the United States. To us it makes sense therefore to invest in making your own energy.”
It’s not possible to be fully off-grid within Reno city limits, but thanks to the solar array, we can significantly reduce our reliance on the grid. During the summer, the panels generate credits we use in winter, balancing things out through the year. The 7kw system, paired with a 13.5kwh backup battery, is more than enough for our family and some electric bikes.
All of this—the natural curves, the warmth underfoot, the minimized EMFs, the sunlight we harvest—are just parts of a bigger intention: to live inside something that nourishes us back. Something that supports our energy rather than drains it. That’s what makes this house feel alive to us. And it’s taught me that energy isn’t just something we use. It’s something we live inside of.
Breath
What does it mean for a house to breathe? We found ourselves asking that question not as a design exercise, but out of necessity. A few years ago, I was knee-deep in figuring out the root cause of my chronic allergies—shoutout to Melissa Monaghan at High Sierra Allergy for helping me find some answers—and it turned out that mold was a major trigger. Once I knew that, I started noticing how many of the spaces I spent time in just didn’t feel good. And I started wondering why.
I learned that modern houses are often wrapped in plastic barriers meant to keep moisture out. But like wearing a plastic rain jacket all day, that barrier traps moisture inside as well. Walls can’t release humidity the way natural materials do, and over time, that trapped moisture becomes the perfect environment for mold. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. And it sent us down a path of asking: How do we build in a way that breathes with us?
We started by choosing materials that allow for respiration. Bamboo lath and plywood, allowed to off-gas for weeks before being installed. Natural wool insulation from Havelock Wool instead of fiberglass. Soy-based spray foam instead of plastic sheeting. My wife is especially sensitive to VOCs, so we took our time. There were moments where it felt like we were slowing the project down for reasons no one else could see. But for us, it mattered. We didn’t want that “new house” smell—we wanted the house to smell like nothing. Like clean air.
Layer by layer, we built walls that could breathe. From insulation to plaster to the final clay surface, every component was chosen with breathability in mind. The clay layer acts like a sponge, pulling humidity from the air and then releasing it again when needed. It’s self-regulating, low-tech, and oddly comforting. Just knowing the walls are “working” with us brings a kind of ease.
We also wanted the air to move—not just mechanically, but organically. In the main living area, we designed exposed rafters and triangular shapes that allow air to circulate naturally. There’s a gentle movement to the space that helps it feel fresh, even when all the windows are closed.
And then there’s the tactile beauty of clay. I love how it softens sound, bounces light in a diffused way, and invites touch. Clay feels honest. It doesn’t hide its texture or pretend to be something else. It reminds me of linen or raw wool—materials that ask nothing of you and give everything in return.
We were fortunate to work with Cat Odell and her team at Earth Light Build to bring the clay plaster to life. They mixed it by hand on site—clay, sand, straw—and invited our family and community to join in. I’ll never forget the feeling of shaping a wall with my bare hands. There’s something humbling about leaving fingerprints in your own home. Cat once said, “The number of times it was touched imbues it with the quality of love.” And I believe her.
Breath was also a consideration in how we handled heating and cooling. Our radiant floor system meant no need for forced air—no ducts blowing dust and allergens through the house. But Reno’s climate still requires seasonal flexibility, so we installed mini-splits in the bedrooms. They’re efficient, quiet, and come with air filters that actually clean the air rather than recirculate it.
When we breathe easier, we live easier. And while we didn’t get every detail perfect, we’ve come to trust that these small, intentional choices are what give the house its own kind of respiration. A rhythm. A pulse. A softness in how it meets us. And just like breath, it’s something we notice most when we pause long enough to feel it.
Light
Of all the elements we considered in our home, light was one of the most personal. Light impacts our mood, our energy, our sleep, and—at least for me—my overall sense of orientation in the world. I’ve come to realize I’m incredibly sensitive to light, though I wouldn’t have used that language years ago. It’s something I’ve had to learn through lived experience.
I remember reading Chasing the Sun by Linda Geddes and having a lightbulb moment. The book made clear how deeply our circadian rhythms are tied to the sun, and how so many of our modern ailments are made worse by our disconnect from it. I started shifting my routines: getting outside in the morning, dimming the lights in the evening, and becoming more aware of how artificial light can overstimulate or soothe. Naturally, these insights made their way into our design process.
Our first intention was simple: we didn’t want to turn on lights during the day. That goal guided where we placed windows, how we shaped walls, and where we added skylights. It wasn’t about maximizing brightness—it was about respecting the sun’s rhythm and letting natural light move through the house in a way that felt organic.
In the main bedroom, for instance, we added an east-facing window seat that greets us with morning light. It’s become one of our favorite places to begin the day. And on the south wall, we used a high horizontal window instead of a standard one so we could bring in light without compromising privacy. That little design tweak brings in sunshine while offering a sense of quiet containment.
In darker areas like the laundry room, we added solar tubes with reflective mirrors to bring in daylight from above. These were small interventions, but they completely changed the feeling of those spaces—from utility closets to little sanctuaries.
Light wasn’t just about visibility—it was about atmosphere. We worked with Christie Murphy on the lighting design, and our conversations always came back to one question: How do we make the space feel inviting, while also honoring the natural movement of the day? She introduced us to dimmable can lights that mimic the sun’s temperature throughout the day. During the day, they can shine bright at 6000K, but as the sun sets, we can dim them down to 1700K—a warm, golden hue that mimics candlelight. There’s something about syncing indoor light with the setting sun that helps us ease into rest more naturally. It’s subtle, but powerful.
We also played with indirect lighting—tape lights along rafters, gentle glows in reading nooks, soft up-lighting that gives the ceiling a floating feel. These small touches helped us avoid the harshness of overhead lights and created layers of mood we can adjust depending on the moment: an intimate dinner, an early-morning tea, a lively gathering with friends.
And perhaps most importantly, we wanted our lighting to stay low-tech. In a world of “smart homes,” we kept coming back to the idea of a wise home—one that supports our natural rhythms without needing constant programming or oversight. Personally, I’m not a fan of having to interface with my iPhone just to manage how I feel. At some point, it starts to feel like the iPhone is managing me. We didn’t want EMF-heavy wireless systems or complicated setups. We wanted switches we could control with our hands, dimmers we could feel, and lights that asked nothing more of us than to be present.
Light, like breath and energy, became a teacher in this process. It reminded us to slow down, to pay attention, and to align our spaces with the natural world rather than override it. And now, as we move through the day in this home—watching the sun pour through the windows, casting ever-changing patterns on the clay walls—we’re reminded that the best kind of light isn’t something you flip on. It’s something you live with.
Earth
I’ve shared before that we chose clay plaster for the walls, which means we’ve literally brought Earth into our home. There’s something quietly grounding about it—not just in how the walls curve with soft, rounded edges, but also in their capacity to absorb the electromagnetic buzz that hums through modern life. I’m no scientist, but reading Earthing by Clinton Ober helped me appreciate how our bodies—electrical as they are—respond to natural contact with the ground. That stuck with me.
But more than the science, I just feel better in these spaces. There’s a calm that settles in my nervous system when I sit against a clay wall. I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but the room seems to hold me in a softer way. The Earth, somehow, feels like a companion.
The same spirit guided our choice of live-edge cedar for built-ins like shelving. These pieces feel alive to me. Their wavy lines, their asymmetry—they remind me that nature doesn’t do straight lines. And maybe, in some way, they encourage me to loosen up and be more creative too. It’s hard to stay rigid when surrounded by forms that celebrate imperfection.
We’ve also tried to design a gentle flow between the inside and outside. The house wraps in an L-shape around the garden, and with the addition of my office and a movement studio, the layout forms a roughly shaped triangle. In practice, the yard feels like just another room—one without a ceiling, where we host, stretch, lounge, and sometimes just stare at the sky.
We were lucky in many ways. The previous owners had already infused the garden with life—fruit trees, pollinator plants, native species, songbird habitat. We felt grateful to inherit something so thoughtful. From there, we brought in a permaculture designer, Tanner Petrilla of Humilitree, to help us adapt it to our rhythms as a family.
I’ve come to understand permaculture not as a fixed system, but as a conversation with place—one that invites humility. It asks us to consider what the land needs and how we can care for it while still caring for ourselves. It’s not about maximizing yield; it’s about participating in a living system.
Some of the practices we’ve embraced include little to no tilling (so the soil can stay structured and alive), letting leaves remain where they fall, composting, keeping chickens, and planting for birds and insects as much as for ourselves. Our chickens, in their own quirky way, have become little garden stewards—turning soil, adding nutrients, and offering endless amusement.
One of the things I love about permaculture is how low-tech the solutions can be. Instead of building a privacy wall out of concrete, we have a food forest—fruit trees and medicinal herbs that block noise and sightlines… and happen to produce delicious plums.
We have circular paths for harvesting the fresh vegetables growing in the yard. This reflects something I call “Environmental Will”—designing our spaces so that the good choices are the easy ones. If fresh kale is in my backyard hoop house, I’m more likely to pick it for dinner.
I’ve noticed this concept showing up in small but meaningful ways. For example, I used to think of weeding as a chore I had to set aside time for. But now, with a path that winds through the garden on my way to the office, I’ll pause and pull a few weeds just as part of the journey. The space nudges me toward care.
As we updated the garden, we focused on keeping the spirit of what was already working. We added small sandstone slabs with creeping thyme between them as a path leading from the house to the movement studio and my office. We created a small lawn for play, for gatherings, and for morning stretches in the sun.
Honestly, deciding to have a lawn gave me pause. It’s not always seen as “permaculture-approved.” But we asked ourselves what function it would serve—and for us, it meant a place for connection, for barefoot play, for daily rituals under the open sky. So we tried to approach it thoughtfully: compost below the soil, water-wise sod from Dayton Valley Turf, shade from trees, and no chemicals. We mow less. When we do, the clippings go to compost—another little cycle. It’s not perfect, but it’s alive.
The layout of the house helps too. Most rooms open directly onto the garden—not by accident, but by design. Again, this is Environmental Will in action: we made it easy to step outside, to soak in light, to touch soil. It would actually take effort to avoid the outdoors.
That contrast really hit me recently at a doctor’s office. The waiting room had no windows, and the fluorescent lights gave off that grayish-blue cast you sometimes forget is unnatural until you step back outside. Everyone looked tired, withdrawn.
I found myself holding my breath. It was like my body knew it wasn’t in a life-giving space. The physician who came in seemed kind, but pale and depleted—the kind of look that makes you wonder not just about personal wellness, but about the wellness of our entire built environment.
It reminded me how much space design matters—not just for beauty or productivity, but for health, for joy, for aliveness. A building can invite us to participate in life, or it can quietly pull us away from it.
I don’t claim to have all the answers. But I know that for me and my family, aligning with the Earth—in small, daily ways—feels like a return to something essential. Not just health or sustainability, but belonging. And in a world that can sometimes feel so fast, so extractive, there’s something quietly radical about slowing down enough to listen to what the Earth is asking of us.
Sound
In both my well-being protocols and in how we approached our Home Alive project, I often return to a simple idea: stacking functions. I’m drawn to choices that work on multiple levels—choices that honor the complexity of life rather than trying to control it.
Throughout the process of creating this home, my wife and I kept coming back to one core question: How can we make thoughtful choices that ripple outward with benefit?
Sometimes those benefits are practical—things like efficiency, energy savings, or maintenance ease. But sometimes the benefit is quieter. Sometimes it’s the feeling that a space gives you. Or the sense that your environment is supporting you in ways you can’t always name.
Take sound, for instance. I didn’t come into this project thinking about acoustics. But I’ve come to realize just how much my nervous system responds to the soundscape of a place—especially when it’s subtle, softened, and spacious.
We chose clay plaster walls originally for their earthy, grounding feel and soft, rounded edges—but only later did we realize how much they absorb sound. The rooms feel still. The air doesn’t echo in quite the same way. There’s a quietness that seems to hold you.
The wool insulation adds another layer—not just breathable and non-toxic, but sound-dampening too. Same with the cork underlayment beneath the flooring: it softens footfalls, cushions the body, and reduces noise—all while being sustainably sourced and easy on indoor air quality. These weren’t flashy decisions, just small ones made with care. But together, they make the house feel different.
Of course, some of our sound strategy started with the location. We were drawn to this home in part because it sits on a quiet street. That calm isn’t something we created—it’s something we were lucky to receive. There’s less traffic here, which means we don’t have to block out as much noise. Instead, we get to tune in: to the birds, to the wind through the trees, to the gentle trickle of the fountain in the garden. It reminds me how often design is as much about listening as it is about building.
One of the most impactful choices we made was separating our working spaces from the main living space. My office sits in one garden outbuilding; my wife’s movement studio is in another. At first, we weren’t sure if this layout would feel too spread out. But in practice, it’s been exactly the opposite.
There’s a quiet dignity in having your own space—a place to drop into focus, to follow an idea without interruption, to work or move or write or dream. The buildings don’t share walls, and that lack of proximity—paradoxically—has created more intimacy. We each get to bring our best selves to the “central square,” the garden where we meet, reconnect, and share the day.
To me, that’s function-stacking at its best. It’s not about complexity. It’s about resonance—creating something simple and intentional that serves many parts of who we are.
Community
While each of us has our own spaces to retreat to, we’ve also been deeply intentional about staying connected—to one another, and to the broader community around us.
My office, for example, is separate from the main house, which allows me to focus deeply when needed. But it’s not cut off. We designed it with connection in mind. From my desk, I have a clear view of the garden, the movement studio, and the play area. I often look up from writing or working on a call and see my family playing on the lawn. They see me too—a glance through the window, a quick wave, or just the unspoken comfort of shared presence.
It’s subtle, but meaningful: we’re in our own rhythms, yet energetically woven together by proximity and sightline. There’s something quietly reassuring about knowing we’re close, even when we’re apart.
And then there are the moments when we gather. Our backyard has become a kind of village square for our family—a place where we naturally converge. Whether it’s sharing a meal outside, watering plants side by side, or lounging in the afternoon sun, these small rituals have become the glue of our family life.
But our vision has always extended further. We see our entire property—the house, the yard, the outbuildings—as a kind of invitation to community and a place to find attunement.
Part of building a sense of community for us began with where we chose to live. There are flashier, more “upscale” parts of Reno—newer homes, bigger lots—but most of them are car-dependent. And for us, that lifestyle never felt aligned. We wanted to live in a place where our bodies could be part of our day-to-day rhythm—walking to the farmers market, biking to the co-op, catching sunlight between errands. I’ve never met a new friend while sitting in traffic, but I’ve met more than I can count while walking, picking up groceries by bike, or strolling the river path. We intentionally chose to root ourselves near the chi of the region—along the Truckee River, between Reno’s two most vital riverside parks. It’s all happening around us within a one-mile radius: food, music, nature, movement, connection. That proximity isn’t just convenient—it’s part of how we’re trying to live. A house can be beautiful, but if it isolates us from the very experiences that make us feel alive, then something’s missing. Location, for us, is part of the architecture of aliveness.
We love to host, often informally. Some of my favorite evenings are the spontaneous ones—neighbors dropping by to simply hang out, our kids chasing chickens, or someone bringing over garden surplus to share. There’s something about having a home that feels open—physically and energetically—that naturally draws people in.
Each year, we host a Friendsgiving, which has become something of a tradition. It’s a moment when we pause, reflect, and give thanks—not just for material abundance, but for the relationships and shared journeys that shape us. Those days feel sacred in their own way: a long table under Nevada’s blue sky, laughter woven with deeper conversations, people lingering because they feel at home.
More recently, as we’ve expanded the space, we’ve begun to imagine new possibilities for connection. Above the movement studio, we have a small apartment. The hope is that it can become a home-away-from-home for people wanting to immerse themselves in this lifestyle—to learn from the land, to rest, to co-create.
We envision hosting guests who stay for a season, or a few weeks—artists, seekers, friends, or collaborators who bring their own rhythms and dreams into our space. It’s not about running a retreat center. It’s about extending our idea of village—not as a fixed group, but as an ever-shifting constellation of shared values and mutual nourishment.
The movement studio itself is central to this. It’s not just a place for fitness or flexibility. It’s a space for returning to the body—for listening, exploring, and reconnecting. We deliberately left out mirrors. We wanted people to feel themselves, not judge themselves. To move not in reaction to how they look, but in response to how they feel.
Whether it’s hosting a breathwork circle, a creative workshop, or a quiet meditation gathering, our hope is that the studio becomes a kind of hearth—a place where people can tune in to themselves while feeling held by something larger.
Lessons Learned
Like all meaningful projects, our home renovation handed us plenty of unexpected lessons—and a good dose of humility. Some lessons were practical, others more emotional. But almost all of them had something in common: they invited me to slow down, to rethink how I relate to space, to perfection, and to the people who help make a vision real.
One of the clearest takeaways was this: bring the contractor in early. At first, it felt logical to lean heavily on our architects and engineers. These are the people trained to imagine, to plan, to create beautiful coherence on paper. And they’re good at it. But they live, by nature, in a world of models and abstractions—pixels, renderings, and assumptions.
It became clear partway through the process that digital design doesn’t always translate cleanly to reality (analog world)—especially when you’re working with an existing structure, uneven terrain, and a 70-year-old house full of quirks. There were times we were told something couldn’t be done—a ceiling couldn’t be vaulted, a line couldn’t run a certain way—because it didn’t fit into the model. Then the contractor would show up on-site, take a look, and say something like, “Well, if we reroute this beam and reframe that header, we can actually make it work.”
In those moments, I realized we’d siloed too much. The contractor was the only one seeing the truth of the project in three dimensions. If I had a do-over, I’d get everyone around the same table at the start—not just for logistics, but for real-time collaboration. There’s a wisdom that only emerges when lived experience meets imagination.
Another lesson? Know when to stop. There’s always more to perfect—more trim to align, more hardware to match, more “just in case” add-ons to consider. And I’ll admit, I was prone to chasing the finish line that kept moving. I kept thinking, If I just tweak this last detail, then it’ll be exactly right. But eventually, that became exhausting—and maybe a little performative.
There was a point when I stood in the house, surrounded by samples and specs, and thought, I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to be a person who lives here. That realization—simple as it was—helped me loosen my grip. I realized I’d been working from a sense of pressure to get it right, rather than a sense of trust in the life we were about to live inside it.
And that shift was liberating. I moved from optimization to presence. From critique to gratitude.
Rethinking Value
The renovation didn’t just change the structure—it changed how I think about value itself.
Once we moved in, I began to notice how people talked about the house. Almost immediately, some friends and acquaintances started asking things like, “How many square feet is it now?” or “What’s the price per square foot after the remodel?” These weren’t bad questions—they were just reflective of the default mindset we’re all trained in: to treat homes like assets on a spreadsheet – as a mere commodity.
But the deeper we settled into the space, the more I found myself thinking… These are the wrong metrics.
I spend the vast majority of my waking hours on this property—between the house, the garden, the studio, and my office. I’m here ~ 80% of the time. If I’m going to spend that much time in a place, then I want to ask: What is this space doing to my body? My nervous system? My creativity?
Because when you really tune in, you can feel it: the hum of fluorescent lights; the off-gassing from cheap materials; the subtle stress of disconnected rooms and flat lighting. So many homes are built to impress the market, but not to nourish the people living inside. They look good on a listing but feel lifeless day to day. That’s what I call Zillow consciousness—prioritizing resale value over life-giving value.
I’ve come to believe that we need a new way of measuring the worth of a home. A new metric.
What’s the cost per square foot for aliveness?
Because I’ve been in plenty of houses that are “worth” millions financially and still make people sick—emotionally, mentally, physically.
Toxic finishes. Poor airflow. No light. No outdoor connection. Over time, these features erode our vitality—even if we’re not conscious of it.
So instead of asking what I can extract (financial profit) from the house in five years, I ask: What is this house giving me every day? If it’s supporting our sleep, energy, connection, metabolic function, mood, and creativity—that’s value.
And if it’s not, then no matter how good the financial ROI looks on paper, I’d argue the house is failing.
Final Thoughts
Now, standing on the other side of this multi-year process, I feel a lot of things. Relief, for sure. Gratitude. A sense of deep satisfaction. But also—and maybe this is the most important part—a desire to share what’s emerged.
This house is more than a shelter. It’s a reflection of our values. It’s a physical embodiment of the way we want to live: open, intentional, grounded, generous.
And we didn’t build it alone. This project brought so many hands together—electricians, plumbers, carpenters, landscapers, neighbors, artists, friends, and a rotating cast of people who showed up with hammers or paintbrushes or just good energy. It became a co-creation. And that makes it feel all the more alive.
We’re beginning to host community events here—everything from informal potlucks and chicken-chasing afternoons to intentional gatherings around movement, creative exploration, and regenerative living. In the apartment above the studio, we’re looking forward to hosting guests who want to learn, contribute, or simply soak in a different rhythm of life for a while.
Ultimately, I hope this home doesn’t just inspire people to renovate their kitchens or upgrade to non-toxic paint. I hope it invites a deeper question: What makes me feel alive in my own home? And how do I want that aliveness to shape the rest of my life?
Because the world doesn’t need more perfectly staged homes. It needs more homes that restore our vitality—and by extension, our capacity to care, to create, and to connect.
~ Gino