The storms have rolled out and the sun has come back to us. It feels as though there is a whisper of spring on the air. Just a whisper: we still have a frost layered ground in the mornings and chilly evenings with a fast-sinking sun. But the whisper has sparked something in me, and I’ve been planning and preparing my garden, eyes fixed on spring.

Does anyone else get a burst of pre-spring cleaning energy in January? I’ve been on a great purge and cleanse, going through each room of the house ruthlessly and bagging things for the thrift store. It feels like a breath of fresh air. There are still a few places I haven’t been able to go through (don’t look at the guest room closet!) but all of our major spaces feel airy and uncluttered. We still have some boxes in storage to sort through, but I’m taking my wins where I can get them.

It’s inspired me to take photos of our little cottage: I spent so many hours planning out each detail, but I haven’t documented it very well! From the paint colors to the arrangement of our furniture, I had nearly every room planned out (when you have to wait five months to move into your home, you find ways of passing the time). I’m planning on writing a piece on every major room, starting with this one: an overview of the cottage.

I really, truly love our home. It’s not finished and it’s not perfect: the bathrooms are waiting to be tiled, the dishes and laundry are rarely clean at the same time, paint touch ups are needed, and so much more. But it’s ours. It’s full of light and laughter and love, despite the darkness and tears that sometimes creep in from our broken world.

My main hope for my home is that it is a place of rest and a place of beauty. I don’t care about trends or aesthetics or the newest appliances. I think about the homes I loved in books — The Last Homely House, or Mr and Mrs. Beaver’s dam, or Redwall Abbey, or the Burrow, or Green Gables — and that is what I want for my home. Beauty and rest and warmth and welcoming hospitality.

Yet somehow, the comparison game sneaks in and needles me. I confess I spend too much time on Instagram. It’s the last social media platform that still has a grip on me. It’s a wonderful tool: I’ve connected with some amazing friends and learned many different skills from it.

However, I’ve also fallen down rabbit holes looking at perfectly curated houses: neutral nurseries with wooden toys and not a hint of gaudy plastic to be found, or large kitchens with perfectly organized pantries, or living rooms with books sorted on their shelves by color.

My house — with its overfull bookshelves, baskets of yarn and fabric and thread, half-completed quilts and knitting projects, canned goods, and empty mason jars — does not compare. No one could ever accuse me of being a minimalist.

Especially being a fiber artist/hobbiest (knitting, sewing, and embroidery, just to name some of them), I will never have a minimalist home. I have baskets full of wool that waits to be formed into sweaters and shawls, and boxes of bright cotton floss ready to mend holes in jeans and add flowers to t-shirts, and so many more supplies. I have my tools too: spindles, a swift and ball winder, a sewing machine, cutting mats, scissors, needles, and books on all sorts of crafts from knitting to quilting.

(And don’t even get me started on my book collection. That’s a whole different can of worms.)

Minimalism has been popular for quite some time, and at first glance, it seems like a great thing. After all, we live in a society that likes to glut itself with stuff. Isn’t having less stuff a good thing?

But the minimalism that trends on social media and appears in celebrity mansions doesn’t promote less stuff. This “Instagram minimalism” is just another form of consuming.

Instagram minimalism gets rid of things for the aesthetic of it, and there is an underlying attitude that you can go out and purchase what you need when you need it — there’s no need to have extra of anything on hand. As long as the shelves are clean and clear, it doesn’t matter if you get rid of things that still serve a purpose or could be useful later.

As a side note, I want to be clear that I’m not arguing against simplicity. The attitude of simplicity is one of making do: mending and making and learning to live on less. Simplicity is a virtue; minimalism is an aesthetic.

And while I’ll constantly strive to cultivate simplicity, I’ve given up on achieving minimalism. In fact, I’ve begun to call my aesthetic “anti-minimalist” and see my home’s unique beauty because of its joyful collection of things — not in spite of them.

Our kitchen will always have preservatives, canners, drying herbs, and bread proofing on the island. There will be bags of scraps in the freezer for broth or for botanical dyes. I might have too many mugs and too many dishes, but instead of seeing it as clutter, I see it as a reserved place for any guest who might happen to stop by at dinner time.

Our guest room will always have extra linens and blankets, and store my yarn and other tools for making and mending. Instead of seeing the shelves overflowing with skeins and fabric as clutter, I see the raw materials for making things to wrap my loved ones in warmth.

Our living room will always have bookshelves stacked double, and art and icons on its walls, and muddy garden boots by the door. Instead of seeing the overflowing bookshelves as clutter, I look at them as worlds contained in pages, stories to love and to share. The art supports artists that I love and enjoy, and sometimes displays the works of my own hands. The icons remind me of the communion of saints and bring Paradise into our home.

To anyone else who has given up on minimalism, who has stores of skeins or books or preservatives or whatever other items bring you joy — you’re not alone. My home not minimalist either. It never will be. But it’s still beautiful.