We "finished" building our house a year ago and moved in. Yes, we still had the deck and stairs to finish, the gutters to put up, the siding to complete, the wall to face with boards, the floor trim to put in...but we had walls and a roof, a bed to sleep on, a working kitchen and bath. We had a home. A home that just needed a few more projects completed. We'd done all the hard work of constructing a house, how long could a few projects take?

More than a year, as it turns out. Last week, we finally got gutters up on the house. We spent all week admiring them—and deciding the rain barrels they're supposed to be filling can happen later. Just yesterday, we put the last boards up on the wall behind the sofa. I hadn't cleaned and sanded enough old barn wood when we started the project; so, we just slid the sofa in front of the wall and forgot about the bottom boards for months. But even now, there are still the trim boards to prepare and put up.

Another tiny houser once told us that she wasn't going to move into her house until it was 100% complete, because she'd been warned that, "Once you move in, all progress stops." I would amend that assertion to say, "All progress slows." 

But I can't say it was a mistake to move in a year ago. We've had a full year of living in this house, and, really who cares if it takes another year to put in the rest of the floor trim? The lack of a couple feet of floor trim, a few boards on the wall, a section of railing or a downspout doesn't make this space measurably less wonderful.

I've never had the opportunity before to live in a space designed precisely for the way I want to live. This house fits us. And taking time off from hammering and sanding and hauling and staining is the point. Yes, we feel good about everything we've constructed, but we feel better about the way we live now. We consume less resources and energy, we spend a good part of each day appreciating nature, we read more and we have time for long walks. Plus, as we plan out less of our time, we let serendipity work its magic. If a new project appears before us, we feel free to follow it.

That said, our Muses spoke to us this week to gently remind us that there can be satisfaction, too, in tying up a few loose ends. 

We have loved building this tiny house. Let me start with that before saying this: Some evenings we are so bone-tired it's all we can do to climb the stairs to our third-floor abode and plop on the sofa.

It's not just the work on the house. We've been cutting down invasives, chainsawing fallen trees, leveling ground, digging postholes, building raised beds, hauling stones, building a retaining wall....On those days it feels as though we aren't making enough progress. Why isn't the house built? Why isn't the garden planted? 

Right around that time is when the universe invariably sends us some new enthusiasm. We get a call or an email or a FaceBook message: Can I come to see the tiny house? Yes! Yes, please! 

Visitors are our elixir. This weekend it was cousin Tom, sister Jill and friends Giselle and Katie (not to mention Giselle and Katie's dogs). In taking them on (tiny) tours of the house and garden plot, the path to the stream and the screen house, I suddenly see all that we've done--instead of focusing on all we haven't done. We sit in the screen house to talk; it didn't exist a year ago. We walk through the tiny house; last August it was just a black equipment trailer. Now, it has ceiling and walls, electricity and lights--and even the first of three ceiling fans in operation.

Building a tiny house from scratch isn't easy. But it's wonderfully challenging, creative, stimulating and satisfying work. Sometimes you just need a few friends to remind you of that.

When we lived in Philadelphia, our favorite library didn't have any books; it was the University City Tool Library. The theory behind the non-profit was more people would likely keep up their homes if they didn't have to invest in tools. At the library, we checked out saws, shovels and rakes, drills and a post-hole digger, a hammer drill—all used as we renovated our 100-year-old "twin" (semi-attached row house) and completely overhauled the back yard. 

Since leaving Philly we wax nostalgically about the Tool Library, wishing we could check out a paint tray and drop cloth when working on my mother's condo or shovels and rakes when putting in landscaping to get Bill's mother's house ready for market. 

While we haven't found a Tool Library here in Loudoun County, Virginia, a friend volunteered to be our own personal power tool library. Borrowing—not buying—a mitre saw, table saw, portable work bench and saw horses has saved us hundreds of dollars. (Thanks, Tom.)

Since then, we've borrowed an extension ladder from our mountain neighbors. Buying it for a one-week roofing job would have cost upwards of $150; borrowing it means returning it  gratefully with a six-pack of Coors. (Thanks, Angela and Mark.)

What we haven't been able to borrow, we have bought. Our first tool investment: an electric chainsaw. We looked on Craigslist, but people were asking almost what they cost new. Bill picked out a 16" electric model (lighter weight and easier to maintain than gas, I learned) with good reviews. He started by cutting up fallen limbs to clear the tiny house site—but within an hour took on felling a 100-foot tree that was leaning precipitously over our building site.

Our goal with this chainsaw is to be able to loan it out to other people with a little clearing to do. Sharing tools doesn't just save money; it can build community.