If this is not nice, what is?

No.100 — Read old posts on Tinyfarmlab.com
Reading Time 5 minutes

Today marks our 100th newsletter.

A hundred weeks of showing up.
A hundred weeks of writing, reflecting,
and sharing pieces of our lives with you.

A hundred weeks of your kindness,
in reading,
in replying,
in simply being here.

It might sound like just a number,
but for us,
it’s a small monument to perseverance.

Much like building a house,
keeping this going has been a long-term project.


And if you’ve ever built anything meaningful,
a home,
a farm,
a relationship,
a piece of art,
You know that the process stretches over months or even years.


You’re constantly designing.
Brainstorming.
Fighting weather.
Balancing finances.
Figuring out the logistics.
Adjusting plans as life throws surprises your way.

You keep moving forward,
often without knowing exactly when you’ll be “done.”

We are constantly noticing what’s not working out.
Bad weather.
Delayed timelines.
Difficult roofing details.

But we rarely celebrate the little achievements.

Kurt Vonnegut once shared something his Uncle Alex taught him, a piece of advice we carry close to our hearts.

“My uncle Alex Vonnegut, a Harvard-educated life insurance salesman who lived at 5033 North Pennsylvania Street, taught me something very important.

He said that when things were really going well, we should be sure to notice it. He was talking about simple occasions, not great victories: maybe drinking lemonade on a hot afternoon in the shade, or smelling the aroma of a nearby bakery; or fishing, and not caring if we catch anything or not, or hearing somebody all alone playing a piano really well in the house next door.

Uncle Alex urged him to say this out loud during such epiphanies: “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is”

Kurt goes on to appeal:

"So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

When we were building our mud house,
there were so many of these moments:

Watching sunsets as we worked,
the Ganga swallowing the sun behind the mountains.

Washing the day’s mud off in the creek.

Cooking new dishes with people from around the world, sharing them at a table without any hurry.

Listening to each other’s stories, the joyful and the painful, and holding space for them.

That quiet moment of realisation:
We’re actually living in the countryside,
building the mud house we once only dreamed of.

Laughing so hard our cheeks hurt.
Dancing on wet cob like kids who had forgotten the world existed.

Every wall that rose was a victory.
Every evening we stood back,
looked at our work,
and thought,
If this isn’t nice, what is?

Here’s our wish for you:

That you don’t wait for the finish line to feel joy.
That you notice the sunbeam on your desk,
the way your coffee smells,
the sound of a friend’s laugh.

That you remember to stop,
smile, and say,
If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.

Because the real reward isn’t the house,
the book,
the milestone,
or the 100th newsletter.

It’s every precious moment that happened on the way here.

Love,
Raghav and Ansh

P.S.: If you are on LinkedIn, let’s connect. You can read our latest post here.


What you can watch - Of House and Heart, a documentary on a cob cottage from start to finish

What you can listen to - Building Dreams with Mud: From City Life back to simplicity with Tiny Farm Lab

What You Can Read - The Architecture of Happiness

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You can read old posts here.

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Every Sunday, we share tiny valuable lessons to help you transition to the countryside and build naturally.