Dear Slow Sunday Club,

The air is changing. I step out of the studio early this morning, and the sharp bite of winter has softened into something damp and expectant. The snow is retreating, gone right now, leaving behind patches of dark, wet earth. It smells of pine needles and cold soil. The light is staying with us a little longer each day. It spills across the oak floorboards in the afternoon, warming the wood, changing the entire atmosphere of the room. This is the pivot. The moment winter lost its grip upon us, letting the youthful energy of the spring come through.

Listening to the Thaw

Every project begins the same way: by listening to the land. Right now, the land is waking up. Before work, I light the room with my seedlings. I spend my afternoons walking the shoreline, gathering smooth stones and driftwood, feeling the textures of a landscape in transition. We design for how a space feels, and right now, the feeling is one of quiet anticipation. The heavy wool blankets are still necessary, but the windows stay open just a fraction longer to let in the sea breeze. The living room feels larger.

The Architecture of Light

As the sun climbs higher, the way it interacts with our homes changes entirely. The deep blue shadows of December are replaced by sharp, clear beams that highlight the grain of the CLT wood walls in the REIKA house. I am reminded that light is our most vital building material. It does not just illuminate a room; it shapes it. We must make space for it. We must clear the clutter we accumulated during the winter months to let the new light breathe.

What it’s teaching me

This transition is teaching me patience. The shift from winter to spring on the Helgeland coast is not sudden. It is a slow, uneven process. Some days bring bright sunshine, others bring driving sleet. I am learning to sit with this in-between state, to not rush toward the warmth, but to appreciate the raw, unpolished beauty of the thaw. Slow that works isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it is muddy and wet, and I can tell you I get impatient.

5 Rituals for the Changing Light at home

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Standing by the harbor, I’m looking past the islets and reefs around Træna as Lovund rises in the distance: The dark blue mountain, behind the misty sky and shining ocean. The islands sit close to each other in the Helgeland archipelago, but they feel like very different worlds.

This weekend we’ve been in Træna with the studio and bakery for the winter festival “Ta Træna med Storm.” The theme this year is Bolyst: a very Norwegian word that I love. It means something like the desire to live in a place, and the quality of life that makes you want to stay.

Anyone who lives out here knows it can be difficult. We are not in control of the weather. Ferries stop, and plans have to change. Sometimes we are isolated for days.

But maybe that is also why so many people feel deeply at home here.

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Pushing open a green door in Paris, I’m watching copper and steel catch a thin winter sun. Back on the island, the wind is still taking branches; the messages are full of fallen trees. Two places at once: a shop of useful things, and a home that asks for them. I keep thinking: buy less, choose well, use often. What should i bring with me home?

If you are new to The Slow Sunday Club, welcome! If you've been here for a while, welcome to the new year! This space has given me so much joy and reflections; I hope it does for you as well. I look forward to sharing more calming field notes from our farm and behind-the-scenes from my studio. Thank you for being here with me!

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I’m an architect who loves a working kitchen. The overlap is simple: good design disappears into use. The best tools does not take space. Meaning the weight is in the right place, the handles don’t feel loose, and the materials are easy to care for forever. They are beautiful to look at, because they are well made and work for you. In a museum, you admire form; at home, you admire how a thing helps.

Traveling with the bakery this month, I watched my partner lift and test and listen: the small scrape of steel, the clink of copper, the soft linen. I noticed how much I decide as an architect, by touch. No performance, no extras. Just, does this earn its keep?

If you find yourself in Paris, you must visit the oldest kitchen store in Paris; E. dhilleren. It's been operating since 1980, and as an architect, I’m in awe of the space. Dark brown shelves from floor to ceiling. Full of dust and history. It seems like they haven't changed anything other than their inventory. Tools that will last a lifetime.

We live in a small home on the arctic island, and im very counsious about what i bring into it. A small kitchen item from a trip abroad is allowed. It always brings me joy in the soft mornings in the kitchen before the rest of the farm wakes up.

Reader-supported. Unlock my Paris kitchen map:
I’m sharing my private list of Paris spots where cooks and designers find quiet, timeless tools - what to look for, how to choose, and how to bring it home. No gatekeeping; you’re warmly invited to join the Slow Sunday Club and read the full guide you can save.

→ Become a paid subscriber to support our arctic island farm and this work.

Paris Sources: Whimsy & Architecture for Your Kitchen

Places I love when I want objects with soul - useful, durable, a little magical.

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Im sitting by the window, watching the black November rain draw lines down the glass. The water ripples over the warm reflections from the kitchen. Outside, the days are shrinking; t…

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A few weeks ago, we were awaken daily by the neighbors sheep’s, sleeping on the field next to our house. After a long summer in the mountain they are now back for the winter. The sh…

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Slow Sunday Club,

I've just returned from a trip to the Atlantic. The Azores, to be precise, are the evergreen islands with 20 degrees Celsius throughout the whole year. For a brief moment, I wanted to stay there forever.

In the evenings, I could smell the cedar tree burning in the wood ovens around the village. While not native, they are cultivated on the island for their fast-growing, durable, and aromatic properties. I put a small bottle of cedar room fragrance in my bag to bring home. On the ferry back north, I realised what that scent was telling me. It is time to light the stove again. Time to design for the dark.

Back North, from the 4 hours boat ride towards home

Back at the farm, the mornings are cool and the sky feels higher. Inside, the house asks for a different attention. While the plants ask to be pulled closer to the window, I want my windowsills clear for the light to pass. Wool socks within reach, some of them in need of repairing from last year. Kettle on the fire oven. I need to wait longer for the coffee, but it feels right. I keep thinking about Sensecraft, the way we shape life through the senses. Autumn is the perfect season for it.

What October is teaching me

I have to admit, i’m not a winter person. But this year, I decided to embrace it. Odin, the cat, promised to join me. Darkness is not a problem to solve. It is a season to host. When I welcome it, I sleep better, read more, cook more slowly, notice more. When I push against it, everything feels heavy. So, this month, I am designing to welcome winter into my home.

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Practical sensecraft for October

Sight, layer your light

• One warm lamp at every station you use after dusk, not overhead glare.

• Bulbs around 2700K for evenings. Warm lights have little impact on the circadian rhythm and are good options to use at night. Use a brighter task lamp only where you need it, like the kitchen counter or desk.

• Give the windowsills back to the light. Move plants so they do not block the view. Clean the glass. I promise you, it matters.

Smell, bring the forest in

• A drop of cedar, pine, or spruce oil on a cloth near the stove, or simmer a few needles in water.

• Bake something simple. Scent is the quickest way to change a room.

Touch, warm the body

• A throw on the reading chair, a wool rug by the bed for cold morning feet.

Sound, soften the edges

• Let one hour each evening be machine quiet. Turn off electrical equipment, unplug chargers. No background noise. The house will start to speak again. And you will hear your soul.

Taste, stock a small winter tray

• Jar of herbal tea, honey, sea salt, dark chocolate, and citrus. Keep it visible. Taste some when you feel like it.

Join me sensecrafting the home with a simple plan for this week below.

Im also sharing my two latest projects, what im reading and how to enjoy Thomas sourdough bread in the best way this fall!

Architect’s corner, how I light a room in winter

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Dear Slow Sunday Club.

For too long, design has been measured by how things look. On the photographs, for the impressions they leave. But looks don’t heal. They don’t settle the nervous system or gro…

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I used to design for how things looked. Beautiful in photos, finished in time for the presentation.

Now I live in an old house on a northern island, where the sea wind moves through cracks and the floorboards sigh when it rains. I notice sound, smell, light, texture. Not because I decided to, but because my home taught me to.

This is what I’ve learned: our senses are the doorway to presence. They shape how we feel in a space long before our eyes have even taken it in. If the air smells stale, if the light is harsh, if everything you touch is plastic, your nervous system knows it.

What My Studio Life Taught Me

In cities I worked on big projects: hotels, galleries, interiors. We often spoke about “experience,” but what we meant was surfaces, shapes, branding.

On the island, I began to sense differently. I made tea with spruce needles. I carried firewood, the rough bark under my arm. I worked with clay that stuck to my hands and stained my clothes. That was my education in real design.

I started to understand what researchers now call sense-hacking: how small sensory cues shift mood, calm the body, even change our thoughts.

• Smell goes straight to the brain’s memory center. One whiff of resin or chamomile can lower stress and bring you back to a place of safety.

• Touch regulates the nervous system. Soft textures (wool, linen, clay) calm, while hard edges keep us alert.

• Sound changes heart rate. Silence or nature sounds lower cortisol, while urban noise keeps the body in low-grade fight-or-flight.

• Sight guides the story. Warm light helps us slow down, cool light wakes us up. Clutter overwhelms, empty space clears the mind.

• Taste connects us directly to the present moment. Eating something sour or bitter sharpens attention. Sweetness relaxes.

This is why mindful homes are not about buying more, but noticing more.

Continue reading for small sensory practices you can start tonight, and why architecture that begins with the senses makes life feel more alive.

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September is supposed to feel like a reset after the holidays. Fresh notebooks, new routines, crisp mornings.

But in reality? It often feels like chaos. Work piles up. School calendars take over. Projects you delayed all summer are suddenly urgent. The house feels heavy. And instead of being renewed, you feel… already behind.

I’ve been hearing the same from so many people: Where did the rest go?

That’s why I’ve been experimenting with creating a “holiday after the holiday” not by leaving, but by carving small retreats at home.

Continue reading for practical steps to create your own “holiday after the holiday,” plus my design guide to shaping restful spaces without leaving your house…

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The air is crystal clear, the light glowing with sharp contrasts. I always think there’s something baroque about this month — swelling trees preparing to release their crowns, heavy branches, overgrown bushes. Golden orange, dark green and brown. And the mushrooms! Porcini is the queen of them all — thick, firm, full. Showy, demanding attention.

The first fallen leaves rustle like crisp gold foil under my feet as i open up for the chickens to go outside each morning. This week thunder hit, and it turns out our rooster is really scared of thunder. That night, the hens had to sleep alone on the roost in bars, while he slept below inside one of the hatching boxes. We are happy our rooster is on the softer side, he treats his harem well.

I look at the fireweed who curls at the top, its slender wine-red leaves is like decoration on a dress. I was supposed to pick more of them for tea this year. If you read my latest letter, you know this is one of the projects who might needs composting.

Blackcurrants. Everything that tastes good is ripe right now.

Here in the north, September is a fleeting balance. We can wake with the sunrise and still go to bed with the northern lights. This is only for a short month, before the darkness is starting to take over the days. Maybe that’s why we love September so much - the days feels balanced.

What September Teaches Me

September looks perfect. Crisp air, golden light, baskets full of harvest.

But real life in September often feels like too much: the return to work and school, the emails waiting since July, the freezer that still needs filling, the lists that somehow grew all summer. We want to start everything at once.

The garden reminds me: 
You don’t need to hold it all.
Harvest what’s ready.
Compost what’s too heavy or not enough.
Save what will feed you later.

That’s seasonal balance. And it’s enough.

Continue reading for balancing rituals, cozy (but so good!) September recipes, and a designer’s reflection on how materials shape the way we live…

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A few years ago, I caught myself in a strange kind of mismatch.
I was standing in my own home — a space I had carefully shaped — and I realised it wasn’t really mine anymore.

It photographed beautifully.
Quiet tones. Curated corners. A sense of calm that matched the kind of work I thought I should be known for.

But in reality, It did not work well.
I kept reaching for coats, bowls, and tools that weren’t where they should be.

Somewhere along the way, I had stopped designing for living — and started designing for how things should look.
For ideals. For the image I thought represented me.

I forgot the most important part:
Design is supposed to serve the way we live. Not the other way around.

What It’s Teaching Me

When your home works against your daily life, even in small ways, it slowly drains energy.
When it works with you — it becomes your true home.

Designing for your real life might mean:

• Shifting the chair you actually read in closer to the light.

• Letting your dining table live where it catches the morning sun because that’s when you eat together most.

• Storing everyday things where you use them instead of where they “look best.”

It’s not about giving up beauty. It’s about letting beauty grow from function.

What to Try This Week

1. Audit your home for “dead zones.” Walk through and notice: where do you never sit? Which spaces are avoided? Why?

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The slow Sunday Club

August always feels like an in-between month. Some of you are still on holiday, others started working already. If you are like me, you might have been doing some work here and there over the summer. It doesn’t get all quiet, but there is less distractions.

The days are still long here in the Arctic, but they carry a softness — a kind of tilt. Something is shifting.

In the studio, this is when I often lose focus. I get pulled in different directions: harvest, travel, deadlines accumulating over the summer, ideas that want more attention than I can give. I tend to get more creative as the evenings are becoming darker. So I’ve started anchoring myself in small, steady rituals — structures that keep me rooted when my mind wants to drift.

Here are five that are helping right now:

1. Start with scent.
   Before I open my laptop, I light something grounding — dried mugwort, a pine needle candle. It tells my body that something begins now. I often go into the garden and pick a few herbs to rub between my fingers for the scent to be absorbed.

2. Use materials as moodboards.
   Instead of pinning images online, I gather objects. A cracked ceramic shard. Rusted metal. Birch bark. I arrange them on a shallow wooden tray and let them inform tone, palette, or feeling.

3. Mark time with tea.
   I brew one pot mid-morning and again in late afternoon. The pause is as important as the drink. — A way to step out of the thinking loop and into my senses. Here too, i use what i can find in the garden. I right now salvie and yarrow are my favorites.

4. Design one thing by hand, even if it’s bad.
   One sketch, one doodle, one crooked line that didn’t come from a screen. It’s a reminder that imperfection often carries more soul - and it’s grounding for me to work more analogue.

5. Walk the same path every day.
   Not for exercise. Just to notice what’s changed — a new mushroom, a bent stem, a flower that wasn’t there yesterday. The land teaches slowness better than any book - and August is a month of rapid change.

These are small things. But they work wonder for my focus. They hold space for the deeper work to emerge.

This month, I’m drafting a new shelter concept — a small build for seasonal living. I’ll share more soon, but for now, I’m just letting the questions rise:
What makes a room feel good to be quiet in?

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As you might know by now, I live on a small Arctic island.
Sixty people, surrounded by endless nature.
You’d think solitude would be the easiest thing to find here.

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I’m literally writing form the grass right now.

It’s summ…

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There’s a kind of architecture that begins not with drawings or measurements, but with mood.

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Slow Sunday Club,

Some of my best ideas don’t show up in the calendar.
They arrive at 10:17 p.m., when the rest of the world has gone quiet, and I’m barefoot in the home studio (or garden) — playing ar…

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