There is a small ramshackle cabin north of San Francisco, just outside of a town called Willits. One woman owns the land that it rests upon and only women are allowed on her land. Female couples have shared this precious space for over ten years. My partner and I have been fortunate enough to become one of these couples. My fascination with the cabin began to grow with the frequency of our visits. I slowly began to document the space inside and outside so that it’s value would not be forgotten when its battered boards eventually fell to the ground. I discovered much more in my documentation than planned. The cabin is unique for several reasons. There is no phone. There is no television or radio. There is no indoor bathroom. One 2' solar panel powers one small 15-watt bulb for evening reading, otherwise oil lamps and candles suffice. In this space, domestic existence has been whittled down to its essence: eating, sleeping and relaxing. Instead of reinforcing the proliferation of our “throw-away” culture, cabin items are used until they literally fade away. A floor rug covers the wood boards until no threads remain in the weave. Window blinds used until the pull strings disintegrated are finally tied neatly and laid to rest. Objects are praised for their usefulness until they have finally lost all purpose. They are not discarded without care and appreciation. As I continued to focus my view on different aspects of the tiny space, I began exploring the possibility of a full and satisfying life without the domestic “essentials” we have been taught to need. My time spent in and around the cabin showed me that simplicity can often reveal what complexity hides. Further, the pleasure of a domestic space is not defined by the value of its material components, but rather by the careful attention employed to maintain it. It is not the size of the home or multitude of its objects that encourage people to return again and again to a domestic space, but the energy infused over time by the love of the occupants. If given the choice now in my life, I would most assuredly desire hand-crafted utilitarian items over mass-produced extravagance. My current effort to share the cabin with all of the people who will never get to visit is driven by the hope that they too can see the value of attended simplicity and possibly try to incorporate more of it into their lives.