Nine days. That's how long I've been back in my house in Mexico with exactly one working electrical outlet.

You'd think I'd be climbing the walls by now. Instead, something unexpected has happened. I've slowed down enough to start noticing my surroundings again. Not the things that are broken. The things that are possible.

My bedroom was one of the first rooms I finished. The walls aren't simply painted. They're layered with soft clouds of four different colors that drift into each other. Maybe it's a little more Tuscan than Mexican, but I don't really care. They make me happy.

Against those walls sit the treasures I've collected over the years.

Brightly colored clay sculptures. Reds. Blues. Greens. Yellows.

Hand-carved religious niches.

Tin hearts with wings and flames.

A massive carved headboard that reminds me of a giant Lotería board.

Alebrijes standing guard from shelves.

Skulls. Tiny candle altars. Mirrors wrapped in colorful tile.

The room is unapologetically alive.

Then I step outside my bedroom.

White. White walls. White courtyard. White exterior.

After living through a year of the Mexican sun, I finally understand. The sunlight is relentless. Colors fade. Paint chalks. Anything left outside eventually belongs to the weather more than it belongs to you.

Nature always wins. You can fight it, but eventually the sun gets the last word.

Oddly enough, that realization hasn't discouraged me. It's inspired me.

Now I walk around the house seeing empty spaces that are asking for a little whimsy.

The small landings by the stairs barely see the sun. Why couldn't they hold little sculptures or painted scenes?

From my desk, I can see a beautiful slice of blue sky... and one enormous white wall separating me from my neighbor. That wall could become a gallery. It could hold color. It could tell a story every morning before I've even had coffee.

The older I get, the more I realize that homes shouldn't simply shelter us.

They should delight us.

That thought brought back a memory of my parents.

Around the time they turned sixty, they slowly erased the personality from their home.

The living room that had once been warm with golden walls, rich maroons, and Spanish Colonial wood became white.

Their bedroom, once a beautiful blue, became white.

The sunny yellow kitchen where so many breakfasts happened became white.

Everything became... neutral.

When I asked why, the answer was practical.

"It'll be easier to sell after we're gone."

I understood the logic.

But emotionally?

It felt like watching someone quietly prepare a tomb.

They weren't decorating for themselves anymore. They were decorating for strangers who didn't even exist yet.

I've thought about that a lot lately.

How much of our lives do we spend making ourselves smaller for people we'll never meet?

How often do we avoid buying the colorful chair, hanging the ridiculous artwork, planting the flowers, wearing the bold shirt, or trying the crazy idea because we're worried about resale value, someone else's opinion, or some future that may never arrive?

What if we stopped doing that?

What if our homes reflected who we are instead of who a real estate agent might want us to be?

Maybe that's the bigger lesson hidden inside all this.

None of us knows how much time we have.

It could be thirty years.

It could be thirty days.

If that's true, then maybe today is exactly the right day to hang the art.

Paint the wall.

Buy the strange sculpture.

Fill your home with things that make you smile every time you walk past them.

Not because they'll last forever.

But because you won't.

And while we're here, shouldn't there be room for a little more whimsy?

I think so.