The Philosophy
There's something deeply grounding about watching a family transform their space with their own hands. I’ve spent years chasing the next productivity hack, the perfect morning routine, the minimalist capsule wardrobe. But what I’ve found after all that experimenting is that the most profound shifts often come from the simplest, most unglamorous acts—like pouring concrete for a new platform or brewing a batch of traditional curd. This isn’t about a viral renovation video or a curated aesthetic. It’s about the philosophy of slow, intentional work that connects you to your home, your food, and the people you love.
The video captures Milad and Mahin’s new home transformation, and what strikes me is not the scale of the project, but the rhythm of it. There’s no rush. The family moves together—trimming hair, preparing leeks, hanging bags of buttermilk to make Qara (a sour, fermented dairy product). The work is physical, messy, and full of small decisions. This is the opposite of our modern obsession with efficiency. It’s a reminder that the best life isn’t optimized; it’s lived in full, present engagement with the task at hand.
Why does this resonate now? Because we’re exhausted by the pressure to do more, faster. We scroll past polished renovation reveals, but we crave the real—the bee stings, the loose concrete, the argument over whether a step is necessary. This video offers a counter-narrative: that building a home (and a life) is a series of small, imperfect moments strung together by patience and care. It’s a philosophy I’ve come to call “the art of the ordinary.”
The Practice
So how does this actually work in daily life? Let’s break down the practical layers from the video. First, there’s the food preparation. Ajav (the grandmother) is making curd and Qara from buttermilk. She boils three pots of buttermilk, then pours the mixture into a bag to let the water drain out. The key is patience: “Keep it for three days,” she says. The curd will be sweet, and the juice will turn into Qara. This isn’t a quick recipe; it’s a process that demands time and attention.
Then there’s the home construction. Milad and his father Hassan are pouring concrete for a platform in the yard. They mix it by hand—shovels, a wheelbarrow, no mixer. They argue about the right consistency: “It is loose, Hassan. Blend it.” They use blocks and round stones to beautify the garden. They measure for windows (60x60 and 70x60 cm) and plan to order them from Lurdegan. Every step is deliberate. They don’t rush to finish; they focus on getting it right.
What I love is how the family integrates the children. Shadmehr and Ghadir are involved—trimming hair, fetching tools, even playing football in between. Milad tells his son, “I will eat food to grow up and help you.” This is the practice: not separating work from life, but weaving them together. The daily routine isn’t a checklist; it’s a flow of shared responsibilities. You make tea, you pour concrete, you hang the curd bag, you play with the kids. It’s all part of the same fabric.
For anyone wanting to adopt this approach, start by choosing one project that requires physical, hands-on work. It could be building a small garden bed, cooking a traditional meal from scratch, or repairing a piece of furniture. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s immersion. Set aside a whole afternoon. Turn off notifications. Let the task unfold at its own pace.
Real Talk
Let’s be honest: this lifestyle is not easy. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often frustrating. In the video, a bee stings Ghadir. The concrete mix is too loose. The bag of curd might fall because of the way it’s hung. There’s an argument about whether a step is necessary in front of the toilet. “It isn’t necessary at all,” someone says. These moments are real. They remind us that slow living isn’t a romantic escape; it’s a choice to engage with difficulty.
What I’ve found is that the hardest part is letting go of control. When you’re used to ticking off tasks, waiting three days for curd to drain feels like an eternity. Pouring concrete by hand is physically exhausting. And involving family means dealing with different opinions—Hassan wants one thing, Milad another. The friction is real. But that friction is also where growth happens.
Another challenge is the lack of convenience. There’s no mixer, no power tools, no instant gratification. You have to haul gravel, tie bags with rope, and use a pickaxe to break ground. For someone like me, who’s used to ordering everything online, this is a humbling adjustment. I’ve tried to replicate this at home—making yogurt from scratch, building a raised bed—and I’ve failed more times than I’ve succeeded. The curd didn’t set. The concrete cracked. But each failure taught me something.
So if you try this, expect setbacks. The bag might leak. The concrete might be too wet. The kids might get bored. That’s okay. The point isn’t a flawless outcome; it’s the process of showing up, day after day, and doing the work anyway.
The Transformation
What changes when you adopt this approach? The first shift is in your relationship with time. Instead of racing against the clock, you begin to move with it. I noticed this when I spent a weekend making sourdough bread. The first day, I mixed the starter. The second, I fed it. The third, I baked. Each step took hours, but I wasn’t impatient. I was present. The same happens when you pour concrete: you mix, you level, you wait for it to cure. There’s a deep satisfaction in watching something take form slowly.
The second transformation is in your connection to your environment. In the video, the family uses what they have—blocks, bags, a milk container. They repurpose, they improvise. This mindset shifts you from a consumer to a creator. You start seeing potential in discarded materials. You learn to fix things instead of replacing them. Your home becomes a living, evolving project, not a static backdrop.
But the most beautiful change is relational. Working together on a shared goal—whether it’s making curd or building a platform—creates a bond that can’t be replicated by sitting in front of a screen. The video is full of small interactions: “Take care, this bee might sting you.” “Let’s eat together.” “I want to ride bikes when I grow up.” These moments are the real transformation. The home isn’t just renovated; it’s filled with shared memories.
Adapting It For You
You don’t need a rural homestead to apply this philosophy. The principles scale to any lifestyle. If you live in a small apartment, start with food. Make your own yogurt, ferment vegetables, or bake bread. The process is the same: slow, hands-on, and rewarding. If you have a tiny balcony, grow herbs in pots. Water them daily. Watch them grow. That’s your concrete platform.
For those with limited time, choose one weekend a month for a “slow project.” Turn off your phone, put on some music, and work with your hands. It could be refinishing a thrifted chair, painting a room, or cooking a multi-course meal from scratch. The key is to do it without rushing. Let the project take as long as it takes.
Budget is another factor. The family in the video uses simple, affordable materials—blocks, gravel, a pickaxe. You don’t need expensive tools. Borrow from a neighbor, buy second-hand, or use what you have. The goal is not to create a showroom; it’s to create a space that reflects your effort and care.
Finally, involve others. If you live alone, invite a friend over to help. Cook together, build something together, or just sit and talk while you work. The shared experience multiplies the joy. And if you have children, let them help, even if it slows you down. They’ll learn more from watching you mix concrete than from any screen.
Start Here
Ready to try this? Here are three small steps you can take this week:
1. **Make something from scratch.** Choose a food you usually buy—yogurt, bread, or even a simple cheese. Spend an afternoon making it. Notice how different it feels to create rather than consume.
2. **Pick one corner of your home and improve it.** It could be a cluttered shelf, a cracked step, or a sad plant. Spend an hour fixing, organizing, or beautifying it. Use your hands, not just your phone.
3. **Have a family meal without screens.** Cook together, eat together, and talk about your day. No phones at the table. Let the conversation flow. This is the heart of slow living—connection over convenience.
These steps won’t transform your life overnight. But they will plant a seed. And like the curd that takes three days to drain, the best changes take time. Start small. Be patient. And remember: the real transformation isn’t in the finished product. It’s in the moments you spend getting there.
