In the week leading up to Sunday, our group chat had taken a serious turn. Conversations circled around children sneaking into our gardens and pulling out our plant inhabitants—apparently to try to eat them. Unable to identify ripe fruits, they were leaving behind damage that was deeply disheartening. Especially because our garden was open to everyone, intended for shared community use. There was no need to sneak in, uproot, and discard carrot plants. No need to treat them like something disposable.

I arrived early, returned the need spray I had borrowed for my now aphid-free Edin Rose, and began the day with pruning, weeding, and watering in the roof garden. The air was warm, the leaves still damp from last night's rain. Ladybugs were everywhere. I snapped a photo and sent it to a plant scientist friend, who replied that they were natural predators of aphids. That explained it—unlike my isolated potted rose, the aphids here never grew into a problem. In this space, they weren’t pests, but lures—for balance, for biodiversity.

Down at the new beds, I checked in on my last week's work. The creeping thyme I’d planted along the slanted brick edge was thriving, forming a slow green wave against the hard grey concrete. Someone had even added a marker with the date, I wondered why that felt necessary.

There were new plants looking for a home: broad beans and peas from the cold frame. My bed already held both: broad beans I had planted intentionally, and the peas that had arrived accidently weeks ago. I welcomed these newcomers in.

Nearby, I overheard one of the senior volunteers ask aloud, “Is this a weed or something we planted?”

The organiser replied, “We decide what’s a weed and what's not. If it feels out of place to you, you can pull it out.”

The volunteer laughed: “Oh, I didn’t know it was an executive decision.”

During tea break, I shared a proposal for our new logo: a stylised flower in the shape of a uppercase D, for Dumbiedykes. It also nodded to how greenery was gradually overtaking the Dumbiedykes community—how our work was reshaping the area. The design was met with smiles and unanimous approval. One of the senior volunteers even came over to shake my hand.

The conversation shifted back to the children. Some proposed a padlock to the gardens gate. Understandable. But something in me resisted. Wouldn’t that go against what we stand for? Wouldn’t it spark more curiosity, more rebellion? And more importantly—weren’t we focusing on the symptom, not the root?

I wondered internally if the real issue was that plants weren't being seen as alive. They were being treated like objects. Like a snack bar. What if we helped the children see them differently?

Someone else, clearly on a similar wavelength, suggested: maybe we should invite them in. Show them around. Let them plant something of their own. Name it. Watch it grow. Maybe, in our garden, empathy can be cultivated too.

It was harvest time. Someone unearthed a beetroot the size of a fist. I harvested broad beans I’d planted weeks ago. Someone handed me a white radish from their bed. The organiser offered me flowers from hers.

Small gifts in our gift economy. I was rich.

By the time I left, my container was full—of food and flowers, yes, but also of something harder to name. Ideas. Possibilities. A sense that we could grow more than just plants here.

We could grow empathy.