In fall 2020, to counter pandemic burnout, I expanded my garden beds—into my front yard. As I smothered the grass with layers of leaves, cardboard, and 10 cubic yards of compost-topsoil blend, two kinds of magic began to happen.

One of these was gradual: across the late summer, fall, and early spring, the soil came to life. Spiders, fungi, millipedes, worms, and all kinds of microbes busied themselves in my yard. By mid-spring, the garden was alive with ladybugs, bees, butterflies, wasps, and eventually hummingbirds, grasshoppers, praying mantises, and katydids.

The other magic, however, was immediate: Neighbors with whom I had barely exchanged quiet nods stopped to ask questions. We learned each other’s names. By spring, I improvised bouquets for those I had come to know, happy to give them something bright and colorful. In fall, I placed tomatoes in the hands of children out walking with their families.

Now, with literal and metaphorical roots deep in both these hyperlocal communities, I want to help others forge those connections that so many of us have lost—or perhaps never really had. If you’d like my help building your own community one garden bed at a time, please get in touch.