Some of my warmest memories of Providence are of gardens in front of other people’s homes.

I remember the planting and the small artworks I encountered in certain neighborhoods. They gave me the sense that people had taken an interest in their surroundings and added something of themselves.

I felt a similar warmth in parts of San Francisco.

These were small contributions, but they influenced how I experienced the streets around them. A garden could draw my attention toward a house. A piece of art could give an otherwise familiar setting something unexpected.

I began to notice more than what a neighborhood looked like.

I could sense people participating in what it was becoming.

Something Personal Along the Way

A front garden first offers me something to appreciate visually.

The plants themselves matter. So do the choices about what grows together, how much space it occupies, and how it relates to the home behind it.

But part of my enjoyment comes from recognizing that someone has made those choices.

I do not always know who planted or maintains a garden. What I respond to is the sense of a particular interest being expressed, rather than an arrangement that could belong anywhere.

Small artworks can offer a similar encounter. In Providence, the presence of nearby schools made me curious about the creative life around the neighborhoods I knew, although I could not identify who had made every piece.

I did not need to know its full story to enjoy its presence.

These details made the people around a place feel less distant to me. Their interests were visible in something I could encounter during an ordinary walk.

Where a Private Choice Becomes Part of the Street

What interests me about a front garden is that its contribution does not stop at its boundary.

It may be private, and I have no reason to enter it. Yet its planting becomes part of what I see from the sidewalk.

The resident can enjoy a space of their own while someone passing receives something from it too.

That relationship makes the area between a home and a street important to me. I want to look beyond whether the frontage is tidy and consider whether it gives residents room to express a preference.

A few plants, a small artwork, or a place to sit can reveal how someone wants to spend time there. A seat outside a home is not necessarily an invitation for strangers to use it, but it can still make the frontage feel inhabited.

This is different from simply keeping a space in good condition.

Maintaining a garden preserves its qualities. Choosing what to grow also gives it direction. The person caring for it has some influence over what the rest of us encounter.

For me, that is a meaningful form of participation, even when it begins with a small piece of ground.

What I Am Still Looking For in Abu Dhabi

In the few areas where I have stayed in Abu Dhabi, I have noticed fewer of these visible, personal contributions.

There is much I appreciate: impressive buildings, large shopping destinations, newly finished sidewalks, and carefully selected street furniture.

I enjoy well-designed things, and I do not see their polish or ambition as a problem.

Still, I sometimes find myself looking for signs of how the people living nearby have added to that setting. The small decisions around a doorway or garden can tell me something different from the larger design.

I have not explored enough of Abu Dhabi to describe the city as a whole. Nor does the absence of visible additions tell me how much its residents care.

It tells me what I have not yet encountered in those particular areas.

As I continue exploring, I want to remain open to other expressions of that involvement rather than expect them to look exactly like the gardens I remember from elsewhere.

The comparison has helped clarify what I value: a neighborhood where the people living there can become visible through their contributions.

Leaving Room in the Design

This brings a question back to my own work.

When I design a place for people, how much room do I leave for their choices after it is built?

I care about the relationships between planting, paving, seating, and buildings. But I do not want a design to work only while every part remains exactly as I first imagined it.

At a residential entrance, for example, there could be room for planting that residents select and tend without narrowing the route to the door. The position and practical needs can be considered carefully while the choice of what to grow remains partly theirs.

In a shared courtyard, I might ask residents which part they would like to help shape before deciding what that contribution should be. Their interest could be gardening, displaying work, or arranging a place to spend time together.

What matters is whether their preference can influence the outcome.

Inviting people to care for something already decided is different from allowing them a part in deciding it.

That does not mean every addition will suit every location. Paths need to remain usable, and one person’s enjoyment should respect the people nearby. Shared spaces still need reliable management, whether or not residents choose to participate.

I see those considerations as the setting within which participation can happen.

A well-resolved design can provide both a dependable place to live and some freedom to make it personal.

A Neighborhood That Continues to Take Shape

Looking back, I am struck by how clearly I remember these smaller expressions of care.

A new building may have impressed me immediately. Yet a particular front garden or modest artwork can remain warmer in my memory because I associate it with someone’s involvement.

The pleasure was in what they had made, and in sensing that it mattered to them.

This does not make professional design less important. It changes what I hope that design will allow.

I want to create places that are attractive and useful from the beginning, with enough room for the people living there to contribute something I could not have chosen on their behalf.

Thinking of Providence and San Francisco, I realize that parts of my experience were shaped by people I did not know.

They had made something for their own surroundings, and its value reached a little farther.

The garden remained theirs. The pleasure of passing it became part of my day.