We often build technology like we’re clearing land—strip it down, pave it over, install something that does one job and expects the world to adjust around it. That might make sense for servers and networks. But if we take ecology seriously, maybe it’s time to ask: What would it mean to build tech that behaves more like a forest?
There’s a lot of talk about using soil moisture sensors and other digital tools in the garden. In theory, installing a sensor should make things easier—providing objective data to guide watering and care. But the reality is often more complicated.
We’re somewhere around the one-month mark now.
Below is an excerpt from the latest Garden Bug Tracker, v2025.01. These reports have been logged during routine observation cycles and late-evening spirals.
There’s a point in learning to care for plants where things start going wrong, and you don’t know why. The leaves yellow. The stems sag. The roots turn to mush. And you end up hunched over a pot of dirt, not quite sure whether the thing needs more water, less light, or just a better gardener.
That moment feels a lot like debugging.
I haven’t automated my garden. Let’s be clear about that up front. But I’ve thought about it. A lot. Enough times standing out there with a coffee, watching the sky cloud over five minutes too late, to know there’s a better way.
You want to stop killing your basil every summer. I get it. You’ve got a patch of earth, a few potted herbs, and the best of intentions—but no idea what’s actually going on in your soil. Time to fix that.
I’m getting back into this whole writing thing, so I thought I’d start a new series. One I’ll probably find challenging: gardening. It’s currently the middle of winter in the UK, so not exactly the best time to be tidying up the garden, but this is more of a plan for the year ahead.
This weekend, we took our first proper day out as a little family unit. Adam, Matilda’s dad, came to visit, and we decided to head out to Jodrell Bank.
There’s something fitting about spending the day under a giant radio telescope when the last few weeks have felt like tuning into a completely new frequency. Everything’s been white noise, sudden signals, sleepless static—and now, slowly, we’re picking up moments of clarity. Like this one.
She’s three weeks old today.
It’s strange how much and how little that feels like, all at once. Time right now is fluid. The hours between midnight and morning blur into a single stretch of half-sleep and whispered promises that “we’ve got you.” Sunlight is just something that leaks through the blinds while we rock her, feed her, change her, start again.
