A striking motif plays through our conversations with gardeners.  A number have observed that, within the boundaries of the 61st Street garden, they feel safe and at home in the city.  They cite several reasons for this.  The comings and goings of other gardeners.  Activity generated on 61st Street by the Experimental Station and Carnegie School.  The ring of large structures--steam plant, "chiller," AT&T facility, and U of C Press building--that seem, however blank their expressions, to look down protectively on the garden.

Taken together, though, these circumstances don't alter the fact that this is, by urban standards, a sparsely populated area.  Long intervals pass when no one is around.  And during months the garden is dense with growth, a violent presence could conceivably hide in the green and pull a victim out of sight.

The mystery is deeper still.  For several gardeners, women, have said they feel safe in the garden, even when alone, and even at night.  Putting aside questions of prudence, there is something worth exploring here.

The garden stands apart from the world yet open to it.  Its boundaries are distinct but not enforced by high fences, locked gates, threatening signage, or other tokens of "security."  It is a welcoming, undefended space.  To enter the gate is to be embraced by a certain quality of presence.  Even in the absence of other gardeners, the residue of their attention is immediate and consoling.

Is it possible that the care invested by many hands, tending their 10' x 10' plots over the years, has created a secure sanctuary in the midst of the turbulent city?