Money flows through the world like water through a landscape—sometimes nourishing, sometimes eroding, always reshaping what it touches. It creates currents that pull us toward certain shores, aligning our efforts around shared financial aspirations while quietly orchestrating the rhythm of most human exchange.

Yet the most enduring landscapes often emerge where different forces converge. Consider the digital commons that have grown into essential infrastructure—Wikipedia’s vast knowledge gardens, Ghost’s publishing meadows, Linux’s foundational bedrock. These flourished not because money called them into being, but because gardeners appeared who were drawn by something else entirely: the simple desire to cultivate something beautiful and useful.

Even the most organic gardens require tending. Like urban parks that need maintenance crews and water systems, these digital spaces have real costs woven into their existence. The paradox is that many institutions haven’t yet learned to see this infrastructure as worthy of investment, leaving these projects to find their own path toward sustainability without losing the original spirit that made them flourish.

At Tuist, we’ve been learning to dance between two rhythms: maintaining an open garden where anyone can wander freely, and running a small café at the garden’s edge. Some visitors will always prefer to bring their own provisions—and that’s perfectly natural. Others might glimpse the café and decide the garden isn’t for them, perhaps sensing commercial intent where they hoped to find pure sanctuary. The café’s earnings flow back into the garden itself—hiring groundskeepers, improving pathways, ensuring the space remains secure and welcoming.

I use this physical metaphor because software, like parks, is infrastructure that serves communities in ways both visible and invisible.

When we first considered adding the café, we’d come to understand that our garden—however cherished by its visitors—occupied a quiet corner of the world, not a bustling metropolitan center. Traditional funding seemed unlikely to find us there. The café felt necessary, but as I mentioned, money brings its own peculiar weather patterns to any project.

During this contemplation, we encountered another gardener with a different relationship to cultivation. Their vision reached toward something like Central Park—vast, commanding, transformative on a scale that money could achieve. “Would you consider joining forces?” they wondered. The idea of alignment between kindred spirits always deserves consideration.

But walking through their grounds revealed something troubling: a collection of abandoned plots where other projects had withered after acquisition. The pattern suggested a different philosophy of growth—one focused on rapid expansion rather than deep cultivation.

We represented something valuable despite our modest scale: an authentic community, a trusted name, roots that had grown slowly but strong. Perhaps that authenticity felt like something worth acquiring, like suddenly owning an established garden and using its paths to direct visitors toward a larger commercial venue. The leverage of genuine community attention, readily purchased.

When they proposed converting our garden into a promotional pathway—essentially asking us to become voices for their larger project—we recognized the fundamental mismatch. We had built something meant to serve its community directly, not to channel attention elsewhere. Our small café exists, but it serves the garden’s needs, not external ambitions. We remain open to growth, even to becoming something as significant as Central Park someday, but only through methods that honor why people originally chose to visit our quiet corner.

This reflects different relationships with resources and growth. Some see money primarily as fuel for market expansion and public recognition. Others view it as one tool among many for nurturing something genuinely useful. Both approaches have their place in the ecosystem, but they create very different kinds of gardens.

What followed only confirmed the wisdom of staying true to our original intentions. Limited financial resources don’t preclude significant growth—they might actually position us better for the kind of expansion that creates lasting value. In a landscape where many sprint toward acquisition headlines and aggressive marketing campaigns, we’re content to tend our garden with patience, watching it grow organically into whatever it’s meant to become.

Our relationship with money remains instrumental rather than central, and I’m grateful that our quiet corner of the world continues expanding in ways that feel authentic to its original spirit.