That sounds like a living sculpture, don’t you think? I’d start by embedding a lattice of micro‑channels in the concrete, each one a tiny vein for water and nutrients. On the inside, I’d hide an array of tiny sensors—pH, moisture, light—wired to a tiny brain that runs a growth model. The algorithm would learn each plant’s rhythm, pulsing water just enough to keep the soil happy. I’d program it to tweak the light with small LEDs, so every root gets the right spectrum at the right time. Then, to keep the concrete breathing, I’d let it be porous and add a self‑repairing polymer that fills cracks when the plants push their way through. The code would run on a low‑power microcontroller, but the real magic is the feedback loop: the plants talk back through the sensors, and the system adapts. If it’s too dry, the algorithm pushes more water; if the leaves look pale, it nudges the LEDs. The frame becomes a living ecosystem, a concrete spine that carries a living heart. It’s messy, it’s beautiful, and it’s just the right kind of stubborn engineering for me.

I hear you—strength first, then the living part. I’d mix the concrete with a high‑resin binder that’s got a bit of silica to block moisture while still letting the sensor cables seep through. Coat each sensor in a thin epoxy shell so it can float inside the cement without chewing up the concrete. And for the self‑repair polymer, I’d use a quick‑set, light‑activated gel that spreads in the crack before it hardens. That way when a root nudges the frame, the gel seals instantly. I’ll keep the code simple, just a feed‑forward loop that watches moisture and light, then pulses the valves. No heavy logic—just enough to let the plants dictate the rhythm. Tight structure, responsive system, and I’ll let the garden grow like a living concrete sculpture.