
I wasn’t trained to design neighborhoods.
I don’t have a degree in urban planning or architecture.
What I had was a deep disenchantment with how this world was being built—and a deeper hope that it could be built better.
By better, I don’t mean more profitable. I don’t mean more efficient. I mean more humane.
Years ago, when I was sketching my first small home community in Durham’s Walltown neighborhood, I was flying blind in a sense. Just intuition. Vibes only. Drawing what I felt a small neighborhood could be. Small homes clustered together. Shared spaces. Gardens. A place where people could belong.
I reached out to Ross Chapin—a builder and designer whose pocket neighborhood work had inspired me, and many others, and asked if he could help shape the site plan.
He wrote back:
"Whatever you design, imagine yourself in the space. And imagine yourself as someone else. What is it like coming home with groceries and a child in hand? Or you’re a 4-year-old wanting to go out to play—where do you go? Is your mom comfortable? You’re 10, coming home on your bike—where does it go? On the porch? In the walk?"
He told me, “Be there.”
"What will bring a smile? What makes life flow smoothly? What gives protection? What brings people together?"
And finally:
"Don’t pay me a bunch of money. Go read A Pattern Language and look at your plan again."
So I did.
That was my introduction to Christopher Alexander’s masterpiece.
A Pattern Language isn’t just a book about design.
It’s about remembrance.
It reminds us of things we already know deep down:
That people thrive in small, connected clusters (House Cluster, Pattern 37)
People need spaces to gather and be seen (Courtyards Which Live, Pattern 115)
Neighborhoods need edges but must remain open, allowing cultures to flourish without becoming closed off (Subculture Boundary, Pattern 13)
Agency matters—people need to shape and steward their own spaces (Your Own Home, Pattern 79)
Most of all, it insists that design must always answer to life—not the other way around.
In today’s America—where design is often dictated by profit margins, zoning codes, and policies that divide and exclude—A Pattern Language feels like a quiet rebellion.
It pushes back against data supremacy—the belief that what can be measured must be what matters most. Square footage. Traffic counts. Market comps. Rent rolls.
But life doesn’t fit into spreadsheets.
Where does the 4-year-old kick a ball in a spreadsheet?

Today, when I lead Coram Houses, an equitable housing company in Durham, A Pattern Language is always there in the background. It shapes how we lay out our sites, how we think about community, how we design financing models that give people agency. But the book’s greatest gift to me wasn’t a list of 253 patterns.
It was a new way of seeing.
An invitation to attend to the dynamic, uncertain, evolving world I inhabit.
A way of trusting the patterns of life itself.
This May, I’ll be hosting the CITYBUILDER Book Club at Press Cafe to talk about A Pattern Language. We’ll not gather as experts, nor as critics, but as people who still believe in places that work for people.
If you’ve read the book, come share what moved you.
If you’ve only skimmed it, come share what you noticed.
If you’ve never opened it, come share what you hope for in the places you inhabit.
We’ll talk about patterns that inspire us, patterns we’ve seen fail, and patterns we might invent for the world we need now.
In a time when public discourse feels stunted, leadership feels self-serving, and division is rewarded, gathering to remember what makes places human is not just a privilege. It’s necessary.
I hope to see you there.

Topher Thomas is a former public school teacher, and a passionate advocate for restorative affordable housing and equitable development. He is the founder of Coram Houses, a mission-driven company creating innovative housing solutions and expanding capital access for underinvested communities. Based in Durham, Topher works to advance policies and practices that prioritize dignity and opportunity for vulnerable populations.