I take care of my plants when I'm sick
At the tail end of becoming withdrawn and unavailable, because I'd hate seeing someone get sick because of me; downhearted because my throat asks me not to speak or sing, just for a bit longer, my body thinks it's best I don't move too much, and my mind can't focus on games or books, or anything too complex, I'm becoming withdrawn and unavailable even to myself.
For some reason I find myself looking at my plants.
Make sure they aren't thirsty. Prune the dry leaves, leave them radiant colorful. Something here has to heal.
A couple have been in need of transplant for a while now: the one moves to a long balcony planter, hoping to expand and further liven the view; the other, an indoors type, takes the first one's pot, graduating from the plastic little cup of a home it lived in, hoping its eager roots will find the space they need to sustain the fast growing Syngonium above as it outgrows its moss pole and prepares to take over the wall. Something here has to heal.
After vacuuming remains of substrates old and new, after washing my tools, and after finally placing my transplanted companions back at their preferred spots, I can again take a look at them. Yeah: something here...
Even now, right now, I find myself sowing, transplanting, cultivating a space for growing and healing. Even now, even yet.