Not all medicines are equal.

“Being good at one quiet thing at the end of a loud day is its own kind of medicine” SO I PAY ATTENTION. When I get home, I do not pour a drink. I do not take the edge off with a gummy. I do not, as my doctor once gently floated, pop a beta-blocker to ease the way my pulse climbs the stairs ahead of me at the end of a long day lawyering. Satisfied with the work but always trying to find a way to let the thoughts of tomorrow’s calendar rest, I go to the side yard instead. The summer sun comes in low and warm across my back as I crouch and sink my hands into the bed, and the soil gives back the day’s heat through my fingers. I pinch and lace and trim, and the plants answer with their scent: the unmistakable green, sharp, and faintly bitter perfume of a cut tomato vine that stains my thumb and forearm, brushes against my neck, and rides with me the rest of the night. And somewhere in all of it, my pulse comes back down and sits with me. Read the full article: Tomato Cure.