There was mould on the soil of my plants. The other day I had given them nubs of plant food, to get growing, but now those efforts seemed in vain. Luckily it was pretty easy to scoop out the mouldy layer from the soil, like peeling film from a jam. At least the visible parts. It felt good to take care of my plants, to protect them. But when I googled for the cause, I read that the mould wasn’t a problem. That actually, it allows the nutrients to travel to my plants. The mould wasn't competing, it was taking care. I wasn't taking care, I was blocking it.

It’s one of many interactions with my plants where I realised I had to deal with an inherited modernist idea of what it means to care. A masculine one too. A protective 'I got this, let me handle it' attitude. In trying to care for my plants, I assumed a role based on control. Control of their growth, the organisms they interacted with, their sad moments – and then I cut off an old leaf.

A Rake, like a doormat, produces a distinction between dirt and clean. It draws the old leaves and young weeds out from the plants and flowers that were planned, planted. It may look like Rakes practice care, but as long as planned plants are proxies for something we humans want, like a nice view or free veggies, it’s selfcare in disguise. Rakes – the logic of Tools in this corner – draw boundaries between organisms for our use and organisms outside of that. They make some plants resource and others weeds. Meanwhile they cast humans as rakers, the emperor who decides. But in either option, plants are objects: part of the earth that doesn't need to be saved on Noah's arc, that wouldn't think nor feel, that just create the conditions for us and all other animals to shine.