I failed again. I’ve ended up right back where I started eight years ago. Only I’m not in the same place as I was back then. Yes, I’m on my knees. Yes, I’m kneeling in surrender. That’s where I ought to be every day. I keep thinking I can do this; somehow, this time will be different. It’s not different. It’s never different. It’s another day to practice. I need all of the practice I can get. I’ve been in plays; I know the drill. You say the same lines with the same people on the same stage. Each run through brings improvement. Sometimes, an understudy steps in. Sometimes, a certain prop changes, gets broken or adjusted, and the actors often riff or improvise in the moment, but it’s the same story. My life is my story, and each day is another rehearsal. At the end of my life, I’ll see the final performance, how all of the pieces fit together, how the last scene is the resolution, not the climax. I look forward to curtain, and I dread it knowing that it won’t be long before I no longer gather and spend time with the people I enjoy the most. The laughter, the tears, the practical jokes, the arguments, especially the arguments with the director, they’ll all be in the past and the liminal time will begin, the waiting period before the next play is chosen and cast. There is nothing to fear or dread. The heartache and the healing are both a part of the story, and story would be nothing without them.