I’ve learned that sometimes I have to dwell in the hovel of my own failure. Not dwell ON it, mind you, but IN it. Poke around inside, see what happened, assess the damage; look for cracks to spackle and tiles to replace. I take a hot cup of my own achievement with me, just so I’ve got something in my hand to anchor me to the rest of my world, taking small sips to remind me of the well and good, and to give me the fortitude to explore this darker, weaker side of the same man. I think it’s important to see the less sunny side of things to know what to expect when shortcoming calls again, or to avoid it entirely by growing in the interim. I don’t pass a LOT of time in there—just long enough to check under the sink, run a finger along the top of the fridge, flip the mattress. But my visit isn’t long enough for a toothbrush; this ain’t an overnight deal. And when I leave, I empty my mug in the weeds by the door, hopefully nourishing something at the threshold so the next time I’m here, I’ll have strength waiting for me by the steps. Love y’all.