I couldn’t get up. I’d fallen and couldn’t get up. The bed held me, just as last night the wine held me. And I tried to remember why I should get up. My phone gave me junk mail, no messages from friends, no announcement that yes I was wanted and my talents were needed right now in this particular place with this particular group of people to solve this problem. I’ve been waiting for that message for a long time, and am slowly waking up to the fact that it will not come. Instead, my phone told me that the leaders of China and North Korea are meeting. That a drone was shot down over Iran. That the border teems with sorrow. My phone showed me photos of happy vacations elsewhere by other people who I hardly know. And still the bed held me. Coffee wasn’t reason enough. The sun outside not enough. My kids, either in bed or doing their own thing with friends, not enough. No human touch is on its way. No gaze. No shared confidence. Me — I had to get up for me. To shower and bathe my body with its 50s years of service. To find clothes that please and feel good to the touch. To make coffee as a ritual. To find the leash and let the dog guide me into this June morning. I have fallen and fallen again and each time I get up it is a practice of mastering love. Practice isn’t easy, but it’s familiar. And again and again I choose to get up.