again and again and again

I’m training for a half marathon this winter. I could stop right there, let you chew on that impressive sentence. Let you tell me I am hardcore. I’ve done one before, nearly nine years ago (so it barely counts) but the thing I didn’t forget about nine years ago and the thing I remember every time I head out for a run now is that it is hard. Running is hard. I’m not hardcore at all because my knees and hips and feet feel like I’m 95 years old as I run in boring, repetitive circles.
Everything in life goes in circles, in cycles too: weeks, seasons, menstrual cycles, love, life. That's not profound, but the repetitiveness calms me. The familiarity of my running shoes beats down rhythmically, poetically, predictably in each step, even though it’s boring and even though my 95 year old legs feel each repetitive step.
Left to right to left to right to left.
Spring is summer is fall is winter is spring.
Predictable contentedness is promised joy is poetic struggle is I’m-going-to-be-okay is rhythmic contentedness is joy again.
and again.
and again.
and again.