The Motion Of Grace

It's in the rhythm of her footfalls, a steady, cyclical, soft flapping of rubber on asphalt, step by step, breath by breath. The first twenty minutes she struggles to settle down, settle in, relax and find her groove. The ongoing argument with herself plays out in her head: turn back now, this is too hard, you should be doing something else, ten minutes is good enough, how about later, just a little break, come on, comeoncomeoncomeon. Over and over she comes back to the sound of her feet, syncing her breath to her stride, alternating inhalations with exhalations on opposite strides. Stay loose, think tall, drop her shoulders, eyes up, belly on, hands loose, keep breathing. All these cues and mantras underscore the sound of her heart thumping, thumping, thumping until finally, magically, they fall away and she simply runs. This is the best part. The freedom of flight, lightness of being. Getting lost in her own movement, feeling omnipotent, like she could run away all the anxiety and grief and conundrums that threaten to bury her in stasis. A battery that feeds off it's own energy, she recharges and powers up as she exhausts every last fibre of her being. Fartleks and repeats, hills, long slow easy's. Every run is unique. There's no plan, no goal, no half marathon 12 week training guide. This is life. This is why she runs. There are days she hates it, loathes it with such a passion she has a scowl etched into her face for the first 2 miles. It's time to argue and reason with herself, laugh, weep, figure it all out and then, on a really great day, let it all go and just be. Amazed by the biomechanics, the beauty of her surroundings, relishing the endorphin rush and the grace rolling over and under every single step. A perpetual motion machine until she can run no more. Then she walks, grateful for her body, her heart, her poor, aching, crippled feet that hold her, support her, propel her into clarity and away from restlessness.