Another morning, and I'm lacing up my shoes today in Calgary. Planning on running by the Bow River on the north side of town. It's a smoky day. Wildfires from the north keep blowing in, to the point where the sun just looks like an orange orb floating in the sky. Everything looks like it's in sepia tone. The river doesn't seem to care. It keeps moving just as it did yesterday. Cyclists pass by, a woman walking her dog gives me a quick nod as we cross paths, and the coffee shop I ran past yesterday is already filling up. Everyone seems to have somewhere they're trying to get.
I'm 11 weeks from my marathon, about this point in each of the ones I've trained for when I start to think, "Why am I doing this?" I need to do 10 miles today, 8 tomorrow, and a long run this weekend. Same day, same thing, same runs. Somewhere around this point, the novelty wears off and all that's left is repetition.
And somewhere on the other side of that boredom, something changes. I stop thinking about the finish line. I stop worrying about pace. I stop thinking much at all. I just run. My breathing settles. My feet find their rhythm. The miles get quieter somehow.
People ask me what it's like to train, and I always tell them you shouldn't do it. It's not fun. We're not supposed to run this far. It's a joke, the fact that the marathon supposedly started with the guy who ran from Marathon to Athens and collapsed after announcing victory over the Persians. Thirteen is the right number. But it's in this repetition that I feel like there's something to be learned.
At the same time, I'm traveling a lot for work, where I end up having the same conversations no matter who I'm talking to. It's a different city, but it's the same conversations over and over again. Different conference rooms, different company logos, but the same discussions around partnerships, growth, and how we can work together. Maybe it's all of this repetition, especially the amount I've felt over the last year, and the timely nature of reading Camus, that has me thinking about the myth of Sisyphus.
But then I think about the people sitting across the table. Their stories are never the same. Their organizations are different. Their communities are different. The work can feel repetitive, but the people never are.
Earlier this summer, I read The Fall. It got me back thinking about philosophy, and then, with The Odyssey coming out (no spoilers, I'm seeing it tomorrow) and the mix between that and Greek mythology, it seems to be on my mind.
If somehow you missed sophomore-year philosophy, Sisyphus is the myth of a king who rebelled against the gods. His punishment was to roll a stone up a hill, only for it to roll back down every time he reached the top, forcing him to do it all over again. It's not even the most absurd punishment in Greek mythology, but it's one that I think resonates with us because so much of what we do in life can feel Sisyphean.
The line that stuck with me wasn't even the myth itself. It was the last sentence. Camus ends the essay by saying, "One must imagine Sisyphus happy." I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The fascinating part about Camus' take is that he starts by asking what he believes is the most important question we can ask: "What is the meaning of life?" If there isn't one, as humans we've historically developed ways to create meaning. That's, I think, where much of religion comes in. Camus writes with the understanding of asking, "What if it is all for nothing, and what if that's okay?"
And that sounds absurd on the surface, but if you start to think about the repetition of life and how much of our lives are a parallel to Sisyphus, it becomes a little more understandable.
Maybe that's why routines have always been comforting. Not because they're exciting, but because they give shape to our days. The dishes will be there tomorrow. The run will be there tomorrow. The emails will be there tomorrow. There's something oddly calming about knowing there will always be another rock to push.
For me, it's running, work trips, and the same conversations over and over again. But I don't think it's unique just to me. It's doing the laundry every single week. It's meal prepping to make sure I don't eat Taco Bell on a late Thursday night. It's brushing your teeth before bed. Making coffee every morning. Watering the plants. Getting the kids ready so that they head to school and driving them to practice. For years, for decades, we do these things over and over again.
Every meaningful thing I've ever done has required repetition. Learning to snowboard. Building friendships. Getting better at my job. Writing. None of it happened because I did it once. It happened because I kept showing up.
I've spent much of my life contemplating the idea of what the meaning of it all is. I still continually wrestle with it, and I don't think I ever will stop. But what if, at the core of life, it is actually just to be? To exist?
In the words of Camus, "I'm speaking, of course, of men inclined to be in harmony with themselves."
I don't think he's saying life doesn't matter. I think he's saying maybe we've been looking for meaning in the wrong places. Maybe meaning isn't waiting for us at the top of the mountain. Maybe it has been sitting in the climb the whole time. Queue Miley Cyrus
And in that, what if the point of life is to just live life, whether that's in the mundanity of pushing up a rock or in the absurdity and spontaneity of it all? What if the mix of all of that is the whole point - finding balance without the overall need for some top-of-the-mountain experience?
One of my favorite comedians, Jimmy Carr, was asked this during a Q&A after a show, "What's the meaning of life?"
He smiled and said, "To enjoy the passage of time."
Tomorrow, I'll lace my shoes up again. I'll put my headphones on, find some podcast or a new album to listen to (yesterday was Stankonia by OutKast), and keep hitting the pavement and my legs will still be sore.
Maybe that's enough.
Maybe there is happiness in escaping repetition.
Maybe there is happiness in choosing it as well