I text Sam: “Boxing class = done.”
She replies with a prompt, “WOO!!!”
Then, “How was it?”—followed by an image of a tarot card pulled for a Libra (my sun sign): The Four of Wands. Beneath it: “There’s something worth celebrating right now, whether you realize it or not. So bring everyone together in the way only you can.”
She adds, “I just sent you this! Doing the boxing class is worth celebrating.”
I don’t always know what tarot cards mean or what they’re trying to tell me. Like zodiac signs, I don’t take them too seriously—but they’re fun to reflect on, a little mirror you can angle toward whatever lesson you want to pull from the moment.
I look up the Four of Wands.
If I were to apply this card to starting a boxing routine (which I 1000% intend to), I’d have to understand what the card actually represents.
I learn that, like Sam said, it’s about celebration. But it’s also about stability, homecoming, ritual, and embodied joy. It shows two figures under a floral arch, mid-dance or mid-revelry, having arrived somewhere meaningful.
So maybe (even though I entered a totally new space) if I lean on this interpretation, the Four of Wands is saying: You’re not abandoning safety (please see Throw a punch (I)), you’re expanding it. I decide that this new ritual could become a structure that holds me. A rhythm that becomes mine.
I meet Calvin at the front desk. He greets me in this knowing way, “Is this your first boxing class?”
“Yep,” I say, with a smile.
He mirrors me. “You nervous?”
I’m not in that moment.
But I admit, “I’m a little intimidated.”
What’s interesting about the space is (apart from the staff) no one in attendance is particularly friendly. In workout settings, I’ve earned the nickname “Smiley” for my friendliness, so I get a little bummed when people don’t make eye contact.
I notice a woman wrapping her wrists. Another is bent over in front of a fan, her face turned away. I can smell her fragrance attempting to cover the smell of stale sweat. A tall, slender man (who does appear to be the friendliest of the bunch) is surprisingly barefoot as he kicks fluidly at a bag, toes pointed. His manner is almost dancer-like. His shorts are just short enough to also be a performance. Another guy is locked in, his brows furrowed, smacking his gloves together.
I look down at mine, still not on, and feel oddly excited to do the same.
Calvin says, “I’m going to wrap your hands for you.”
“Oh thank god,” I say. “I watched a YouTube tutorial right before I got here, but I only remember the loop bit.”
He laughs. “Everyone does it a little differently.”
He’s concentrating quietly, and he tells me to spread my fingers more when I say, “If I join, I guess I’d have to learn how to do this myself.”
“I’ll do it for you if you want. Some folks still like us to.”
It’s a kind offer, but I glance up at the woman doing it herself and I already know who I’d rather be.
He walks me through some basics, which admittedly are things I already know: if you’re right-handed, your jab comes from your left. Your stance is: left foot forward, right foot angled back. Your cross comes from your right hand, and your back foot pivots for power.
Something he doesn’t tell me that I remember from taking countless shadow boxing? Protect your damn face.
I humbly listen to him anyway, because no matter what I think I know: he’s the pro.
My wrists and knuckles feel supported and strong and stable. And I can’t fucking wait to use them. Thankfully, there isn’t much of a wait before we start.
By the time I have the gloves on and I hear the first bell ring, I quickly fall in love.
There are about twenty heavy bags hanging in the room, but only eight of us. Which is kind of perfect. One young woman props herself right in front of the mirror. I adore her for that. She wants to see her work. Guess what? I do, too. Because she’s in eyeline, I watch her during the heavy bag drills, she dances around as she hits every combination. I try to emulate her and I don’t quite get the fluidity of it (YET), but I enjoy the hell out of it anyway.
In my first post about boxing, my wish is to make better use of the anger that sits just under the surface of me. After one class, I don’t know if this will do that. I didn’t feel angry as I beat the shit out of that bag. Maybe it’s because I know I held back. Despite those wrapped hands, my knuckles are still red hours later. My hands tremble when I text. I can’t imagine what happens to them when I don’t hold back.
What I can tell you is I did feel euphoric.
When we dropped into planks, burpees, squats, high knees? I moved with seamless energy. That is the part I know. That part is mine. And the added bulk of the gloves layered into those movements? Pressing them into the floor during push-ups, or seeing them held up in front of me as I rose from lunges, feeling them as I jogged laps around the studio?
Yeah, there was no anger. It was celebratory.
And maybe that’s where I can tie in my cousin sending me the Four of Wands. It doesn’t need you to fight your demons. Like that bad ass, dancing around her heavy bag?
It just needs you show the fuck up.
Have a damn party.
(Daily Writing 031)
Thoughts?