There’s a group fitness instructor at my gym that’s a real badass. This was made abundantly clear after I signed up: his classes, every single one of them, were booked immediately upon becoming available. Once I followed suit and set a recurring alarm to book 26 hours in advance of his class, I saw what the hubbub was about. The weight lifting was rhythmic. As a group, we were moving to the beat–the sense of community in the room amplified by the sounds our bodies made on cue. A muscle pumping dance. It was like a ceremony. I never miss that class.

I also go to his spin class on Mondays. He turns recumbent cycling into a dance, too. But what makes it special is that at the pinnacle of an extended effort, he’ll give a longer-winded motivational message than he does throughout. He’s got a radio announcer voice and a tone that is intense: assertive, authentic, urging. A true coach.

Yesterday he advised us: Bask in it. Bask in it all, the good, the bad. […] Because when you’re up there–when you’ve got that trophy in your hand and you look out to all that surrounds you–it’ll mean even more if you basked in all it took to get there. You’ll remember all you went through and know it was worth it.

This message hit me: it reminded me of the playlist I made to honor change several weeks ago when I was going through unrelenting chaos. I stopped feeling angry, stopped losing energy being disappointed and I basked in the change.

To Bask

I took a mental note of what he shared, because it resonated with me. But as we cranked up into a climb, my wheel spinning at 21 miles per hour, I nearly forgot–What was it? Relish in it? No–bask. Yes, bask in it.

Relish. That’s been my preferred verb with similar meaning. To relish, much like the condiment, is to add sweetness. Relishing a moment is like sitting in a beanbag chair, then moving your hips side to side so you can sink your glutes lower into the beans, deepening yourself as you’re engulfed in the lounge furniture.

Some may encourage you to keep your eye on the prize when times get tough. I say, much like weightlifting, your head and chest up and your gaze fixed will allow for correct form. But you can still feel the sun on your back with your drishti centered on the horizon.

To bask is to do just that: lie exposed to the warmth and light. I think of when I basked in the sun, without a thought of sun damage crossing my mind. Inhaling thick, salty air, my cheek grazing sand granules buried in terry cloth. Bare aside from my bikini and sunglasses, my lying stance wide, wrists to the heavens, toes falling outward to each side. Basking.

Relishing may be reminiscent of a small effort–a shimmy, if you will–to deepen the breath, take in the moment, find joy. To bask is effortless, it’s still. Allowing an essence to coat you.

With that trophy in hand

Bronze medalists have been known to be happier in the long run than silver medalists. The most easily imagined alternative outcome for the silver medalist is to have won gold, while the most easily imagined alternative outcome for the bronze medalist was to have not made it onto the podium at all.

I imagine, too, that standing on the podium right after the competition emphasizes these feelings. How can you be attuned to the glory that stands before you while fretting over missing out on the win? When looking back on the memory, each time, the medalists relive those initial feelings. The silver medalist forgot to bask.

My trophy

This might have hit me a little harder than otherwise, because the day prior I got my own version of a trophy.

For years I’ve coveted a vintage library card catalog. I read about how Ryan Holiday adopted Robert Greene’s technique for remembering and organizing information for writing books. He shared that he stored his notecards for the technique in an old card catalog from a real library. I started the method in the past but had a hard time with the culmination of cards without a proper containment solution.

I’ve looked on Craigslist with a radius of many states away. I’ve found many. The price wasn’t right, transporting it would be difficult, or the card catalog itself wasn’t right. A year ago I finally told my husband of this dream antique acquisition of mine. Six months ago, I shared the dream with my neighbor, a guy who likes to go yard sale and flea market shopping every weekend. He’s shown me a couple since.

Then this one showed up. Nearby. It was in sections I could get in my car. It was still pricey, but my husband recently has hired on at a new company. We were willing to make the splurge.

The Prize

Trophies are usually signifiers of an end. You did the training, you competed with peers and you came out on top of your game. I have done a lot of work over the years on my self, my habits, my writing, my relationships. Hell, I’ve read over 100 books between 2022 and 2023 alone. I’ve been gearing up to come to my unique stories with the right frame of mind. To become an author, like I’ve dreamed for so long.

This cool slice of furniture once served masses as a gateway for knowledge, a keeper of answers. Now, it’s a trophy that signifies my beginning: delving deeply into study and eventual authorship. It’s all mine.

And you can bet your ass I’m basking in it.