Sari and Gregory go out to the barn. We watch them through the big windows, setting up the chairs and creativity stations—drawing pads, writing pads, little metal buckets full of crayons and markers and colored pencils. It looks like the setup for a big birthday party or an after-school daycare center—but instead of readying the room for hyper six-year-olds, they’re prepping for expressive adults in desperate need of artistic guidance. While I watch them drag cushions and mats and heavy woven blankets out of storage closets, then arrange them masterfully in a pile that looks inviting but not messy, I’m uncomfortably conflicted: drawn to the possibility of being helped; embarrassed by the props and tools to be used in that effort. Instead of naps and sippy cups, it will be guided meditations and Noble Journey–branded reusable water bottles.

Eventually we’ll sit down in the dining room, where Andy will lay out dinner—a big green salad, a platter of grilled fish, a bowl of ancient grains, along with the weekend provisions we’d gathered. In spite of ourselves, Gary and I will get through the meal without incident. At one point I think it’s even possible that we’re almost enjoying ourselves. As we help clear the dishes, Sari will get a text on her phone—a cancellation for a spot in the weekend workshop—and she’ll turn to Gary and invite him to take it, for free, a gift from them to us to celebrate our new friendship.

“Sometimes things happen to make the impossible suddenly possible,” she’ll say, with a heavy sigh of mysticism. “Clearly it’s a sign that Gary is meant to be here tomorrow, too.” And that is how Gary and I will end up attending the seminar together.

Before we can think of a way to say no, she and Gregory will turn to each other and kiss on it. As we watch their lips touch, Gary and I will smile awkwardly, then look away. We never like being reminded that other couples still feel and do what we don’t anymore.

Noble Journey

Before we sit down at the tables Sari and Gregory arranged last night, we—the attendees—approach a low teak credenza in the barn, in search of our place cards. They are arranged on wooden slabs, like cutting boards, formally but casually, as if we’re about to be seated for a wedding reception or luncheon. Each of the off-white cards has a raw edge and is written in Sari’s perfect script, which I recognize from her calligraphy posts on her Instagram feed. They are like little tiny individual works of art, and I wonder how long it took her to make them.

“Nice font,” I say under my breath, to Gary, who I realize too late is not the one behind me.

“It’s called Noble Journey,” Gregory says. “Sari designed it herself. She takes great care with every aspect of the workshop. Nothing is an accident.”

“Wow,” I say, my voice full of wonder.

“People want a completely curated experience when they come here.” He drones on like a press release. “That’s what they pay for and that’s what they get. It’s her brand.”