“I’m great!” I chirp. “But I hope Gary will be okay.”

We both watch as a group of women surrounds him, then quickly absorbs him as one of their own. Someone hands him a big mug of tea and he takes a tiny tasting sip, then shakes his head in disbelief. “Who needs sugar when there is ah-gav-AY!” he exclaims.

“A-GAH-vay!” they correct, before all dissolving into laughter.

Sari tilts her head. “Gary seems to be doing just fine.” An understatement. “I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about me. I wasn’t planning on him tagging along. I wanted to focus on myself, not spend my day worrying about him fitting in and finding common ground with a bunch of weekend artists he’s never met.

“This is an opportunity to disconnect from your daily life and reconnect to your inner life so that you can eventually push past your creative block.”

I nod. I’m trying to disconnect, but I can see him and hear him. I feel like we’re home except we’re here, wasting time and money. Now, on top of being blocked, I’m worried that I’ll have gotten us further into debt for nothing.

“Just let go, Judy. Let it all go.” She takes a cleansing breath, touches my arm again, then lifts her hands out from under her poncho-cape to capture the scene with her phone. I know that shortly she’ll post pictures and videos in all of her social media feeds, braying about another group of brave souls embarking on their noble journey, and that within minutes hundreds of people will respond with thousands of emojis. Only this time, instead of being at home lurking and feeling envious, I’m actually here, about to experience the magic firsthand. So why do I still feel separate?

Turning now toward the attendees, her sinewy arms once again appear out from under white cashmere when she raises them to motion us into the room with the crayon tables. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

“Starting” starts with sitting on the floor, on meditation cushions, in a silent group “breathe”—a way for us all to get centered “together and apart” to start our “sacred work.” Sari and Gregory take their places on pillows with us. I can’t quite keep my eyes closed during the five-minute meditation, and neither, it seems, can Gary—we catch each other peeking several times a few minutes in, and then point at each other, silently, through clenched teeth, to stop fucking around. But then, something happens: Gary succumbs to the meditation. I peek a few more times to see that his face has softened, giving way to the appearance of complete relaxation. Gone is the furrowed brow, the darting eyes, his tense shallow breathing. Practically snoring, he has surrendered to the first steps of the noble journey. He is letting go. He is all in. I have never been more tense in my life.

Once the meditation is complete, we take our assigned seats at the round tables. There is the noisy removal of clogs and slippers and moccasins, the guzzling of water bottles, the loud sipping of tea, the rewrapping of woolen wraps as Sari stands before us, about to guide us through our first creativity exercise. People hold crayons and markers above their sketch pads. Through several heads of hair I see Gary, fully engaged with the women on either side of him. They are helping him choose a crayon because he can’t decide on his own. “The colors are all so beautiful I can’t pick just one!” he says, his voice a sudden joyous soprano, and the table erupts in laughter. He is like an ebullient child they are all looking after. I roll my eyes to the woman next to me.