I’m grateful when Gary finally bites into his sticky bun and stops talking. And then I do what I always do when things get awkward with people we barely know: I thank Gary for his honesty.
“We’re supposed to be honest here, aren’t we though?” he says, suddenly loud enough for everyone at the place-card coffee table to hear. Clearly he’s been triggered and we’re not done yet. “Why shouldn’t Gregory know the truth? I’m not ashamed of us, Judy. Are you?”
“This guy!” I roll my eyes and laugh, then motion for him to wipe the crumbs and stray pecan from his chin. Of course I’m ashamed!
People are staring now. They always stare. Today it may be because Gary is the only male seminar attendee, or because he is the only one eating the proffered carbs. But usually it’s his energy and the differential in our demeanors. He vibrates with the hypervigilance of the superanxious—his eyes are always scanning a room, assessing his fight-or-flight options, while I’m completely contained, almost reptilian in my stillness. Which is my own version of hypervigilance: I’m always waiting for Gary to panic, to make a scene, so I try to take up less space and air than he does. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since we met, unable to fully inhale or exhale; as if there isn’t enough room in the world for both of us.
Two small wiry women with short gray hair wearing big sweaters over black leggings and clogs with wool socks stop to pick up their cards and heavy mugs of tea. I feel an instant wave of something—sadness—jealousy—anger. They look like Glenn before she got really sick; what she would still look like now if she weren’t sick. Four more younger women, all blondes, wearing thick knitted ponchos and shawls and pom-pom hats like some kind of private tribe, pick up their cards and beverages. Another group of women, weekend warriors in fleece and boiled wool slippers here to tap into their potential, find and hand each other their place cards, then pass around the basket of protein bars. Each group is separate but together, looking after each other, getting ready for the day ahead, like they’re at base camp, preparing to summit.
Sari finally appears, in leggings and a white cashmere poncho-cape. She smiles wanly as she moves through the room, catching up on what she’s missed. Gregory fills her in like a senior aide to a politician whose been working the room in her absence; she nods as he whispers in her ear, then cues up her response: first going over the basic logistics of the morning session, the “creativity warm-up,” and then addressing the elephant in the room.
“We have one couple here today, Judy and Gary, but I know that many of you, if not most of you, are married or have been married at one time, so it’s worth talking about the role that relationships play in the creative process,” Sari whisper-lectures. “The culture wants us coupled, and yet coupling can often keep us from our true noble journey—our creative process. Our spouses mean well, but in the daily dance of marital obligation we can get locked into unproductive cycles.” She clasps her hands together. “Unproductive cycles that we need to break out of.” She pulls her hands apart. “Which is why you’re here. And why I’m here. And why Gregory is here.” Here she cracks a wry half-smile. “He knows firsthand how hard it is to be married to a creative person.”
Gary shoots me a look, and we lock eyes. If he could, he would move a finger toward his mouth. If we’d been allowed to bring our phones into the seminar, he would be texting me our favorite emoji or our second-favorite . He’s dying to leave early and so am I, but there is no way out. Yet. But despite his misery, I suspect there’s a part of him that’s into this, that deep down he wants to form bonds and connect with people other than me. He’s already going back for a second sticky bun and making conversation with one of the tribes of women.
Sari touches my arm with a mixture of kindness and sympathy. I assume it’s because my husband is embarrassing me—she must know the feeling, given her own husband’s omnipresence, even if they do present as a team. “How are you holding up?”
“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.