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hugging each other. Over and over, people nodded and smiled as they passed. Some seemed to clamor for Art’s attention. He walked her past the ticket taker, through the crowded lobby, and, once in the theater itself, down the aisle to the front row. The front section was generally full, except for two seats by the center aisle. Next to these were several people Holly recognized—they were from the meeting the other night and the restaurant after.
    “Holly, how great you made it!” It was Ted, the man from the meeting. “Have a seat. This is definitely going to change your life.”
    She sat, still holding Art’s hand, as though he were a parent who had just safely guided her across a busy street. “I’m off,” he said, “to orchestrate madness into order. A special talent.” He kissed her hand before letting it go.
    “A very great man,” said Ted from behind her as she turned to see where Art was headed. The theater was filling rapidly. “He was my group’s facilitator at a weekend workshop.” Ted seemed to be proud of this fact.
    “What happens at a workshop?”
    “We go through Bobbi’s program step by step. It’s a truly amazing experience. Everything I thought I knew and all the opinions I had ever formed had to be reevaluated and for the most part thrown out. When my turn came, I got so in touch with my feelings that I was in tears within five minutes. I had so much energy invested in protecting myself from those feelings that it was a tremendous relief to just surrender and let myself be entirely vulnerable.”
    “Where did this all happen?” she inquired, not at all sure that what Ted was describing sounded attractive to her.
    “Oh, up at Serra Retreat in Malibu. A perfect setting. I’m going again in October, if I can afford it.”
    “Why, is it expensive?” She couldn’t imagine spending money to break down and cry in front of a group of total strangers.
    “Oh, well, of course there’s some expense involved. But considering what happens to you in here—” he gestured to his heart “—and in here—” he tapped his head “—there’s really no way to put a dollar value on it. I mean, it doesn’t even equate.”
    She sensed that there was something defensive about Ted’s response. “Well, if I wanted to go, how much will I need to spend?”
    “The food is excellent and the view is amazing. It’s like a great vacation, except you’re getting all this critical work done. The whole thing runs fifteen hundred dollars.” He stared at her as if this were a challenge: Dare to say it’s too much.
    The lights dimmed and the room became quiet. She felt annoyed at the possibility of being pitched on a fifteen-hundred-dollar workshop that she would absolutely never join.
    A woman walked up to the podium and adjusted the microphone. She was of medium height, slightly stocky, and dressed in a rather drab business suit. With her short-cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses, she looked like a no-nonsense executive secretary in an investment banking firm. Holly had expected something quite different, a more commanding, glamorous presence.
    “My name is Bobbi Bradley and I’m here to save my life.”
    “Hi, Bobbi,” came back in unison. Holly was surprised to realize she had said it too.
    “There’s a reason we do the things we do,” Bobbi began. “It traces back to when we were very small, when every time we were frustrated in our legitimate expectations for safety, love, and physical affection, for the attention and reliability of the adults around us, we made an adjustment. We protected ourselves. We built a suit of armor. Eventually we confused the growing of armor with growing up. We never realized that the growing of armor is the development and solidification of deformities in our psychic make-up. So we think that we have grown up, we look like adults, we may or may not have the responsibilities associated with adulthood, but we have this pain, and we don’t know where it comes