I'm Major Jackson and this is the Slow Down.

In my family, when tragedy strikes, like many families, we cook.

If someone dies, the pots come out and the pilot lights are lit.

Water is boiled, music is played.

We try to reignite the Sensorium, which shuts down in the face of grief.

We arrive with aluminum-covered kitchens and glass bakeware with bubbling casseroles.

Cheese boards, we cured meats, olives, and jellies are laid out and served.

We turn a dining room into a cafeteria.

We feast.

I recall when grandma rose past away for a quick disorienting moment, I thought we were

gathered for Thanksgiving.

Then remembered the matriarch wasn't there presiding, and it wasn't even November.

The natural disaster occurs.

When catastrophe falls upon us, we humans lean into life.

We need the counterbalancing forces of creation and renewal to tilt the world back toward

meaning and light.

We pursue activities that resist a chaos of the mind and spirit, some endeavor that gives

us a foothold on the unthinkable, an anchor, a reminder of the eternal nature of existence.

How do I cope with loss?

I dance.

Well, I used to.

On June 25, 2009, my girlfriend and I flagged down a taxi on 8th Avenue.

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