Not long after my mother died, I was driving on I-5, north of Sacramento, not in much of a rush. I sensed a car behind me and checked the rear view. A chartreuse Maserati was on my tail and apparently the driver ignored my bumper sticker: “If you can read this, get off my ass.” I floored it, but there was no way I could escape a Maserati. “Where did the S.O.B. get enough money to buy that?”

I slowed down to see if I could get him to pass, but, no, he slowed down, too, annoying me more. Finally, I stopped; got out. So did the Maserati’s driver. He introduced himself: “Hi,” with a Cheshire Cat grin. “I know you would like to get away from me, but you can’t. My name is Jeffers R. Grief. I’ll be hounding you a good while. I’ll be hounding you when you try to drug yourself into forgetfulness, when you try to fuck away your sorrows, when you try to do whatever you do to deny you’re in trouble.” Jeffers R. Grief was convincing.

I had never been in a Maserati, so I asked him for a ride; left my 15-year-old Honda Civic coupe on the shoulder. We were at 90 in 2.72 seconds. Grief moves fast, I thought to myself. Soon we pulled into a three-mile driveway that ended at a sumptuous mansion, surrounded by a vast garden. Grief said he needed to do some work there; then we would go in. The garden was full of lush plants in parched sandy soil; oddly enough all of them tall and strong. I asked: “How do you do it?”

“These are special,” Jeffers said. “The less I care for them, the better they grow.” He guarded those starved plants, making sure they got no rain, no fertilizer—nothing. He sheltered them from rain with a clear dome, and kept out his herd of bulls, lest they defecate there, which would be fertilizer. “So, he said, “my advice to you is don’t do a thing to address your grief over your mother, and it will be tall as a redwood before you can say your prayers.”

From the garden, he took me inside. First stop was the gym. The whole set-up was designed for Grief to exercise his hands. He squeezed springs, stretched thick rubber bands and pinched clothes pins. When Grief gets a hold of you, he doesn’t let go.

At dinner, I got to know my host better. It turned out he was a great dancer, had been on the world’s famous stages: Lincoln Center, Epidaurus, Hippodrome, Palau de la Musica, etc. Mostly, he did modern. When, after dinner, he performed for me, I saw Grief did ballet, jigs, hip-hop and ballroom. He invited me to partner dance—West Coast Swing. He led me up, down and around the floor, and then I knew I had a partner I could learn from.

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Birdland Grief Workshop, 2013