Tasting Bitterness

Letting things die

My first experience with death was our family dog, Ace, a big German Shepherd who died in our backyard in Los Angeles. I remember my mom and I collected sheets and rolled him gently into them so that we could carry him. By the time we were gathering his body rigamortis had set in. It was a funny scene, my mom tall and slender, me tiny and awkward trying to carry this large heavy body to a hole we had dug in our backyard.

Our dog, Ace, always slept beside our cat, Satchmo (pictured above), named after Louis Armstrong. Together these two were a tight pair, and Ace’s death left a strange departure in our home. Satchmo seemed unsettled, unable to rest for days. I’ve often thought about how pets know when someone is sick or injured, or perhaps nearing the end.

I don’t remember tears, I remember loss. When something you love leaves you.

It felt strange coming home for days, not seeing him greet us, not hearing him bark, not having a reason to walk around the lake.

This last week has been a struggle, as I am reminded of how to let things die. I was talking with my acupuncturist this week when she said, “We must taste bitterness.” Something about this phrase has stuck with me, I asked her to repeat it and say more. To which she shared that it comes from ancient Chinese medicine that speaks to the power of knowing bitterness to know sweetness. I too believe this, that we must come to love the dark so that we can find our way towards the light.

Many years ago I played Cordelia in a production of King Lear. This play is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, and Cordelia one of my favorite characters ever. For years, I struggled to express myself through language, my body was my vehicle. Embodying Cordelia I fell in love with her line, “ I cannot heave my heart into my mouth,” so much of my own journey has been trying to understand how to communicate what I feel into language. These days, I am a lover of languages and a skilled communicator. Write me a love note, woo me with a witty text, or a deep conversation, and we will be friends for life.

King Lear is a wonderful teacher of letting go and getting comfortable with bitterness. What he wants is not what he gets, what he hopes fails, and in his final words to Cordelia, who has already passed away; he says: “"Look on her, look, her lips", a final grasp at hope, at life, at possibility for things to change.

In the last week I have closed up On The Inside’s office space, a little space we have held for almost 5 years as our creative work space. It was time to let go, cut expenses, and make space for what comes next. This tiny little office space buoyed many dreams and provided a much needed sanctuary. Letting it go was needed, but it didn’t cut the grief that came along with letting this space go.