Here in my 12th floor office in downtown Seattle, it is so dark and dark and dark and rainy. The dark is in my bones this last week, like the wet rain chill that is its constant companion in this region, this time of year. So hard to get out of bed and on a train this morning. So much caffeine needed.
Even for a night owl, even for someone who has never gone to bed early, even as a kid, “in case I might miss something,” the long hours of darkness wear on my spirit a little more each year. It just gets harder. Which means that every year, I look more and more forward to this day, the longest, darkest one of them all.
Because tomorrow the light begins making its return.
Everything in its time.
This next is something I sent out this morning to the actors, but I decided to share it here with you, because it's part of it.
On-set, Day 2, "Threadbare"
To my dear actors & wonderful creative team-- Today on the shortest day of this year, I’m thinking of my sisters, my mother, and all of you. “Threadbare” A solstice poem for my sisters, who have never danced together Threadbare was written for winter solstice, for the shortest, darkest day of the year. It was written as a lyrical, fairy tale-inspired, poetic way to talk about my sisters, to name them as seasons, to talk about our relationship to each other and to our mother. While making this poem into a film, I discovered it was also telling a story I didn’t even realize was there, a true story, a Thing That Happened, in one of the dark days, in a very long, very dark season for our family. I’m thinking of how you each helped to turn these words into a way of telling a story I didn’t have words for. You brought such compassion and curiosity and such respectful, kind, determined energy to this piece. You did the thing artists do—you brought it into yourselves, twisted it around in your prismatic hearts and brought out new angles, new ideas and understanding. You brought it light. Thank you.
Love to you all, and light creeping in, in its time Emilie