For the Love of Art and people

 

Photo by Brandon Miyagi

The stage door at the Manoa Valley Theatre closed behind me Thursday night with a weight that felt heavier than usual. It’s quiet, the kind of absolute, ringing silence that feels like a physical intruder after weeks of constant, crackling kinetic energy.

I sat on my lanai to have a cup of coffee, and for a moment, I waited for the rhythm. I waited for the way the air shifts when the company finds that perfect, locked-in groove in the kitchen. In rehearsals, we exist in a world of high-stakes shorthand—a look, a nod, a shared breath that says, “Yes, that’s the one.” We have built a world together out of nothing but intentions, blocking, and the jagged, beautiful pulse of Lynn Nottage’s text.

It is a profound, jarring displacement to be me, the person sipping hot coffee, watching the sunrise, and worrying about my garden, when just two days ago, I was part of a collective consciousness breathing life into Clyde’s. 

There is a strange phantom-limb sensation that comes with being a director away from your cast. You spend months building a family, forging bonds, and then you are thrust back into the mundane.

It is a beautiful, aching kind of solitude. It’s the price we pay for the magic of the work: that temporary, all-consuming intimacy that ends the moment the curtain falls.

Even as the silence of my home settles in, it’s not an empty one—it’s filled with the buzzing, electric memory of what we’ve built together. My heart is genuinely bursting when I think about the cast and crew.

Watching them breathe 

life into every line and solve the complex puzzles of the staging has been the highlight of my year. They have taken the vision we started with and elevated it into something living, breathing, and wildly resilient. I am so fiercely proud of the grit, the humor, and the sheer heart they bring to that stage every single time the lights come up. I miss them the second I step away, yes, but mostly, I am just breathless with excitement for the magic they are about to make tonight. The finish line is approaching, but we aren't just crossing it—we are sprinting toward it with everything we’ve got.

There are only 7 performances left to experience this journey with us.

Don't miss your chance to witness the heat of the kitchen and the resilience of the spirit. Grab your tickets, find your seat, and join us before the lights go down for the very last time.

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Photo by Brandon Miyagi