What drives me to write music--besides enjoying the practice of it--is understanding how short life is, and wanting to leave something behind.  It's morbid.  And maybe even a little compulsive. But what I know is: I'm almost done writing my 19th album, and I still don't feel like it's enough. 

I might also just be crazy. 

Anyway, I've been thinking a lot lately about what we leave behind. Two weeks ago, my friend Bruce passed away. I used to go out to his farm and visit him and his wife Deb.  They let me forage watercress from their creek and hen-of-the-wood mushrooms from their yard every fall.  I'm going to miss him a lot. The way he tended to his family, friends, and land is something I admire. 

They sold their farm shortly before he died, and I had almost forgotten about my yearly excursion out to the farm, but then I got a text from Bruce's wife, Deb. She said that the new owner of the farm would be happy to have me out to harvest the mushrooms. 

As bittersweet as it was to visit the farm without Bruce and Deb, I loved to be back on their stomping grounds, collecting mushrooms. It was a nice reminder that the way we care for things today matters tomorrow. 

Reader, I think sometimes we don't truly see the impact of all the good things we do and make in the moment, but that doesn't mean that it isn't important or that it won't make a difference in the future. I take a lot of comfort in knowing that.  I hope it provides you with some, too. 

Let's do good things this week, and believe they may continue to give to others down the line.  See you next Monday. -Em