Letter from the Editor
I wound up having the most restful hour I can remember.
I have a friend who just loves music. Everywhere she goes, it seems she has head-phones on or earbuds in, and when I visit her home, the stereo is always on. She has introduced me to music and musicians I would never have heard of otherwise, and I always feel envious of — if not a little amused by — her obsession.
Everyone needs a hobby, I suppose, but hers is more like an addiction.
Not long ago, I dropped in to visit a farm on Whidbey Island, but I didn’t have an appointment, and there was absolutely nobody around. (It never occurred to me that a farmer might not be at work 24 hours a day!) I decided to do a walkabout to pass the time, thinking that eventually somebody would appear, and I wound up having the most restful hour I can remember.
Long rows of newly plowed elds, black earth, stubble from a winter crop not yet turned under, seedlings, wind touching everything. I got lost in the peacefulness of those elds, so different from the hectic life where I live, and I found myself thinking that this was a farmer’s soundtrack for life: the sound of plants growing.
That’s a track I want to play more often.