The other day, I looked down at this little fire pit I got sittin’ out back. It’s been burnin’ for days—four, maybe five. Rain came through at some point, washed over it. Thought it was out. Hell, I walked past it a few times thinkin’ it was cold and done.
But today… I saw it again.
Smoke. A flicker.
Still burnin’.
And that right there? That fire? Man, that fire looked like me.
A brother came through the blues room not long ago, said he remembered catchin’ me live seven or eight years back. “You still goin’ live?” he asked, kinda shocked. Said it like I was some ghost he’d just stumbled on.
And I told him the truth—I’m surprised too.
It ain't always hot. Some nights, the fire's damn near ashes. I sit in the dark, wonderin' why I still hit that “go live” button. But every night, somehow, I show up. I still make contact. Still let the music breathe in the blue zone.
And along the way, I’ve met so many of y’all. Maybe even you readin’ this. Maybe you been part of this slow-burn journey, somewhere between the late nights, the long songs, and the live streams.
That brother asked me how many people I think I’ve played for. How many I’ve entertained.
Man... I don’t know.
Hundreds of thousands, maybe.
More than I could ever count, that’s for damn sure.
But that ain’t the number that matters. What matters is that the flame’s still goin’.
So here’s what I’m sayin’:
If there’s a fire in you—some dream, some gift, some ache that won’t let go—don’t let the damn thing go out. Even when it gets low. Even when you think it’s out and gone. Sometimes, it’s still smokin’ under the surface, waitin’ on you to breathe on it again.
Just do it.
Play the note.
Sing the verse.
Start the damn thing.
'Cause you never know who needs your heat.
Thanks for stoppin’ by.
We still burnin’ over here.
You?