My friend Becky recently asked me to put together a list of my 25 favorite songs of all time. It sounded like a daunting, maybe impossible, task. “May I list albums instead?”

So many songs.

She thought about it. “Sure,” she smiled, realizing I was going to take the assignment seriously. She knows I sink my teeth into whatever task is at hand, especially if it involves something I really enjoy. She knows music is a major feature in my life, so she probably figured, while I might become obsessed with the project, I’d be happy doing it.

Little did she know her assignment would catapult me into a state of music madness. I immediately started listening to the albums that have been a big part of my life’s landscape while conjuring up the people and places tethered to each one. One of the earliest of these memories was of Mattie, who lived with us and helped take care of me when I was a little girl. During thunderstorms or after bee stings, it was Mattie’s arms I sought for comfort. She was everything to me for a period of my young life. Mattie died when I was 11. My parents took me to her visitation, which was at night in a different town. It was a long drive, and it was raining, and I remember sitting in the back seat of the car singing songs from Rubber Soul quietly to myself, letting the windshield wipers be my metronome. Again and again, under my breath: I’m looking through you, where did you go?

Music is especially good at bringing up lost loves and lost lives.

To begin making my list, I revisited Rubber Soul and lots of other classics associated with different times in my life. How in the world could I narrow it down to 25? Could I really compare The Supremes (my first concert!) to Loggins and Messina (my first concert with Eddie!) to Elton John, to Tom Petty, to Big Brother and the Holding Company, to the Beach Boys, to The Who? What about compilation albums like Bleecker Street or Garden State?

The ones that practically wrote their own names took up the first few slots on my list: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, CS&N, Simon and Garfunkel, Stevie Wonder, Janis Joplin - artists whose songs I memorized long ago and still turn to when I need an old friend. You’re probably wondering why certain records aren’t included in the “obvious” section of my list, and of course that points to the wonderful truth that music is a personal choice and that, as a young girl, I thought the Rolling Stones was a very dangerous band.

Okay, so I’d already used up 8 spots, and I hadn’t even really begun.

Next, I thought about artists I’ve loved for a long time who aren’t quite as conspicuous at those listed above, like: Laura Nyro, Buffalo Springfield, Alanis Morissette, Suzanne Vega, Tom Waits, The Talking Heads, Richard and Linda Thompson and Rickie Lee Jones. Finally, I listed some of my more recent favorites, like: Corinne Bailey Rae, David Wilcox, Amos Lee, Adele, Iron and Wine, The Dixie Chicks, and Gillian Welch.

Jeez. I was already up to 23.

Singling out one album by each of these artists sent me on a trip back in time, to the day I first brought each of the older records home, carefully removing the plastic wrapping, admiring the cover art and then firing up my turntable. After carefully resting the needle on the first track, I’d lie on my bed and spend the next couple of hours getting to know the album’s lay of the land and immersing myself in the liner notes. I liked paying close attention to the sequencing, considering the pacing and the conversations that seemed to take place between songs. Of course, over time, I memorized, or learned by heart, every word and could name the next song before it even started.

In the end, I was pretty happy with a list of 40 albums. “That’s OK,” Becky said with a grin. “I’m just glad you had fun with it.” I had no idea why she’d asked me to come up with this list in the first place. The only thing I could figure was that we’re new-ish pals, and maybe this was a way she thought she could get to know me better.

So, here are my top ten in no particular order: Blue (Joni Mitchell), Rubber Soul (The Beatles), Strict Joy (Swell Season), 21 (Adele), After the Gold Rush (Neil Young), Streetlights (Bonnie Raitt), John Prine (John Prine), Tapestry (Carole King), Swamp Ophelia (The Indigo Girls) and… drumroll please, Tracy Chapman (Tracy Chapman).

Which brings me to last week’s Grammy Awards.

We hadn’t seen her in a long while. As the camera paused on a close-up of her fingers moving along the guitar strings and we listened to the familiar opening riff of the song, I think we collectively held our breath. Then, the camera pulled back and there she was. Her radiant face, still youthful, was framed by long, graying locks. Her voice, still clear, was rich and steady. She beamed out a smile to everyone who has ever loved her – and all the new fans who were now learning to – and in her shy, unassuming manner she blew us all away.  It was one of those moments when time stood still. When the past felt perfect, and the future seemed full of possibilities. When everything was pared down to the most basic and therefore the most heartfelt. When music was the simplest way to share our desires and our disappointments, our joys and our sorrows. When music said everything we knew and believed. When it was our poetry.

When it brought us together. When it had the power to heal.

Tracy Chapman brought all that back to me in the most luscious five minutes imaginable. And Luke Combs, a country singer-songwriter famous in his own right, who stood and sang by her side, who didn’t show one ounce of ego and who kept looking over at her with awe and reverence, offered a new generation the same possibilities.