A soft beginning that already knows the ending — “I Can Almost See It”
There are songs that don’t rush to tell you their secrets. They wait, they breathe, they take your hand and lead you gently toward the truth. Linda Ronstadt’s “I Can Almost See It”—the opening track of her 1973 album Don’t Cry Now—is one of those quiet revelations. Written by J.D. Souther, it drifts in like dawn through half-open curtains: pale light, soft air, a heart still learning how to let go.
At that point in her life, Linda was standing on a fragile bridge between the past and the future. The country-rock scene of Los Angeles was blooming all around her; she had already known success and heartbreak, the weight of expectation, and the thrill of reinvention. Don’t Cry Now—released in the autumn of 1973—was her first album for Asylum Records, a home that encouraged honesty over perfection. The record would quietly reach #45 on the Billboard 200, but its true legacy is in the way it feels: like a deep breath taken after years of restless movement. And right at its threshold sits “I Can Almost See It,” the song that opens the door not with a bang, but with a sigh.
From the first notes, you can tell this isn’t a song about new love—it’s about the afterglow that remains once love has already left the room. The guitars murmur softly, J.D. Souther’s playing steady as heartbeat, while Linda’s voice floats above it like a memory trying to stay. There is no orchestra, no grand design—only the hush of acceptance beginning to take shape. “I can almost see it, that dream I had before…” she sings, as if she’s standing just outside a memory, watching herself from a distance, almost—but not quite—ready to move on.
Her voice here is something extraordinary in its simplicity. She doesn’t reach for high notes or drama; she trusts the quiet. You can hear every breath, every small hesitation. The phrasing is tender, but beneath it lies a steel thread of strength. It’s as if she’s saying, yes, it hurt—but I’m still here. That’s what makes this song feel so intimate: she’s not trying to impress anyone, she’s simply being human.
“I Can Almost See It” sets the tone for everything that follows on Don’t Cry Now. It is the first soft light before the day begins, and it prepares you for the deeper storms ahead—“Love Has No Pride,” “Desperado,” “Silver Threads and Golden Needles.” This song teaches you how to listen to the rest: slowly, openly, without judgment. It whispers the truth that love, even when it ends, can leave behind a kind of quiet mercy.
There’s a warmth in this recording that feels unmistakably Californian—the air of Laurel Canyon evenings, the kind where the city hum fades and you can hear guitars from a neighbor’s porch. You can almost picture Linda there: eyes half-closed, hair brushed by a soft breeze, singing to no one and to everyone at once. It’s not a performance; it’s a conversation with time itself.
Looking back, it’s easy to see how prophetic that title is—I Can Almost See It. Linda was on the verge of becoming one of the defining voices of the 1970s, yet here she stood, humble and uncertain, tracing the outline of her future with a trembling hand. You can almost see what’s coming: the glory of Heart Like a Wheel, the triumphs, the endless tours. But this song belongs to the moment before all that—the quiet bravery of beginning again.
It’s a song for anyone who has stood at the edge of change, heart heavy, eyes clear. For anyone who has whispered to themselves, I can almost see it… but not yet. Because sometimes life doesn’t arrive all at once. Sometimes it comes slowly, like the tide—soft, deliberate, and full of understanding.
When the final note fades, you’re left with silence—not empty, but full of peace. Linda Ronstadt, with her velvet tone and unguarded honesty, has done what only the greatest singers can do: she’s turned uncertainty into comfort. “I Can Almost See It” doesn’t end with a resolution—it simply opens a window, lets the light in, and trusts that the listener will find their own way forward.
And perhaps that’s what makes it so haunting. It’s not just the beginning of an album—it’s the sound of someone finding the courage to look ahead, even while her heart is still looking back.