I got the news that Nora had died one night in early September of my Sophomore year in college. 

Nora was one of the first people I met when I moved to New York. She was a performance studies professor at my program at NYU. Nora was one of those people whose presence was felt immediately upon entering any room. In all of my conversations with her, I was always amazed by her generosity of spirit and her dedication to the education and growth of her students. She carried herself with such conviction and grace. 

Then Nora got cancer. I saw her less and less around campus, but continued to receive emails from her, sent to all of us students to reassure us that everything would be fine and that she was going to fight this terrible disease with all her might and return to school before too long, stronger than ever. She never did.

A week or so after she passed, I was writing with my friend Khaya Cohen, another NYU student who had known Nora, and we were still shaken by the loss of such a strong and positive force that we kept coming up empty. Eventually our conversation turned to remembrance, and Khaya read aloud Nora’s final email. In it, she said that “no matter what life throws at you, remember to smile and remember to dance.”

Khaya and I were both so moved by that last remark that we shared with each other some of the happiest moments of our lives, the joyous occasions we would always remember in even the darkest of times. For me, that moment occurred when I was eight years old — I’d saved up every dollar, quarter, nickel, dime, or penny that I could find so that I could buy myself my first guitar. After over a year, my mom drove me to Maple Street Guitars, a local guitar shop in my hometown, and I spent nearly an hour with the store owner counting every coin on the counter. Next thing I knew, I was holding my beloved Alvarez MSD1, a children’s sized guitar that would soon become my closest friend and lifelong companion. I still have it to this day. 

Khaya and I finished that song and called it “Remember To Dance.” I couldn’t sing it straight through without tearing up, so I neglected it for awhile and avoided performing it in my shows. The handwritten lyrics sat in my desk drawer and quickly got covered up with pages upon pages of newer songs.

Over a year later, I was in Nashville on winter vacation and spending time with one of my personal heroes and mentors, country singer, songwriter and guitarist Vince Gill. He invited me to attend his songwriters round that evening at the Bluebird Cafe, a benefit concert for Alive Hospice which also featured Amy Grant and Don Schlitz. I said yes, of course.

At the Bluebird, I sat directly across from Vince at a front row table. It was only the second time I’d been in the Bluebird, and the first that I’d been there to see a songwriters round. I studied my surroundings, observing the countless photographs of all the legends who’d played in that small room in the past. I hoped that maybe one day, if I was lucky, I too might have the opportunity to share my music in that special place. I never would have expected what happened next.

Vince had just finished performing a song of his called “This Old Guitar and Me,” and after the applause had died down he introduced me to the audience and invited me to join in the round and perform a song of my own. I could barely walk the five feet from my chair to the circle, but adrenaline quickly kicked in. Vince handed me his guitar, I strummed a few chords, and then, almost instinctively, I performed “Remember To Dance.” 

A few months later, Erika Nichols, the Chief Operating Officer of the Bluebird Cafe contacted me to inform me that the songwriters round that I’d been a part of had been filmed to be used in an upcoming documentary about the Bluebird. She wanted me to know the she and the director had decided to include my performance of “Remember To Dance” in the final cut. I could barely believe it. Watching it for the first time at the official premier this past March at the South By Southwest film festival, I felt such an overwhelming sense of honor to share the screen with so many legends and so many of my personal heroes. But beyond all, I was proud that of all the songs I’d written, “Remember To Dance” was the one that I was singing.

Just a couple of weeks ago, Vince invited me to come with him to the Grand Ole Opry, perhaps the most prestigious of all stages in country music. I’d been backstage several times before over the years, but every time I stepped foot in that place I always felt the same overwhelming sense of honor and awe. I stood at the side of that stage, dreaming that maybe one day I’d get to sing a song of my own in that hallowed hall. Next thing I knew, Vince introduced me to the crowd and called me up to the stage to sing a song of my own and make my Grand Ole Opry debut. And again, almost instinctively, “Remember To Dance” was the song I played.

When I set out to record “Remember To Dance” a few months ago, my primary goal was to do the song, and the story, the justice I felt it deserved. I kept the production simple, driven by the acoustic guitar, the way it was written. And to bring the story full circle, I was honored to have had Vince Gill sing the harmony and duet part on the final recording. 

Songs really do have lives of their own, and it’s hard to predict what they’ll do, who they’ll connect with, or how they’ll make people feel. I’m grateful to have written this song that’s brought a lot of peace to a lot people. And each and every time I play it, I’m honored to be able to dedicate it to Nora.