I’m writing a novel about a harpist, and there’s a touch of magic in it. Ok, maybe a bit more than a touch. But I believe in music as magic. Music has moved through me and left me changed.

So a few years ago, when I saw a class advertised as a sound bath, I signed up. And then, afraid I’d back out, I signed my husband up too.

“And what is it exactly?” Michael asked.

I didn’t know. The website was all dark swirling backgrounds and glittering stars with vague promises.

“She’ll guide us into expansion,” I said. “We’re going to shift into higher consciousness.” I paused. “And apparently, we’re going to enter the fifth dimension.”

He sighed. “Sounds like a long night.”

But Friday nights were mostly spent watching Tiny Houses, so we went.

Deep in the Amazon rainforest, there are plants the shamans search for. They lean in close and listen for the melodies hidden within. The plants offer their songs. Icaros, they’re called. Medicine melodies. I love the idea of reaching for a song to heal rather than Nyquil.

This place definitely wasn’t a rainforest. It was a small room at the top of a narrow staircase, heavy with heat. There were five folding chairs in a circle, and the smell of what I could only guess was burnt feathers.

“That’s the sage,” Celia said when I coughed. She wore a long flowing top painted in Monet’s water lilies. “It’s for clearing out negative energy and ushering in wisdom. We could all use wisdom.”

I smiled. A polite one, I hoped. I didn’t look at Michael in case we laughed. The woman next to me leaned over. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t sacrifice anyone tonight.”

You’d think someone who has felt the touch of magic would be the last skeptic in the room. But there I was, rolling my eyes at auras, keeping a wary distance from the long stick with feathers on the end. Even the crystal bowls disappointed me at first. I’d expected hammered brass, and these were frosted, like something you’d use for cool whip and jello.

Then she shut off the lights and rang one.

It sounded like a distant foghorn, like whales singing to each other. The soundwaves lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. My eyelids drifted down, something I never do in front of strangers. I can’t even close my eyes in a spin class. But I kept them closed when she walked behind me and rubbed a bowl inches from my head. I didn’t jump when she placed a vibrating tuning fork on top of my head. I didn’t even peek when she brushed the feathers against my cheek.

I play the piano and the harp. I’ve felt vibrations flow through me my whole life. But this wasn’t about hearing music. It was about feeling sound move through the body. I resisted it and still it moved through me.

I’m not sure my aura changed colors. I definitely did not find the fifth dimension Celia promised. I’m still not sure what that is. But peace washed over me, and for a brief moment, my mind, body, and spirit felt like one thing instead of three.

This is something Aisling, my character, knows. She would have understood this room better than I did. She wouldn’t just feel the magic of music, but create it for others.

I’ve already added a few crystal bowls to my collection of instruments. I doubt I’ll ever reach for one over Nyquil. But I am looking forward to playing my own medicine melody, along with discovering the many ways my character will use the magic of music in my novel.

And maybe even finding that fifth dimension.

Have you ever felt music move through you like that, as something more than sound? I’d love to know.

From between the notes,

Linda

THREE THINGS

What I’m Noticing: Fireflies. They make me feel like a child again, when you’d chase light floating in the air and then watch them twinkle in your cupped hands.

Listening: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys. Of course. Brian Wilson built the song around feeling unseen energy from another person. I understand that now.

Reading: Symphony of Secrets, by Brendan Slocumb. A mystery about a stolen musical legacy and a celebration of the power of music.

Oh, how I hate to fail. It’s been awhile since I’ve last posted, and the reason is tangled in a goal I made over a year ago in January. One I announced to everyone. One that scared me a little. Ok, a lot. I was going to write a book of essays - and finish that first draft in six months. I came close, I finished it in eight months. That part I could live with.

I gave myself a month off to clear my head. The only problem is that when it was time for me to start revising, I couldn’t find my motivation. Every morning, I’d open an essay and try to find my spark, but it wasn’t there.

But something else was.

An idea for a novel kept coming to me. I played around with it for a few weeks, but then reminded myself of how long it takes to write a novel, and how complicated it could be, and how hard it is to get it out into the world, so I convinced myself to push it aside and get back to my book of essays.

Only, I didn’t. I finally stopped arguing with myself and followed this spark of creativity. That’s the thing with creativity. It isn’t smart or logical. And definitely not practical. But oh, it was persistent, nudging at me no matter how hard I tried to resist.

I’ve learned through loss and my harp and all the times I’ve tried to force something that wasn’t ready, that listening to the whispers of my creativity feeds my soul. So I finally followed it, and started outlining a novel. I cleared my teaching schedule to focus on it. Then I changed the outline completely. And then again. At one point, it even turned into a retelling of an Ancient Greek myth. But every time I sat down to write, I imagined scenes in modern times, with my main character living on the edge of a forest.

And of course, she plays the harp.

I don’t know yet what it will fully become. It’s still in the becoming as I write this first draft. I write with my harp only inches away from me, so I’m not just playing with words, but with sound and color, and it makes me feel alive, like a child splashing paint onto the wall. It makes me believe in magic.

And that’s why I’ve changed the name of my newsletter to Between the Notes.

It’s named for something I’ve always believed — that there are moments and places that seem to shimmer and let in light from the world beyond ours, between the notes. I’ve found those places in loss, in music, in the early morning pages of a novel that whispers in my dreams, in a sign my son sends from beyond.

That’s what this newsletter is now. I’ll be here every few weeks or so with an essay from the in-between — the novel, the harp, the music that moves through me, and the ordinary moments that remind you magic is real.

From between the notes,

Linda

We said goodbye to Schnitzel a few days ago.

The funny thing is, we didn’t even want a dog. We brought him home only two weeks after our son Brendan died. It was my husband’s birthday, a celebration he had no desire to face. But we had two children who still wanted to make cards out of construction paper and glue and glitter. Lizzie was ten, Zack nearly thirteen, and we wanted to show them that life still went on.

So we bought a dog.

He was meant to be a distraction. It was Brendan who was home when Zack stepped off the school bus. Brendan who rode his scooter down the block every afternoon to meet Lizzie at the stop. Brendan who helped her with math homework while I taught piano in the basement. I imagined the dog filling in those spaces with Lizzie brushing his fur and Zack running circles around him on the front lawn.

But the truth is: we didn’t want him.

Oh, he was adorable. He was a caramel-colored Shih Tzu with long eyelashes and a talent for tucking himself into the crook of your neck. We named him Schnitzel after Brendan’s favorite food.

“I won’t be able to love him,” Michael said as he set the puppy down on our driveway. “I just can’t.” I nodded, because I believed the same thing. Our hearts were too broken to imagine opening again, even for a dog.

We were wrong.

Love builds. We think of it arriving in one big thunderclap, like when a newborn is placed in your arms. But sometimes love grows slowly in the quiet moments we don’t see coming. Maybe it was the reminder of the name. Brendan had discovered schnitzel the year before, from a food truck in New York City. He grinned when he bit into the salty crust, washing it down with a bacon potato salad bright with vinegar. He tracked the truck online, waiting for the day we’d return. He loved it so much he swiped our phones and changed all our screen names to “Schnitzel.”

We were so lost in those early months that we did a terrible job training the puppy. It was the wrong time to bring home chaos. The wrong time to teach commands or routines.

But in the end, he was the one who taught us.

He showed us we could love again, even with broken hearts. He showed us that the tiny moments mattered: the way he wagged his whole body, the way he carried a shoe in his mouth when he was excited to see us, the way he pranced on walks as if he were performing in some invisible dog show. The way he desperately wanted to play fetch but would never, ever drop the ball.

He taught us that we can hold sorrow and joy at the same time, that we could grieve and laugh at the same time. I like to think of him as a gift from Brendan, showing us that love is always worth the risk.

In the end, we would choose the pain of saying goodbye every time, because it means we got to love him. And that love is something we’ll always carry.

He’s with Brendan now, running and wagging his tail again. Maybe, he’s finally learning how to drop the ball.

The stone bench sits beneath a small weeping cherry tree, its branches trailing like ribbons. I used to imagine myself there in the mornings — notebook in hand, coffee steaming beside me, peace settling in with the sun shining on me.

Friends placed the bench there after my son died, a gift to honor Brendan. I thought it would become my sanctuary. It would be my place to sit with sorrow and find quiet again. It stood in the common area of our neighborhood, just a short walk from home. It was something I visited often while walking my dogs.

But the space wasn’t just mine. Others came and left empty cups and papers. My stomach twisted the day I saw that a neighbor had dumped a pile of white rocks around the bench, getting rid of leftovers from a landscaping project.

I wanted to avoid walking by it. Instead, I let go of my idea of what this place was supposed to be.

And that’s when something shifted.

I began noticing the little things left behind — a Lego figure balanced on the edge, a painted rock tucked beneath the tree, perhaps placed by children who imagined fairies living beneath its branches. At first I thought they were forgotten, but I soon realized these were offerings.

One day, I decided to join in. I carried over a stone from our firepit with the word hope etched in it. Later, I left pinecones and flowers. Every few weeks, I’d return to find a new surprise waiting — and I’d leave an answering gift behind.

It became something I hadn’t expected.

Only when I released what I thought the bench should be did I realize what it already was: not a private sanctuary, but a shared space of small gifts, given and received.

The bench taught me something I didn’t want to learn at first, that the places we cling to most tightly often only open to us when we loosen our grip. I could have avoided this spot. Instead, each time I walked by, I practicing letting go.

Sometimes, meaning arrives in ways we didn’t plan. And if we’re willing to notice differently, we might see that the gifts are already there.

I still visit. I still leave small offerings like a cluster of pinecones shaped into a heart or a smooth stone, the kind you want to carry in your pocket. Sometimes I find a gift waiting for me. It might take a few weeks or even a few months, but it comes. It’s always something simple like a crown of withered dandelions or a few leaves held in place by pebbles.

Each time, I’m reminded that the ordinary can be sacred.

And gifts can be found everywhere.

Thanks for being here. Writing stories like this helps me remember how the quietest places—benches, backyards, kitchen tables—can still hold something sacred. I hope my stories do that for you too, that they remind you of your own small gifts waiting to be seen.

There’s a gong in my husband’s office.

It started as a joke, really. I bought it on a whim years ago, to help him find just a little bit of peace amidst the stress of work. I’d meant it as a decoration. I even got him one of those little trays of sand, the kind you rake with swirls and scatter pebbles across. But it was the gong that turned into something. One day, when someone signed a new account, he walked over, struck the mallet against its brass face, and let the sound echo across the office.

Everyone laughed. But then it became a ritual.

After that, each time someone brought in new business, the mallet was raised again. The gong announced victory and a way to pause long enough to celebrate the moment. And they only struck the gong for a new account.

I loved the idea. But the gong itself was…well, a little disappointing. The tone was flat and short-lived. There was no resonance, no lingering of sound. Only a thunk, as if someone had shut a heavy door. I shivered with dread each time I heard it.

So one day, I replaced it.

I found a gong with a deeper, richer sound. It shimmered when struck, the vibrations spreading like ripples on a pond. Instead of disappearing in a second, the note lingered in the air, something you almost felt like you could touch.

The first time Michael struck it, I could feel it not just in my ears but in my chest. I stood in place, feeling the low hum that settled into me. The sound seemed to say: stay here a little longer.

Stay.

I think that’s the secret of gratitude. Not just the noticing, but the staying in place so the feeling could settle within.

We’re so quick to move on to the next task, the next email, the next fire to put out. Even when something good happens, we tend to celebrate it in passing, offering a quick Oh, that’s great, before rushing forward. But when you pause, when you let the moment resonate like a gong, it has a chance to sink in.

Gratitude is less about the big celebrations and more about extending the everyday ones. The first sip of hot coffee on a cold morning. The way my dog Schnitzel stretches in the sunlight that slants through the blinds in late afternoon. That first crisp Autumn morning when you reach for an oversized sweatshirt. These moments are small, but like the richer gong, they ask us to stop and let the moment linger.

Our brains are wired to notice problems more than pleasures. It’s good for survival, but it means we have to work to find the good. Gratitude rewires that bias, especially if we stay with the good long enough. It doesn’t take long, maybe ten or twenty extra seconds of paying attention. Enough time for the memory to move from just a fleeting moment into one that seeps inside your soul.

So extend those moments of pleasure. Sure, you could be like me and buy a gong for this (and a singing bowl and chimes and……) But you don’t need one. You have something even more important - your senses. Hunt for the details, the emotions, the sounds, the textures. Create a mini ritual that lets the moment shimmer and creates a small spark of celebration.

Gratitude is choosing to linger a little longer in the richness of now.

Let it sing.

How can you celebrate the moment a bit longer? Hit reply to this email and let me know.

Some songs sneak up on you. You hear them once on the radio and shrug, thinking Not for me. But then you keep hearing it (maybe because your daughter insists on playing it on loop), and suddenly, you’re tapping along, leaning in at the chorus, humming it the next day without even meaning to. It grows on you until you can’t remember the moment before it became part of you.

Other songs grab you by the throat the first time, when everything stops and you listen with your whole body. That’s what happened the first time I heard Sweet Sounds of Heaven. We’d just pulled into a parking lot to meet family for lunch when the song came on. I’m not sure if it was the bluesy piano riff, Mick’s raspy voice, or the way the drums beat inside my bones, but I leaned forward and knew we wouldn’t be getting out of the car.

Then Lady Gaga’s voice began, at first a gentle echo, but then, a swelling urgency. My feet began to stomp in time, and it still wasn’t enough.

“Drive,” I told Michael. “We need to drive.”

We drove for blocks, listening as voices swelled and lines like “you can’t have a light without a little shadow” and “let the old still believe that they’re young” washed over us. When the song ended, it wasn’t enough; I hit the back button and played it again. It’s over seven minutes long, but every minute feels worth it.

I was even more blown away when I learned afterwards, that Lady Gaga’s role in the song was not planned. She’d been in the recording studio a few doors down from where the Stones were recording. Mick asked her to listen to the song and “do her thing.” And so she sat down near the speaker, feeling the music pulse through her body. She listened a few times, scribbling notes, learning the melody, feeling its power. And then she began to sing, gently at first, weaving her voice around Mick’s, but then its power grew and became a force.

The Stones loved it so much they asked her to come back the next day and record it for real. They recorded it live, and oh, you can feel its energy. It turned into a version that grabs hold of you right away, the kind that makes you want to lean in and listen with your whole body.

Songs teach us how to pay attention. They remind us that creativity is partly about waiting — listening and writing down details, letting ideas unfold. But it’s also about making room for surprises and being open to changing what you thought you were making. And that sometimes you need to release old expectations and embrace something new.

It’s a lesson we can all use in life.

So hunt for the songs that slip inside you, the ones that make you sit up and pay attention, the ones that make you lean in and listen with your whole body. Let the lyrics wash over you and make room for that creative spark to flare to life.

A Story to Remember Class starts soon - a writing journey that blends music, meditation, and guided prompts to help you find and shape one meaningful personal story.

Learn More

Listen to the song below and then tell me what song has slipped inside of you lately? And did it inspire you to take a creative risk?

Let me know (I read every email)…Just hit reply or comment below.

I was so unprepared to teach kindergarten.

Oh, I knew how to teach math and phonics and science. But I was clueless when it came to classroom management. I didn’t know what to do about the shoving matches over who got to be line leader, the constant trips to sharpen already-sharpened pencils, or the impossibility of getting thirty five-year-olds to turn to the same page at the same time.

And then there was Willie, a five-year-old boy with hair flopping into his eyes and sneakers always untied, with a grin that was part adventure, part trouble.

I figured out systems for most of the chaos, but Willie was a special challenge. He was the child who questioned everything, who stirred up fights, who slipped out of the classroom when I wasn’t looking. Once, he even managed to escape the building. I thought he was in the bathroom but then looked out the window and found him casually waving at me from the street below.

Nothing worked. Not time-outs, not trips to the principal’s office, not notes sent home.

Until I discovered that Willie was captivated by stories.

So I began weaving stories into everything — into our math lessons, our science experiments, even lining up to go into the hallway. And slowly, Willie began to listen along with the rest of the class. I wanted to tap into this magical power and decided to have them create their own stories.

That’s when I came up with the idea for word books. I spent hours preparing them.

I walked around the classroom handing each child a present, wrapped in shiny paper. They tore off the wrapping with delight. Inside was a blank book — their very own word book.

“Teacher, it’s blank!” Willie called out.

“That’s because we’re going to fill it with your own words,” I told them. “Not mine, not the ones on the wall.” I pointed to our chart of sight words listing and, the, cat. Important words, but not exactly captivating ones. “This is different.”

At first, they weren’t sure what to do with the books. I set up centers around the room to spark ideas: blocks for building, puppets for acting out stories, clay for rolling shapes, and magnifying glasses for exploring hidden worlds. They began to play, sparking their imaginations. Slowly, they started coming to me, one by one.

“I want the word rollercoaster.”
“Can I have Buzz Lightyear?”
“How do you spell cicada?”

Some shouted their words, too excited to keep them in. Others leaned close and whispered in my ear. But each day, they all wanted a word.

The words they chose went far beyond their reading level, but they were alive with meaning. They were words that mattered to them. Words that were theirs.

I’d write each word down and watch their eyes widen, as if I’d just handed them magic. And then they played with their word. They traced the letters with their fingers. They bent pipe cleaners into the shapes of each letter. They spelled their words out loud while bouncing a ball (that center was inspired by Willie, who needed to move, move, move). They wrote them in glue and sprinkled powdered jello on top so they could feel and smell their words.

They put their words into their bodies and into their senses.

And then they’d sit and write a sentence or two, a tiny story - a mix of memory and imagination. When it came time to share, even the most hesitant reader stood tall, proud to speak the words that belonged to them, their very own words.

It was magic.

This is what writing is all about. Finding the words that belong to us.

As adults, it’s easy to forget the magic of words. We focus on getting them right, arranging them neatly, or putting them into polished paragraphs. We forget to stop and savor a single word. To let it sparkle in our hands. To play.

Words are not just tools. They can be felt and savored and collected like treasures.

So why not start your own word collection?

Here are a few ways I collect words.

Word Notebook

Keep a small notebook just for words that catch your eye or ear. Keep it in your bag to pull out when you have a chance to write down a word or two. Or, if you’re like me and lose notebooks all the time, keep it on your nightstand, close to any books you’re reading. Or use your phone and collect them in a notes file.

Thematic Lists

I love lists because they feel like a fun challenge, like doing spelling bee or word hurdle. Choose a theme for the week — rain, light, taste, movement — and list as many words as you can find to match. Think outside of the box here. Not just drips and puddles for rain, but rainbow holders and cloud’s tears and tiny mirrors.

Word Jar

Write single words on slips of paper and drop them into a jar. Pull one out when you need a spark. I always try to make things fancy with washi tape and colored stock, but then that triggers my perfectionism, so I usually stick with cut up manilla folders and a Sharpie. Do what works for you.

That day in kindergarten, Willie - and really, the rest of my class - taught me something. It wasn’t discipline or management or order that reached them. It was stories and giving them the chance to claim a word, their very own word.

That’s still where the magic is.

So start collecting. Build your own word bank. Let your words be messy, playful, personal. And when you return to the page, see which ones shine. Maybe they’ll turn into a story, maybe just a spark. But either way, you’ll have found the words that belong to you.

If you’d like more ways to spark memories and discover the words that belong to you, download The Memory Table—a free guide filled with prompts organized by everyday themes. It’s an easy way to begin building your own collection of stories.

[Download The Memory Table]

And if you’re ready to go deeper, I’d love to invite you into A Story to Remember—a 7-week live class where we’ll write in community. Together, we’ll uncover the stories that linger, and shape them into something lasting. It’s about finding the words and stories that are yours, and letting them shine.

[Join A Story to Remember]

I’m sitting at my desk, books and notes scattered across my table, listening to the snores of my dog, Schnitzel. That’s when I hear the buzz of my phone with a text flashing on the screen from my daughter. She didn’t write much.

Just a link with three words:

“Listen to it.”

There were no explanation, no cute emojis.

I glance at my list of things to do, but I clicked because I know Lizzie. I know that when she sends me a song - especially one with a voice like Lauren Spencer Smith’s, full of soul and quiet ache - it means something to her. Something that touched her heart.

I know right away what it was. I’m drawn in by the piano, but, oh, those opening lyrics punched me in my heart:

“I said goodbye at fifteen and I didn’t know it meant / I’d be crying in my twenties still not knowing where you went…”

Lizzie wasn’t fifteen when her brother died; she was only ten. But Brendan was fifteen. The lyrics didn’t quite match, but somehow, they still fit. That’s the way music and words work. They’re not always a perfect mirror reflecting back your emotions and situation. But you still find yourself in the words, because they’re a doorway to your own story.

Something in the song made her feel seen, even if the math didn’t line up.

Because that’s what music does. It meets us where we are—even when the details don’t match. It gives shape to the feelings we don’t know how to name. Swimming in sad songs helps us release a bit of the sorrow, while wrapping us up in memory and meaning.

If you’ve ever found yourself replaying a song that breaks your heart just a little…
If you’ve ever felt more understood by a lyric than a conversation…
If you’ve ever kept a playlist for moments when you just need to feel something...

You're not alone.

There’s healing in the music we return to. It’s why I have dozens of playlists—and why, in my classes, I use the harp, the piano, and even sound-healing instruments to stir memory, soothe emotion, and open a little more space inside. I don’t teach music; I use sound as a way in. Because sound, like story, can soften us into remembering.

And this is also why we need stories. Stories work the same way songs do—they don’t have to line up detail for detail to make us feel known. A story can become a container that carries your memory, your ache, your wonder—and sets it down where someone else can hold it too.

If you’re ready to take it further, to shape the stories that linger, my next class is now open for registration. A Story to Remember—a guided writing class where we take memory and meaning and turn them into stories you can hold.

Because the story we write reminds us we’re not alone.

If you’re ready to keep playing with words, I’d love to guide you. A Story to Remember is a 7-week writing journey where we practice slowing down, listening deeply, and shaping the stories that matter most. You don’t need to be a “writer.” You just need a willingness to explore, to improvise, to let your memories and imagination meet on the page.

And if you’d like a place to begin, download

The Memory Table— a free guide with prompts organized by everyday themes (meals, objects, songs, gifts) to help you spark the stories waiting inside you.

Early bird bonus: Register by tonight (9/16) and after the 7-week class, you can submit your story to me for personalized written feedback.

With rhythm and reflection,

Linda

This is Zen and the Pen, from Linda Broder, where I help writers slow down, play with words, and listen to the stories within.

Today I’m writing about improvising at the piano and on the page:

I sat at the piano, staring at the keys, my fingers shaking, wondering why I signed up for this class. Just play something. Anything, the teacher said. I’d been classically trained and could play almost any music set before me. But now I was being asked to improvise and create a song without black notes on a page telling me what to play. I was lost.

The teacher made it look easy. Her hands swirled across the keyboard, playing melodies in the moment, talking as she played. It looked like magic as she pulled music from the air, creating something out of nothing. I wanted that.

So I pushed myself out of my comfort zone. I kept coming back to this class and learned that improvisation isn’t about creating from nothing. It’s about creating from something - the scales practiced until they live in your fingers, the chords you can play without thinking, the rhythms that pulse within your bones. It’s not about pulling notes from thin air. It’s about listening and responding and mixing together what you already know in new ways.

The magic is built on craft.

Writing is the same way. When I first began, I thought good writers could sit at a blank page and spin words into story. I couldn’t do that. My first drafts were spectacularly bad, a mishmash of images and fragmented sentences and ideas that went nowhere. But I kept coming back because I knew writing is a skill like playing piano, something that could be practiced. I could play with the rhythms of words and how to show feelings without naming them. I could read and listen to the song-like sounds of poetry. I could sketch onto my page sentences describing images in new ways. And slowly, I could learn how to weave it all together into a story.

You don’t always know where you’re going in writing, but still I start. I write a clunky draft that’s filled with mistakes, but I move through them because I know now they’re part of the process. It needs to get out of me in a messy, awkward way. And then, I lean in and listen for what feels right. I shift words, move a sentence, scratch out others and play, play, play until the draft begins to flow like music.

Music and writing have taught me the same thing: what feels like magic is really building blocks we can all learn. Building blocks that are meant to be played with with twists, variations, color. Scales become solos like drafts become stories. And practice and play become part of the process. I stumble. Lots. But then, I discover and repeat. I try something new. Sometimes it lands. Most times, it doesn’t. But I keep listening and moving forward.

So now, whether in piano, or page, I don’t expect magic to pour out of me. Sometimes, I wish it did. But I’ve learned to lean into what I know, to listen for what surprises me and to explore discoveries. And oh, when that sentence makes me hold my breath and I feel its resonance echo inside me? Well, that feels like magic.

Keep on playing.

If you’re ready to keep playing with words, I’d love to guide you.

That’s why I created A Story to Remember — a 7-week writing journey where we practice slowing down, listening deeply, and shaping the stories that matter most. You don’t need to be a “writer.” You just need a willingness to explore, to improvise, to let your memories and imagination meet on the page.

And if you’d like a place to begin, download The Memory Table — a free guide with prompts organized by everyday themes (meals, objects, songs, gifts) to help you spark the stories waiting inside you.

Registration for A Story to Remember is open now. But first: a story!

It was a month before the piano recital when I told Amy it was time to turn her song into a story. She was a new student and already knew the notes and rhythm, but her eyes widened with panic.

Then we began. I played her song and asked her not just to listen, but to feel. Where did she sense the low, rumbling notes? The scattering of high notes? Were they light or heavy? Did they make her want to sway, lean in, or sit up in surprise?

Once the music was in her body, we began to hunt for images. A bird soaring above. A jaguar sprinting through the field. A tree swaying in the forest while the wind whispered through the leaves. We turned the dots her mind understood into something her heart could feel.

Music is so much more than notes and rhythm. It pulses with emotion and images. It’s a story.

That’s why I turned half my studio into activity stations where students could explore the story inside their music. On a tabletop easel, a rainbow of watercolors waited so they could paint over a copy of their sheet music, adding color to show their story. At another table, pencils and paper offered space for pictures and simple symbols—zigzags, spirals, swirls. Some wrote their stories in words, weaving images into a plot.

Amy left my studio with more than notes. She left with a story that made sense to her, one that was filled with meaning.

And just like my students, I’ve learned that stories aren’t only found in music. They live in the tiny flashes of our everyday lives.

For me, it’s not just my daughter at five, slurping noodles while watching Beauty and the Beast. It’s the reminder that time moves so quickly. It’s not just Zack laughing after jazz band practice, saying, “I don’t think I played more than two right notes.” It’s me learning to laugh off mistakes and choose connection over perfection. It’s not just Brendan at 14, asking for a crockpot so he could wake up to the smell of roasting meat. It’s me learning to savor life with all my senses.

These are ordinary stories, the tiny flashes of life. But when I linger with them, when I add imagery, metaphor, and reflection, they shift. They shimmer.

That is the magic of story. It’s like turning straw into gold. A story becomes a thread you can follow, a moment of meaning you can hold in your hands. It’s no longer just a memory. It’s a way of making sense, of finding beauty, of remembering who you are.

This is what we’ll do together in A Story to Remember. We’ll take the tiny moments tucked inside you and give them shape, color, and voice. You don’t need to know where to begin. You just need a memory. From there, we’ll layer, spin, and discover.

Because your story is more than a story — it’s meaning, connection, and magic waiting to be shared.

Early bird bonus: If you register for A Story to Remember before September 9th, you’ll receive a special bonus: personalized written feedback on one essay (up to 1,500 words).

With rhythm and reflection,

Linda

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I’d go to BJ’s and buy cardboard boxes full of chocolate bars, stacking them in my cart like treasure. They were oversized, the kind of candy you couldn’t miss. At the checkout line, people would sometimes glance over, eyebrows raised, wondering if I were hoarding sweets for my family? But I had a different plan. Each Friday at drama camp, those bars became trophies.

We’d gather in a circle at the end of the week for our simple award ceremony. The kids would sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor, legs twitching with anticipation, wrappers rustling in their imaginations before I even opened the box.

It was easy to spot the confident kids—the ones who drew the spotlight without trying. They stood in the middle of the stage, spread their arms wide, and belted songs with no hesitation. Everyone leaned in, drawn to their spark.

But my eyes were also searching for the others. The child in the corner, quiet at first, lips twitching in the smallest smile while everyone else laughed out loud. The one who scribbled lines in the margins instead of standing in the light.

And then there was Ellen, who barely spoke above a whisper. The first week of awards, she disappeared into the bathroom. I imagine she thought I wouldn’t notice, or maybe she wanted to skip the whole scene. But I was waiting for her. Because I was once that shy, quiet child who shrank from the spotlight.

I’d invented categories so everyone could be seen: Best Listener, The One Who Shared Snacks, The Margin Note-Taker. For her, I created Best Whisperer.

It might sound like something small—but not during a play. Not when someone forgot a line, and she was there, steady and ready, whispering the words so the show could go on. She chose the wings over the stage, but the play only worked because she was waiting and watching, her finger tracing each line in the script.

When I called her name and tossed the bar, she caught it, clutching it tightly. While the others ripped into their chocolate right away, she didn’t unwrap hers. She held it close for a moment and then smiled while she tucked it in her backpack to savor for later.

That moment has stayed with me.

We spend so much energy chasing the sparkly milestones—the vacations that look good in photos, the house that proves we’ve made it, the job title that shines on a résumé. But life is built from smaller, quieter moments.

It’s the dog leaping into your arms when you walk through the door. Or rolling out dumplings until the ginger and garlic are the perfect balance. That small ping when you land a tricky word in Spelling Bee. Or yes, even a whispered line, offered at just the right moment, so the story can keep moving.

Those are the true awards.

Collect them. Celebrate them. Hold them like mini-Oscars—and savor those little victories.

And maybe, reward yourself with chocolate.

I’m not a gardener. By August most years, I’ve wilted every good intention. I ask my mother for advice and buy the hopeful things—herbs, a flowering something because the tag says “easy”—and then the heat arrives, and so does real life. I forget to water. Or I overwater. By late summer there’s a row of plants withering in the heat.

But this year was different: I remembered. Not perfectly—nowhere close. But most days I watered and watched plants sprout and bloom. Two things helped. First, I made it practical: instead of tiny terracotta pots, I built three raised beds that could stand up to the heat.

Then I made it meaningful.

One bed became a culinary garden for my chef daughter, Lizzie—basil, thyme, rosemary perfuming my hands each time I watered. The second I turned into a moonlight garden for Zack and his fiancée, Hailley—white blooms that catch the dusk and glow like little moons. The third I planted in honor of Brendan—a palette of color that beckoned butterflies. I’d linger with my hose, watching the beauty of wings dance on the drops of water.

And then there was the hibiscus.

It lived alone in a pot and often folded in on itself, tired at the edges, withered by heat. I watered and waited, telling myself not to expect much. Then one morning I gasped. Overnight, huge pink blooms opened to the light.

But of course, it wasn’t overnight. It was roots doing their slow work. It was buds swelling with promise. All of it happening beneath the surface, a quiet inching forward.

I’ve been thinking about my life the same way. Some seasons don’t look like progress filled with goals achieved. Instead, they look like soil work. No fireworks, just the steady business of roots and the patience to stay. The bloom that made me gasp didn’t arrive by luck—it came through care.

Fall is coming. Nights will cool, light will shift, the garden will need something different. So will I. But I’ll keep showing up, remembering that morning when a closed thing opened. It wasn’t sudden. It grew through meaning and care. And it reminds me that what looks like nothing is often everything, working its way toward a bloom I can’t yet see.

There are moments that shimmer — between the notes of a song, between the lines of a story, between grief and whatever comes after it.

I’m Linda Broder, writer and harpist. I lost my fifteen-year-old son Brendan and found my way back through words and music. I found a lifeline in words. Writing gave shape to my grief, my love, and eventually, my path forward.

But some emotions move beyond words.

I began to dream of the harp before I ever touched one—waking with my fingers tingling, as if they’d been plucking invisible strings in my sleep. When I finally followed that dream, the harp became a bridge to something deeper, a place between the notes, a bridge between worlds where love and light come through.

I published a memoir on finding my son again through the harp. Now I’m writing a novel about a woman whose gift for healing others through music comes with an unexpected cost.

Every few weeks I write from the in-between: the novel, the harp, wonder, and the ordinary moments that remind you magic is real.

If you’ve ever felt that music or story stirred something inside of you that goes beyond logic, welcome! That’s exactly what I write about.

I’m so glad you’re here.

—Linda

This past weekend would have been Brendan’s 28th birthday.

We lost him far too soon—but every year, this day becomes a quiet invitation to remember. We always mark it with a favorite meal of his—and there are so many to choose from, each one a memory in disguise. A way to gather around a table and feel like he’s still part of the conversation.

But I also try to listen—for the small signs, the quiet nudges, the unexpected gifts. And over the years, I’ve learned: they don’t shout. They whisper. You just have to be paying attention.

This year, I wanted to share a story I’ve told before. One that reminds me he’s still a part of the rhythm of our lives.

It’s about a sign, one we didn’t expect to see.

But that reminded us—once again—that even with something missing, love still finds a way in:

A few years after he died, we went back to Cape May on Brendan’s birthday.

Cape May had been our last vacation with him—the kind of trip where nothing special happened, and somehow everything did.

We went back trying to recreate those memories. We had breakfast at the same corner diner, our plates piled high with fluffy Dutch Baby Pancakes topped with caramelized apples. We rode bikes to the lighthouse and climbed the stairs until our legs burned. We walked the beach and listened for his laugh in the rhythm of the waves and the call of the birds above us. But the memories felt hollow. I kept waiting to feel him, not just the echo of memories, but a flicker of presence. That sense he was right by my side.

And then we saw him. Not Brendan, but the dog.

He was sitting out front of the Rusty Nail restaurant, his tail wagging in time to the people walking by. He seemed content to sit there, grounded in the moment, even as Michael moved towards him, his hands stretched out. “Can I pet him?” he asked the owners.

“Of course,” the woman said. “He’s like a magnet. People just love him. They always stop.”

He let Michael pet his head and leaned in like he knew us. Michael couldn’t stop petting him. His hand lingered longer than usual, his face softer. He’s always loved dogs—but this was different. I could feel it in the way my chest tightened, just slightly. The way time seemed to still around us.

This wasn’t just a dog, but a moment.

Because this dog had only three legs.

Michael and I smiled at each other, knowing this was the reason why we came to Cape May. This was what we’d been searching for. Because we’d seen this dog before.

Not this exact dog, of course. But... him.

In Madison Square Park, just weeks after Brendan died, Michael had escaped from his office and found himself on a bench near the hot dog cart—the same one he and Brendan used to visit. Because hot dogs overflowing with sauerkraut tasted better outdoors.

But today, Michael was alone, thinking about how far the family business had come. He’d just landed an important account, one he’d been working on in the months before. And suddenly, it had all felt meaningless.

“Who cares?” he’d thought. “What’s the point of any of it now?”

A squirrel had hopped onto the bench beside him, watching him with wide, waiting eyes. And Michael knew this was more than a squirrel. He felt a presence. Brendan.

“I thought maybe that was what I came for,” he told me. “That stillness. That sense he was near.”

He almost turned to leave. But then came the dog. The dog was panting, his tongue rolling out as he trotted by. He was practically dancing as he moved across the park.

“And I remember thinking—God, I wish I could feel that way. That light and free, filled with joy. I want to dance, but I know I never will,” Michael said. “And then he passed me. That’s when I saw it”

He had tears in his eyes. “This dog? He only had three legs.”

Oh, we talked about that dog for years. It became our metaphor, our way of finding meaning. We are the three-legged dog.

We’ve had a limb torn away. It will never grow back. But we can still move forward. Still find joy. Still dance.

That image became a kind of guidepost. A way to carry both sorrow and hope at the same time. And we were lucky enough to get reminders along the way.

One time Michael stood in line at the bank and overheard the woman behind him talking about her pet rabbit. “She’s amazing,” the woman said. “Three legs, but nothing slows her down.”

When we were growing the business into Philadelphia, walking past the building we were considering leasing, there was a dog crossing the street, with that same joyful dance. Three legs.

And now, in Cape May, on Brendan’s birthday, he’d come back.

Outside a restaurant—of course. Food was always part of how we found Brendan. In the chili and sauerkraut hot dogs that Brendan christened BMB after his initials. In his nachos, cheese melted over tortilla chips and sprinkled with slices of salami, the ones he’d named Victory Nachos because he’d finally perfected his recipe. In the way he loved sitting down at a table, surrounded by the people he loved.

When he was thirteen, he was packing for a weekend camping trip with his friends. Right before he left, he handed me a folded slip of paper. I thought—maybe it’s a note? Something sweet? A joke?

But when I opened it, it was a list of restaurants.

“What’s this?” I asked, smiling.

“Places you and Dad can’t go while I’m gone.”

I laughed. “Well, if we do, we’ll bring you some leftovers.”

He shook his head, totally serious. “Nope. I need to be there. I need to experience it with you guys.”

He wouldn’t leave until I promised him. Even made me swear on my heart that we wouldn’t go to any of those restaurants. That’s how much food meant to him. Not just the taste.

The togetherness.

And now, standing outside the Rusty Nail, waiting to devour buckets of garlicky clams and cheesy nachos, I felt Brendan’s presence as we petted this three-legged dog. We’d looked for him that day—in the ocean, in the old vacation rituals, in the meals that used to bring us joy. I’d felt hollow and couldn’t seem to find him.

But he found us instead.

In a three-legged dog, reminding us, again, that you can be broken and still be happy. And even in the sorrow, we can still find a way to be filled with light. And that love will always find a way to show up.

This story lives with me.

Not just on Brendan’s birthday, but each time I sit down to write a story or help others do the same.

It’s the heart of what I do. Writing not to fix—but to feel and find the beauty in what’s still here.

And to remember we can still dance.

I call it the bugaboo, a section of a song that was tricky, the place where a piano student might stumble. I had all sorts of practice techniques to conquer this part. They played the section in many different ways - backing up a note, playing in the dark, using the different voices of the digital piano and playing with different dynamics. It worked, but often, during a recital performance, something interesting would happen. Not during the actual section, though. As they approached the tricky section, their focus sharpened and they’d sail right through, playing it perfectly. And then they’d make a mistake on the easy part. Why? Because in the rush of success, they let go of their focus. It’s the same for us in life. Too often, we allow distractions to pull us away from the present moment. And that’s when stumbles slip us up.

The poet, Mary Oliver writes in her “Instruction for Living a Life,” about three things you must do to have a life filled with purpose and meaning. Pay Attention Be Astonished Tell About it This week, we’re highlighting the first part - learning how to pay attention. Paying attention to the wonders all around us opens the door to deeper understanding, appreciation and connection to both our outer and inner worlds.

Here are a few ways you can slow down and learn how to pay attention.

Mindfulness

Practice mindfulness meditation to cultivate awareness of the present moment and learn how to calm your mind’s chatter. When you notice something that seems to shimmer like the hazy glow around a moon or the smell of coffee dripping into a mug -  stop for a few moments and try to focus only on that present moment.

Embrace Silence

Allow yourself moments of quiet contemplation - without music or tv or the phone. Take a few minutes of silence to tune into your inner thoughts and the world around you. When you stop to pay attention, you learn to listen to the whispers of your soul.

Slow Motion

Imagine yourself moving in slow motion, almost as if you’re wading through water, feeling your arms and legs float. The other day I noticed the knob on my light and how the ridges reflected rays of light and sparkled like stars. When we hurry, we often rush past the little things that feed your soul.

Breath

When you notice something - whether it’s the colors of a sunset painting the sky or the way dandelions shiver in the wind or the beginning of a tree bud unfurling its leaves. It helps to close your eyes. Slow down your breath, inhale to the count of 5, exhale to the count of 5. Imagine yourself breathing in and breathing out what you’ve noticed.

Draw

We often do this in my classes and I make it very clear that I’m not an artist. But I  often sketch something that has snagged my attention. I’ll take a picture of it, and then zoom in and draw the lines and shapes and shadows. I’ll notice details, like the rust bleeding on a door hinge or the way the front of a car looks like a face with its headlights as eyes. My drawings rarely look like the picture, but slowing down to put it on paper allows me to notice tiny details I might have missed.

Think of paying attention as in invitation - a call to awaken to the fullness of life and all of its mysteries and marvels. When we pay attention we discover not only the world around us, but the depths of our own hearts.

When my sons were 12 and 10, they wagered a bet with each other. I no longer remember what they bet on, but the prizes were big. If Brendan won, Zack had to be his butler for a month. He’d need to do his chores, bring him unlimited fruit snacks and make him limeades, not the kind that came from a can. He’d need to squeeze fresh limes into a tall glass filled with ice, water and sugar. If Zack won, Brendan agreed to give him his Nintendo game system, the one he rarely shared with his brother.

It was a big deal. Brendan even typed it up and they each signed it with a flourish. 

A few days later, Brendan lost the bet, but when Zack came to collect, Brendan simply shrugged and said the contract was invalid. Zack screamed, but then Brendan pointed to their signatures at the bottom of the page. “See,” he said, “that doesn’t say Brendan.”

Brendan had deliberately spelled his name wrong on both the printed version and his signature. “I’m not Brendon Border,” he said with a smug smile.

Zack bent over the paper and then admitted defeat, his shoulders slumped. He was upset that his brother had tricked him, but he couldn’t argue over a wrong name. As a parent, I was grateful that I had a reason to declare the bet invalid. Neither one argued; they both believed in the power of names.

What does your name mean to you? 

I took a workshop once where the teacher recommended writing out your goals and listing each step needed in order to get to that goal. When we were finished she had us sign our name at the bottom of the paper, a kind of contract we were making to ourselves.

I don’t do it often. I did it when I started learning how to play the harp, writing down technique goals and a list of songs I wanted to learn. And when I started writing my memoir, I was overwhelmed by the project and so I made a list of smaller goals. I signed my name to each goal and that made my commitment stronger. Each time I saw my name written under the goal, it made me work harder so I could keep my promise to myself.

Do you have a goal? It could be a small one, like reading 10 minutes a day or starting a new hobby that feeds your creativity like gardening. Or it could be a big one like writing a book or finding a new job. 

Are you willing to write it down and then sign your name to it? You  might be surprised by the power of your name and how it can strengthen your commitment.

Write your name on a goal. Take a risk and bet on yourself!