Rocking chairs on a roof top with a sunset in the sky

June 2026 Quote: Find the Love That Remains…

Posted on by Emily Oehler1 Comment on June 2026 Quote: Find the Love That Remains…

As I set up my calendar for the month, I chose a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it where I write phrases I hear or read that month that spark something in me. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For June 2026, my quote was, “Find the love that remains, and follow it forward into all the life that is to come.”

As a sit here to write, not knowing where to begin, the phrase that arose is “love is hard.” Maybe love is easy, it’s kindness that is hard. Whatever the sentiment, what I feel is a thick air of sludge. That the presence of a weariness and forlorn is pungent in the air. As a practical optimist, this is hard for me to acknowledge and weary to feel.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month:

  • Cover me in sunshine
  • Pull a thread here and you’ll find it’s attached to the rest of the world
  • One journey can quietly rearrange your entire inner world
  • Let them go—gracefully, clearly, and with love
  • When the sacred path opens
  • The wild wants your soul back
  • Companionship is everything
  • I can ask for what I need
  • There is only moving with – an integration of all that has come before, and all you have been asked to live
  • Wild ideas are welcome
  • May joy, meaning, and hope arrive to join you along the way

In my training to become a certified grief guide, we each took an assessment. Mine revealed I was a “hearth holder.” The description noted a hearth holder stays steady when things get real; offers warmth, bravery, and unwavering support; offers presence where truth can be spoken; is both a lion heart and a holy well—bold and nourishing all at once. And it offered this phrase as a mantra: “I will stay with you, even here.”

Here in loss. Here in dread. Here in uncertainty. Here in frustration. Here in overwhelm. Here at the ravine between now and next, fear and possibility. Even here, because here is where the heart is.

A part of knowing my sturdiness in complex situations, is to understand that I too, need support and must sit and regroup in a nourishing community.

Today, John Roedel, a poet whose writing retreat I attended 2 years ago, posted these words… a balm as I sit “even here” amidst so many things both mine and others:

“You are somebody’s front porch to God. You are someone’s doorway to mercy.

You are the threshold to kindness. You are my entrance to letting go of regret.

No pressure but…

Your life is a gateway to peace for both strangers and friends alike.

Whether you realize it or not… empathy has chosen you to turn your heart into a welcome mat for others.

This is purpose of your life… to let your existence become a candlelight veranda to hope for the rest of us to gather on during the long night.”

So, “I will stay with you, even here” as whisps of heart break float through the breeze and together we’ll conspire for love, welcome the weary, and plant kindness.

Together, we’ll unite under the dark sky, our path lit by stars of hope, making something better possible.

I’m here. Come join me.

abstract painting of an Elm tree

May 2026 Quote: Under the Elm

Posted on by Emily Oehler2 Comments on May 2026 Quote: Under the Elm

As I set up my calendar for the month, I chose a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it where I write phrases I hear or read that month that spark something in me. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For May 2026, my quote was, “Under the Elm.”

The painting (labeled “The Elm”) that appears with this blog hung on a wall in a random store mom and I visited in Williamsburg, VA during one of our respite “adventures.” The store featured handmade wood furniture. It also had a large secondary room with huge pieces of wood you could buy to make your own. I stood in the backroom among a room of unique slabs of wood inhaling earth and sliding my fingers over rings of life. I felt planted there. Still… safe… in Mother Earth’s sanctuary. I left the room, made an offer, and we took home the painting made by a friend of the store’s owner.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month:

  • I am without lanterns looking for my heart
  • The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too
  • Whatever you can do or dream, begin it; Boldness has genius, power, magic in it
  • You just follow what lights you up
  • Unexpected moments in which we encounter the holy and find our souls rested
  • The soul should always stand ajar
  • Into the darkness they go
  • There is something that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in Yourself… that is the only true guide that you will ever have
  • One must have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star
  • Make contact with that thing in your self that is truly original
  • I wanted my out-loudness to affect something beyond myself
  • I write. I feel calmer. Almost ready. Almost brave.
  • The grief made me sure
  • We change the world one story at a time

Our respite “adventures” began 2.5 years ago as a way to escape and re-explore life after Dad died from a decade of Alzheimer’s. While they shifted from weekly to about monthly as I moved back home and went back to work, I savor the holy and hilarious moments each one brings, and the presence of Dad that always occurs.

In between the trips and activities, I tried to process my grief, and at times tried to control it (to no avail). The tears came when they wanted (and still do), the sadness sunk into my skin (deeper now grafted to my being), and the craving for one more smile from Dad as he saw me walk in the room and his soul-centering hug remains.

Yes, it’s less intense and livable. Yes, I’m grateful he’s at peace. Yes, I know he’s with me. Yes, it sucks.

Over these past few years, I realized death has always been close. A normal part of life for me. Dad was a Presbyterian pastor, my brother is too. Calls from the funeral home were normal. Dinner conversations about a funeral he was working on and wonderful stories he’d share about the person occurred regularly. My first consulting job was with the Army Mortuary and Casualty Affairs, supporting families of the fallen during the height OIF (Operation Iraqi Freedom) and OEF (Operation Enduring Freedom). Next, severely wounded combat soldiers—many of whom had died and been brought back to life and witnessed death. I was oddly comfortable with death, both biologically and spiritually.

Grief was a different story. I was unhinged and hurting. So, amidst “adventures,” emotional roller coaster rides, and a desire to feel “normal” rather than disconnected, I sought to understand grief. To explore it as I experienced it.

What emerged is a sense that this too, is a space where I’m comfortable, called. The “and.” The space between now and next—where life, death, and beyond swirl. Do I have answers? No. And I’m not sure there are any. But I do believe (1) it’s personal and made better in community and (2) you get to choose how you live grief.

As for my respite “adventures” – mine will continue as they serve they soul… and I welcome folks to meet me “Under the Elm” on theirs. To rest. To rage. To reflect. To release.

I will be here, present in the “and” of it all. Through words, workshops, and retreats to offer a space for you. Not to fix, but rather listen, explore, and be with it together.

Just look for this painting, a rest stop on your grief journey.