I Knew I Was Home When My Soul Said ‘Oooo’

Where I Return to Myself

A sensory scroll through one ordinary, transcendent Wednesday.

There’s a quiet ritual I’ve been doing lately—like sweeping out the corners of a room I live in but forget to notice. I call it my 'daily audit,' but that sounds far more clinical than it feels. I got the idea from my friend Cas when we were sharing ideas on self-care and self-reflection/journalling. If you haven't already, go checkout her 'Oh So Dope' content on socials and etsy! ...now back to the 'Daily Audit.'

What it really is… is a kind of soul-mapping. A tracing of where I’ve been, how I’ve moved, what I’ve touched, eaten, read, or watched. And more importantly: Did it feed me? Or did it chip away at me?

Each day is its own little theatre piece. I break it into acts. Not out of preciousness, but because there’s something holy about how life unfurls. There’s a beginning, a rising, a turning point. There are cravings and quietness. There’s costume, voice, choreography. And—if I’m lucky—there’s a moment where I return to myself.

This past Wednesday felt like one of those days worth lingering over. So I will.

Act I: A Kindness to the Body

The morning opened with something soft and reliable: Protein coffee with strawberries and banana. A velvet elixir—familiar, cool, nourishing. I’ve learned that when I give my body what it actually wants, it sighs in a way I can almost hear. Not a dramatic, cinematic moan—just a warm hush of internal stillness. My digestion doesn’t complain. My energy doesn’t claw. My hunger doesn’t spiral into longing for something... else.

I leafed through Ralph Lauren’s Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter collections—a private gallery of silhouettes and textures. There’s something about fashion that feels like a vocabulary I didn’t realize I needed. Fabric becomes language. Structure becomes intention. It’s not just dressing—it's conjuring.

And then—Mary Oliver. Her poem Whistling Swans. There’s a moment in it where I felt my soul do that quiet “ooooo” thing—like the opening of a flower in time-lapse. Poetry, when it’s right, does that to me. It doesn’t demand attention; it rearranges my molecules gently, like hands folding warm laundry.

Act II: The Communion of Movement

Later, I was outside—hills with Anna and Stanley —that tender trio of body, companionship, and air. There’s a version of me that wakes up only when I’m moving. Especially when I’m moving beside others. There’s this mythic feeling of being capable, of living in a body I trust. Every muscle feels like a little vow to myself: I want to be here. I want to be well.

Lunch was tuna salad and raspberries. Light, precise, vivid. I felt full, but not overwhelmed—like I’d struck the chord just right between nourishment and ease. This is what I mean when I say food can be sacred.

Act III: The Ritual of Place

The afternoon unfolded in the most unexpected and sacred way: A walk and tea with Kevin by the R. C. Harris Water Treatment Plant. The setting sounds industrial—almost post-apocalyptic—but it felt mythic. There was water, stone, industry, and breath. Nature trying to negotiate with utility.

We walked and talked. We didn’t rush. We were present. And somehow, in the juxtaposition of grey structure and soft conversation, I felt something cleanse me. It reminded me of poetry again: How some of the most moving things live in contradiction.

Act IV: Small Satiations

Back home, I had egg salad, hummus, rice crackers, and ultra-filtered milk. It’s not an elegant meal, but it’s a loving one. Simple textures, quiet proteins. My body didn’t flinch. My hunger didn’t haunt me afterward. It was enough. That’s a powerful kind of peace—when enough actually feels like enough.

Act V: Reflection, Dissonance, and Release

In the evening, I let myself slide into music videos, which is a practice I treat like prayer or provocation, depending on the mood. One video stood out: “Anxiety” by Doechii. Raw. Messy. Stunning. It didn’t calm me—but it mirrored me. There’s a power in that. Letting someone else’s chaos articulate something in your own. It didn’t spiral me. It steadied me by naming something I couldn’t.

Doorways I’m Dreaming of...

There are things I want to add to this daily theatre. Not because I feel lacking—but because I can feel certain versions of myself knocking, asking to be let in:

- Politics and philosophy (maybe read more of Underground Empire by Abraham L. Newman and Henry Farrell) —so I can stretch my intellect and frame the systems I move through.

- French Language Practice —because I want my voice to wear new clothes, become more sensual, more precise, more poetic.

- Yoga & Yoga Nidra —to meet my breath at the root.

- Meditation —to return to the stillness that lives beneath even poetry.

On Cravings, Spirals, and Sacred Indulgences

I’ve learned that fullness is a double-edged desire. Sometimes I crave it—the weight, the roundness, the sense of having had. But if I’m not careful, that craving takes me into a spiral: Too much, too fast, too foggy. That’s not self-care. That’s erasure by excitement.

So I’ve started reimagining “treats” as rituals. A square of chocolate wrapped in gold foil. A fig, halved, eaten slowly with fingertips. I make them ceremonies, not escapes.

Where I Find Myself Again

Where do I return to myself?

- After meals that leave me calm and steady.

- When I move my body in communion with the world.

- When I dress with symbolism and play.

- When I encounter a line of poetry or a dance or a melody that reminds me: Oh. There I am.

- When art doesn’t move me, but I stop and ask—what kind of mind created this? What storm or silence did it come from?

That question opens a door. Not into the artwork. But into empathy.

And Perhaps… in French?

Lately I wonder—what part of me exists in another language?

What part of me doesn’t yet have the words in English?

Could French be a mirror I haven’t yet looked into?

Maybe I’ll start writing in French as a character. A Parisian philosopher. A lovesick poet. A florist with a penchant for metaphysics. Let my voice wear silk and vowels and tiny philosophical sighs.

A Final Whisper

Every day is a performance—but not for the world.

It’s for the part of me watching from just inside my ribs.

The part that knows when I’m lying.

The part that hums when I get it right.

And when I do,

I feel it.

That warm return.

That quiet “ooooo.”

That sacred sigh.

That… is how I know I’ve come home.

Yours Playfully,

Keith