The Rhythm of Return: Coming Home to Yourself Through Spiritual Awakening

There’s a rhythm to the soul's return,

a cadence too precise to be coincidence,

too sacred to be manmade.

Rialto Beach, WA | Photographed by Ashlee Prime | 6.12.21

At 26, I didn't know I was on my way home

but I now realize

that home is where your soul stays.

Home is where

you quietly slip

into a back row pew.

And home is where

you are made to return to.

It was March. I was fasting. Little did I know, it was the time for returning. Intuitively, and instinctually drawn into a season I hadn't practiced in years; but I realize now, that I had reentered God's home on His calendar, His rhythm, not mine.

I found myself

in longing

in purging;

On an Altar

of refinement.

I found myself

on divine timing

on sacred soil;

In consecrated

soul alignment.

I found myself

with my family.

I found myself

with my father.

I found myself

in adoration.

I found myself

reaffirming

a past declaration.

That’s when I understood: the liturgical year isn't just for the devout. It's pulsing underneath society’s skin, quietly calling hearts home. We feel it even if we can't name it.

We let go during Lent without realizing.

We prepare during Advent without being told.

We celebrate throughout Easter as blossoms burst forth.

We are reinvigorated during Pentecost as the sun blazes and holy fire re-ignites our spirit.

Christianity’s rhythm is embedded in the collective heartbeat. A part of us that is ancient, a part of us that is eternal, it remembers; even when we don't.

I am a cradle Catholic, but left my family of faith at age 14, desperately searching for truth in a world riddled with lies and by 20, I was fully entrenched in the wilderness and wilds.

On July 17th 2016, I was summoned by the love of Jesus. Unexpectedly, and profoundly. In His gentle plea for me to remember His love, I was 'saved' in a Protestant church, wrecked and desperate for the mercy I had once known. That season taught me full surrender to God's will. It gave me the language of intimacy with Jesus that I had not known or been taught. But something always felt incomplete, not quite enough. Like I was singing a melody without the harmony. Like I knew the answer, but still had more questions.

At 26,

with wounds still fresh

and questions still burning

I came back.

This time on my knees.

Not out of obligation

or pain;

But with a longing

for ancient wisdom.

With a longing

for historical context.

With a longing

for answers.

Answers

that this time

took full and unwavering faith.

Answers

that took full surrender.

A surrender

that I had come to know, well

that I had come to understand, deeply.

All because

of my radical

and reckless

devotion

and love

for Christ.

My beloved.

My savior.

My rock.

The calling he laid on my heart was to was re-invigorate worship in this space, His space. It was as if the music inside me had finally met its purpose. I began organizing adoration nights. Traditional Eucharistic adoration, but for those with trouble sitting still, and being silent. Contemporary worship music, echoed through the sanctuary, in David inspired devotion. Offering Jesus my voice, my movement, my prayers in the only way I knew how. But slowly and naturally, something started to shift; something divinely orchestrated. I began to be drawn toward a different kind of praise, one that I hadn't known consciously, but on a soul level came as naturally as breathing. My exposure to Gregorian chant and Latin hymns did something powerful to my spirit. These ancient tones didn't aim to entertain, but to pierce. They didn’t beg God to show up, they assumed He already had.

Now, chant is how I worship. It's my soul’s native tongue. There’s more power in Latin than any dialect on earth. Not just poetic power, real, holy power. Power that reverses the curse of the tower of Babel. Power that transcends this earth. Demons are forced to flee at the sound of it. There’s something about the syllables, the breath between notes, the echo of generations who’ve sung it before me. Latin is sacrificial blood memory. When you hear it, your bones recall its power; even your cells must submit. You don’t have to know what the words mean, because your spirit does. The darkness understands, and most importantly, God does too. That’s why so many films borrow it.

Dies Irae plays in the background of secular stories during scenes of death, judgment, awe.

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Alleluia rises in movie scores as if the world can’t help but sing when the divine appears.

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We don’t even question it, because it just feels right. It declares unity. Chant transcends denomination, tradition, even belief. It opens portals. It hushes darkness. It aligns heaven and earth with a single sacred voice.

The rhythm of chant mirrors the rhythm of prayer, and both mirror the rhythm of the heavens.

I used to think rhythm belonged to the body

to our heartbeat

to our footsteps

to our breath.

But now, I know it belongs solely to God.

In the rise and set of the sun

in the phases of the moon

in the waves brushing against the shore

echoing through the wind.

Rhythm is the heartbeat of creation.

Rhythm is how He reaches us

because with rhythm He made us.

Rhythm is the tether

between our wandering hearts

and His eternal timing.

And music, the perfect mirror of this cosmic rhythm, was the thread that led me back to His creation, in all of its seasons, sunsets and rises. Sung not as a performance, not as a plea, but as trust, as alignment.

I don’t sing to be heard.

I don't sing to perform.

I sing to touch heaven.

I sing at Mass, to unite heaven and earth.

To join in with the choirs of angels.

To do what I was created to do:

Worship,

with full certainty.

Worship,

with full devotion.

To embrace my beloved.

To dance with the divine.

To remember who He is.

To remember who I am, in Him.

Connected forever,

through the rhythm of time.

Rialto Beach, WA | Photographed by Ashlee Prime | 6.12.21