From the Christ-haunted mind of The Anchoress:

I dash all of my fury, all of my love, all of my passion against the
cross of Christ, and settle beneath their shards and fragments as they
rain down upon me, and pass and bite and dissolve. And I pray, most
particularly for the event or the person or the feeling that has roused
my headstrong, foolish passion and lured me toward the illusion, and away from detachment, wherein is found humility and tranquility; wisdom and peace. 

And because I am no saint, because I am so flawed, all of that only
brings me up to the ground-level. My evolution is still in such a
primitive stage that I am merely eyes in mud, staring into heaven,
unable to do much to lift myself; altogether one with the muck.

You see, that’s why God put people like anchoresses (or at least, The Anchoress) into the world. 

Me, I come back from a retreat with three days’ growth of beard and two tins of fruitcake. 

The Anchoress comes back with epic dreams and liquid prose.  Go figure.