It’s been nearly twenty years since I first came to The Monastery of Christ in the Desert as an odd young medical student, raw, and troubled, and yearning. And it’s been years since I’ve been back. But give me a moment and even now, I am there. My hand is on my forehead, wet with holy water and smelling of sulfur and rose. The river is churning, and the hairy thornapple is blooming, and the Benedictine monks all black-clad and hooded are chanting the Compline in the dark in the high deserts of New Mexico. And like Wordsworth said, I feel it all. 

Back then I wanted to be a doctor who helped people.