She practiced a sort of manic, extrovertive, non-theistic, panenhenic mysticism. It was frustrating and hilarious 

You'd be struggling with some dire situation or moral dilemma, and then she'd appear out of nowhere, holding out a heavy ceramic plate with a huge chunk of honeycomb for your morning tea, or a slice of quiche delicately wrapped in waxed paper origami, beautiful and needlessly elaborate. 

Conversation would come easily, until she said some odd phrase that completely caught you off-guard because it was the answer to a question you hadn't thought to ask 

And it would be the solution to what had been vexing your soul when you had first put the kettle on for tea, or your stomach had begun to growl.  

She was frustrating in the way it might feel if you somehow were to suddenly realize you were just a character in someone else's funny story. Playing your part, only existing during the telling, fading away with the laughter. 

Which is ridiculous, because of course you're real; you're right here reading/writing this. 

Still, to know that the answers existed, and that someone could reach them, but that someone wasn't you....

Frustrating and hilarious. 

But damn that's good quiche.