To all my students who are tearing their hair out in an attempt to write a Shakespearean "Valentine's Day" Sonnet:

Sorry guys. Sometimes we (your evil teachers) like to see you squirm. It's good for you. I wrote a sonnet some years ago in a poetry class. I was in your shoes, all uncomfortable with iambic pentameter, the sound of my own words, and the possibility that someone in my class might think I'm lame. Know this: I got your back. Not even people who want to be poets can do this (myself included). I'll be right there with you (as promised), with sonnet in hand and Valentine's candy to top it all off! Enjoy!

Sonnet
Charissa Saenz (2007)

Though I alone have made no man my own,
The age and grey of thirty-five has come.
My bed has room for nothing but a groan,
While sheets like wrinkled poetry turn numb.

No lace has touched my skin, no bells have swayed.
The veil still awaits my blushing swoon,
My hands with restless nudity, betrayed,
No path or aisle has led me to a groom.

Romantic notes that woo, I’ve not received,
And pure love’s kiss (if it exists) has fled.
All men’s dark souls, my faith, have not believed.
And so I choose a different love instead:

Truth resurrects His bloody, bruised embrace.
For death I’ll wait to touch my Lover’s face.

Broken Bottles

I wish I had those old pictures of the two of us. There's a yellow-faded 70's snapshot somewhere back home. I must've only been about three or four years old. He's holding my hand. Our curls are free. He's wearing that cool double-buckle brown belt (I still have it). We look happy. I look safe. Comfortable. To this day, I'm not sure if it's only the memory that I've held on to, or if it's the memory of the actual snapshot instead. Either way, it's good. It reminds me of my dad and how we used to hang out.

Being in Korea, I don't have pictures of the two of us, most old photos are stored away somewhere in a hot dusty storage unit. Perhaps I'll dig 'em out when I go back to visit. There are certain pictures that are worth looking at over and over and over again. That one, with me and my dad and the sun and the sand is one such picture.

Last week, I mistakenly wrote my dad an early Father's Day wall post on Facebook. I had my dates all wrong and was admittedly a little embarrassed about it. But I don't regret telling him how I had been thinking of one time in particular when we were laughing our heads off at the dinner table. He said he remembers it well. I'm glad. I miss him. I miss his cheesy jokes and his laugh and how he used to try the latest dance moves with us in the kitchen. I miss hearing him imitate people or telling us funny stories. I miss it when he'd talk in Spanglish (more to make fun of it, than anything else). I remember when he used to tuck me in at night and bring me hot chocolate--I'm sure he can still imitate the exact way I would ask for it. He was a good sport. Probably still is. Things change though. Divorce does that. I haven't seen my father in a while and whenever I do get to see him, it's a little awkward. Neither of us knows the other anymore. There's a bit of foreign land between us (literally and metaphorically).

It hurts at the strangest times. It was hurting today and not so much because it's "Father's Day" in the States, but more so because there's been this pang that hits me every so often. It gets me right in the pit of my stomach--it was something between an anger and a longing. I can't shake it. It makes me want to break something or cry or scream or just pray. But I can't. Maybe this blog isn't the place to post it, but I don't care. I haven't been inspired enough to carve out the time to write any other entries anyway, so I figured I might as well write this one while I'm in the mood.

~~~~~~~

Dad, I can tell you over and over how much I miss you and how much I love you, but I can't tell if you really get it. All the random times I think of you and how much it hurts that you're not around anymore. I know I'm not alone, there are a gazillion others out there who are in the same boat, but this is my way of getting it out. As always, I wear my heart on my sleeve . . . or on my blog. I'm certainly not the private type, so I hope you don't mind that I'm posting this. I should write to you more, but my pride often stops me. I should visit you some time, but I can't come to grips with meeting you under someone else's roof. Please know that I think of you often. I'm sure that somewhere down the line, you'll be pulling out your white handkerchief again to wipe my tears--I'd like that.

Happy Father's Day. I'll love you always.

P.S. For what it's worth, I wrote this. It's more cathartic than anything else, but I'm sharing it with you as a point of honesty.

Breaking Bottles

it’s like the time I could’ve

broken green bottles but didn’t

How was I supposed to get it out?

all the yelling in my mouth

all the violet in our glass

all the plating on your brass

I went away into my room

slammed the door so you

could listen to yourself

all the spitting that shot out

all the purple on your face

all the hatred we embraced

when I ran across the room

tore the flowers from the wall

untied the knot to let them fall

oh how we all fell

all the weeping that got lost

all the yellow that was white

all the blisters from that night

in my head they were so great

those explosions that kept awake

the startled fire on your thigh

all the sin you felt was right

all the blood that you forgot

all the tears your kerchief caught

who will remember how we

stood in the kitchen (a perfect trio)

you singing to her, “drink to me only”

all the father’s love you gave

all the times we laughed and ate

all the breaking of our fate

I just have to get it out

breaking bottles ‘gainst the walls

something breaking besides ourselves.

Portrait of a Hunchback . . . and a Lady

Sometimes you just have to say, "the heck with it," stay in your pajamas all day, and wait for the restlessness to set in. After celebrating a housewarming/ Thanksgiving at our new place, and staying up till 4am to say hello to family back home (hurray for skype!), I decided to sleep in and call it a day off (which it was). But by the time 5pm rolled around and I was shamelessly scuffling around the house in my pj's, the sheer enjoyment of my laziness was beginning to wear off. Two hours later, I finally forced myself out the door. Nothing like a little cold air to shake off the inertia. . .

I had declared to my roommates, who had already settled in for the night after being out and about, that I was going for a walk! To which my roommate replied, "Where you goin?"

"I don't know," I shrugged.

"How long will you be out?"

"Don't know."

"Sorry for being nosy."

"You're not being nosy."

"Be safe. Take your phone."

"I will. I won't hear you if you call; I'll have my music on. But, in case of emergency, I've got it, k?"

"K . . . hey, you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Not any worse than I've been."

"You're not pulling my leg?"

"Nope."

"Well, I guess 'not any worse' isn't too bad." At which point I cracked a smile. My roommate seemed genuinely concerned (not nosy). Perhaps my posture said it all. I was stiffly staring into my computer screen slumped over like a tired old hunchback. Really though, it was nothing a quick walk couldn't remedy; no need for concern.

A blast of icy air hit my face as I walked out the door. I was awake and numb. Not three blocks out, a strange sort of inspiration caught up to me: the empty streets, the sad faces, and the overall grey-scale palette that permeated the whole scene took me by surprise. These were things that I had seen everyday no doubt, but tonight, a damp heaviness took over everything in my path. Maybe I was the one carrying around the heaviness? You ever felt a weight in your lungs, like an indescribable burden that just hunkers down in your chest and soaks itself into your heart, your lungs, the air you inhale? Yeah, like that. That's what I was feeling.

As I was walking at a fast and steady pace, all engrossed in a song called "Little Shadow," my rhythm was disrupted by, well, a little shadow--a clumsy image on the periphery of a cracking sidewalk. It was an elderly woman just stepping onto the crosswalk, hobbling across the street. Her gait was awkward and unbalanced and hampered by the load she was carrying on her severely hunched back. Yet for all this, there was a determination to her. For a split-second, I stopped walking to stare in sad admiration. It seemed that nothing would take her down, not her old age, not her stiffening wrinkles, not her thin, fading hair. Shoot, not even that unwieldy sack taking over the whole of her tiny frame was going to slow her down. She was a sight in complicated layers of dingy grey. Her bony, gloveless hands were vulnerable, dark, and strong, as they strained behind her and clutched the hulking bag of who-knows-what on her back. It could have been anything, but if you ask me, whatever it was, it all added up to a bitter load of life's disappointments and sorrows. This appendage loomed over her spine like rotting fruit on a brittle branch. I wanted to pause just a little longer to see her to her destination. How much farther could she possibly carry this thing? It wasn't just curiosity on my part, it was resonation (poetic license, here). She was my metaphor, my muse.

I walked on passed the sulking garbage on the streets, passed the cold cars, passed the empty shops, passed the rusty metal siding, and passed that beautiful moldy wall that I keep meaning to take a picture of. I walked passed a young shivering schoolgirl who should have already been home by now. I walked passed a welder and the sparks that flew and disappeared without me. Then, I walked back home (2 hours later) and I wrote this sonnet:

We went down like ghosts, tripping lonely wires

into fists of light, punching up the dark.

Rags around our necks, cloaks for cold liars,

and gloves for numb nails, scratching up a spark.

The welder, his white metal, its quick light

twitching at the night like seizing fireflies.

Lights off! Let us walk passed your hooded sight!

Your visored eye, your cigarette-blown lies

disappear while our hands swing idly by.

And my tongue idle too, keeps warm and bruised

in a mouth full of silence, while you lie

like a dead man parsing time for his muse.

Wake up! she waits for you like a portrait

in grey, a shadowed hunchback, barely lit.

Take a Long, "Heart" Look

*Suggestion: If you survive this long entry, please click on the link at the end--it's a video of my students! It might make more sense after reading.*

". . . God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart" (1 Samuel 16:7).

I was having major anxiety issues right around my second week in Korea. Part of my responsibility as a middle and high school teacher includes speaking at chapel every third Friday. You could say it's like having a church service only it's on a school day and the attendees are wiggly teens between the ages of 13 and 18. This is nerve-wracking. Teaching To Kill a Mockingbird is one thing, teaching the Bible is another. My stress levels go through the roof when I'm explaining God's word. Heavy stuff.

You have to understand, I had never given a "sermon" before . . . at least not on purpose. I was freaking out at the thought of what topic I should even speak about when my turn would come around. So there I was, asking for some serious prayer, and asking God for some serious inspiration.

One night, as I was reading in bed (this has become quite the habit lately), I opened up my bible to the 1st book of Samuel. I love this book. It tells the story of David, an "ordinary" shepherd with a courageous and poetic heart who (unbeknownst to even those closest to him) would one day become King. He was overlooked by his father and brothers. He was seemingly a run-of-the-mill shepherd. He was the youngest in the family. He did not lead a glamorous life (unless you consider hanging out with sheep all day glam). To add to this, the "height of his stature" was not all that impressive. He was the last person who would ever be thought of as king. . . who knew? Now Samuel (a prophet sent by God to choose this new king) was not looking for the same qualities that God was looking for. Samuel wasn't looking at the heart. But how could he? How does one do that? It's a tough thing to do, especially when we don't even know the person. Lucky for Samuel, God helped him out in the "heart-looking" department.

Cut to King Saul. Saul who had been chosen by the people, mind you, was miserably failing as King. He was by no means living a life worthy of what God had called him to--but hey, he "looked" the part, right? Sure, but it takes more than appearance or the people's vote to be a good king (I can think of endless examples in modern-day politics where this is true). Now the part where God shows the prophet Samuel that David will be anointed as King while Saul's reign is deteriorating, is the BEST part. Why? Because God's choice was unpredictable--it threw everyone for a loop! He chose David for his HEART, not his appearance.

The minute I read 1 Samuel 16:7, I knew what I HAD to talk about this at chapel. I thought to myself, "Being a teenager can really suck, especially when you're trying to figure out who you are. You become ultra aware of how others perceive you (usually not an accurate perception), and often lose sight of your true self or your true-self's potential. I know I did, and it's so hard to ever get a solid grip on caring more about who we are to God than who we are in the eyes of everyone else.

I'll never tire of reading the book of Samuel and how the story of David unfolds. It's inspirational and scary all at once. It makes me wonder how many times I've been drawn to someone or something on the basis of appearance or style rather than substance. I am reminded of God's character and the spiritual laws that are so difficult to abide by in my own weak skin. David's story is a beautiful foreshadowing of Jesus the Messiah, the King of Kings. God illustrates that His ways are utterly different than our ways. David would never have fit the people's idea of what a king looked like--good thing he was chosen by God, not by man.

In the same way, Jesus (the Messiah) did not meet up to the so-called kingly image that people were looking for as they waited and waited for the Messiah to show up. Again, many people of His day refused to believe that He was the Son of God who would take away the sins of the world. Today, people still don't see Him as King. Here's an interesting description of Jesus from the 53rd chapter of Isaiah:

"He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem."

Even though Jesus did things like turn water into wine, heal the blind, and walk on water, He was still spit at, mocked, ignored, violently beaten and executed. Thank God (literally!) Jesus' death was only temporary. He is alive today. He is the King of kings. And yet, He knows what it's like to be forgotten and despised. So He calls us to see things differently. To see people as He does. He calls us to love others to the extent that we would be willing to die for them. A good place to start would be to "look" at those who are easily ignored, misjudged, alienated, and mistreated not for how they appear, but for who they are in the eyes of TRUTH.

At the end of that particular chapel message, I asked my students to do the same: "Take a long, hard look at yourselves and those around you. Ask God to show you the truth," then I showed them a video (of themselves!) . . .

The week before I spoke at chapel, I asked them to write down one word that would describe how others perceive them. Then I asked them to turn the paper over and write one word that describes how God perceives them. I didn't tell them what to write, nor did I tell them what this was related to. I did, however, ask them for permission to video-tape them. In a facebook/youtube generation, they didn't mind (at ALL). Some of their people-vs-God perspectives were not congruent, but honesty was all I asked for. You will see that one girl left hers blank on the "God" side because she truly couldn't answer how God sees her--that's pretty honest.

Here's a link to the video of my students (and 3 fellow teachers). I love them. I will continue to ask God to help me see them as He sees them.

Now, take a look: ACA Heart-Look

silent crush

Judging by the number of people who feel compelled to let me know how very tired I look, it is obvious that my busy schedule is taking a toll. I haven't written in over a month, with good reason. I've been insanely busy! These are some of the things that I've had to prepare and plan for in the last month: ACA Fall Festival, the middle school/high school leadership retreat, evening AP English classes, after-school tutoring, girls' bible study, private SAT evening tutoring, Friday Chapel services, 1st-quarter grades, and, of course, guitar classes. This week, it's parent/teacher conferences (gasp)! By the time I get home (usually around midnight), I'm so exhausted I can't sleep! Paralysis often sets in and I find myself wandering around the apartment stressing over things that are still on my "to do" list. Luckily, not every month will be this crazy but I have to ask myself, "How much of all this busyness is in vain?"

I think of the uselessness of running around, going from one tutoring session to another and I wonder what kind of a lasting impact the definitions of metaphors, parts of speech, symbols, and past participles will actually have. My answer? No impact. All is vanity.

"Remember Him before the silver cord is broken and the golden bowl is crushed, the pitcher by the well is shattered and the wheel at the cistern is crushed; then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it. "Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher, "all is vanity!" (Ecclesiastes 12:6-8)

This is a perfectly poetic reminder of how quickly we will turn to dust. Therefore, "remember Him."

I'd like to remember Him and acknowledge Him in all that I do, but it's so easy to get caught up in the everyday rush of life. I'd like to stop spinning and striving. When I teach, the things that I REALLY get passionate about have nothing to do with grammar or literary terminology or standardized tests. Sometimes I'm convinced that the reason I love literature so much is because it reminds me of how fleeting life is, how temporary and vapor-like. For this reason, those simple, beautiful things (the silver cord, the golden bowl, the humble vessel) cannot be fully utilized or appreciated without the remembrance of Him: God the Father. God the Son. God the Spirit. God, who is our creator, our lover, our vinedresser. How can I teach a metaphor or a novel about beauty or pain or death without any acknowledgement of this? Before the vessels even begin to crack-- golden bowl or clay pitcher--I should fill them up, pour from them, and then, "drink up," so to speak. And I should do so, deliberately. Whole-heartedly. Passionately . . . in full remembrance of Him. This is vital in my temporal state. Otherwise, I have to ask myself, "Will I ever quench what my eternal state thirsts for?"

I know the answer, but things still get messy . . . especially late at night, when my heart is out of focus, and I dig up the question all over again. On a good night, I'll scratch it out for clarity's sake or for a little catharsis--just a few strange lines (mostly in the form of poetry) to crush the noise and gather in a little silence before I go to bed. The last thing I wrote (apart from this blog) was actually an assignment for my 11th and 12th graders. They had to choose a psalm from the Bible and then write their own psalm as a reaction to the biblical one. Here's mine, inspired by Psalm 88:

in this nerve of night:

thin prayers like weak incense

bitten beneath the tongue, turn

ashen and stale

not yet filling that

gilded pail.

Still,

Your silence sweeps them up, saves them in the golden cup.

but i have whispers to unfold,

from someone else’s

shredded soul,

all soiled and torn, like

prayer-rags settling over her floor, now

stepped-on and worn

Still,

Your soundless voice silences this midnight plea, hushes my childish poetry.

and i begin to wonder about the dust

or the vast dark that takes

the place of us

where our flowers fell

in the shameful sun

and my heavy heart weeping

for oxygen

Still,

Your heavy waves drench or drown that vacant line, that chalky sound.

how far to think

my psalm can cast away

the lonely root where coffins weigh? or

where life begins in that sick, sick pit?

such wasted space!

that yellowed veil,

that eaten lace

Still,

Your burning coal cleans white the dun, the rotten stain of everyone.

Holy, holy, holy You.

My Lover with a hidden face,

Still,

You murder sin with gentle grace.

It Started With the End

Three weeks ago, we only had a day and a half of school thanks to typhoon warnings and heavy rain. Lucky for us, Dongducheon was not hit that hard. The most noticeable damage was a hole in the ceiling of our soon-to-be house which has been under construction since June (see video footage). This was followed by a lovely Labor Day weekend as I relaxed and walked around Myeong-dong in Seoul with my roommates (see more video footage). In the same weekend, I managed to make a few more friends, do some lesson-planning, and try on more sunglasses at the outdoor markets (this has proven to be an extremely entertaining pastime . . . for free!). As you can see, life has been especially “rough” lately--what with all the mandu (best korean dumplings ever!) that I’ve been forced to eat and the unlimited options available for window shopping (it’s called “eye-shopping” here). Still, I have to admit, I was anxious and excited to begin a full week of school.

Labor Day came and went. Tuesday morning finally rolled around with a very interesting beginning. Enter groggy student:

Slumping his backpack on the desk, he started, “Ms. Saenz, what’s left before everything comes to an end?” A little thrown off and confused, I asked, “You mean, what’s left before school is over or do you mean what’s left before life as we know it no longer exists on this earth?”

“Yeah,” he said, “like the end of the world, I mean. You know how some people think 2012 will be the end?” I stood there twirling my dry-erase marker between my fingers and took a deep breath. While I shuffled through scriptures in my head, I was desperately trying to come up with a sufficient response. Stalling (just a little) I answered, “Well, depending on who you ask, you’ll hear different theories. Even pastors and theologians can’t agree on end-time prophecies.” Okay, this was certainly not going to cut it. He tilted his head and searched the air for a better answer.

You should know that Eschatology tends to overwhelm me and I often shy away from it, but here was a student asking for my opinion and I was quickly feeling the shake of inadequacy.

I told him that according to the Bible, no one knows the day or the hour but we are called to be spiritually prepared. It probably did nothing to ease his nerves (not that he was really nervous about this to begin with) when I told him that scripture says, “the day of the LORD will come like a thief in the night.” Unfortunately, I did not have the entire context on hand but the following week we had another discussion (however brief) regarding 2 Peter 3:9-14:

The Lord is not slow about His promise, as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance. But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, in which the heavens will pass away with a roar and the elements will be destroyed with intense heat, and the earth and its works will be burned up. Since all these things are to be destroyed in this way, what sort of people ought you to be in holy conduct and godliness, looking for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be destroyed by burning, and the elements will melt with intense heat! But according to His promise we are looking for new heavens and a new earth, in which righteousness dwells. Therefore, beloved, since you look for these things, be diligent to be found by Him in peace, spotless and blameless . . . .

During this conversation, I was hoping to figure out where my student was coming from. Why was he asking me about this? Did he want the end to come quickly? Or did it freak him out? Was he looking for some kind of hope or was he contemplating the “benefits” of annihilation? Or, perhaps this was just plain teen-aged curiosity. Either way, I was already having to chin-up to an abrupt mental and spiritual challenge about something that I had not given much thought to in the last year.

Funny thing, instead of thinking about when the world will end (unless I have just read about the plethora of heinous crimes in the news), I tend to contemplate when and how my own life will end. Selfish, I know. But I don’t go about these thoughts like some goth-angst-ridden-vampire girl that thinks her life sucks. On the contrary, because I have been so blessed and rewarded as a teacher for the last six years, I kept thinking that if I died today, then I could “live” with that (sorry, couldn’t resist). All puns aside, just before I left Texas, I had strange thoughts about my life coming to a sudden end--I kept wondering if my time was coming soon. That is no longer on the forefront of my mind. Honestly. When I think of all the ways that God has physically rescued me from death, I know that He is in complete control. I can rest in the assurance that I have continued to ask God for His wisdom and guidance in my life and I am more than confident that I am exactly where I should be, and nothing beats that kind of peace. But . . . having peace about where I’m at in my life doesn’t mean that I won’t be knocked out of my comfort zone.

It is clear that I will continue to be challenged by God through my students, my fellow teachers, and the inconveniences that come with being a foreigner. This is a good thing and I welcome the process, however uncomfortable. I would much rather fumble around for the heart of truth in answering questions like, “what is left before the world ends?” than sitting in front of the television flipping through reality shows. And while many future questions (both my own and my students’) may remain unanswered, I look forward to the grit and nerve of learning.

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that." As it is, you boast and brag. All such boasting is evil. Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn't do it, sins. (James 4:13-16)

Shadow-Stepping

One week before I arrived in Dongducheon, my Korean teacher wanted to describe for me how Eastern cultures hold teachers in high regard, ". . . not like here, in states," she said with a minor level of disgust. She told me not to be surprised if my students did not even address me as Ms. Saenz. Rather, it is customary for them to address me as, "Teacher Saenz" or better, in Korean it would be, "Son-Sehng Saenz" (try saying that over and over). It reminded me of the weight that comes with the Hebrew word for teacher, rabbi--there's a wisdom, a heavy responsibility, and a deep knowledge attached to that name. Suddenly, I felt intimidated. It's not that I haven't taken my responsibility as a teacher seriously, but I've always had to fight against that common phrase that gets thrown around with a stupid smirk and a chuckle, "Those who can't, teach . . ." I mean, let's face it, when people have asked me what I do for a living, a slight apologetic tone slips out as if to say, "I'm only a teacher but I also hope to one day do x, y, and z." However, because of what I've seen in my students (their precious value), I feel that the tables are turned. Rather than having to prove that teaching is a valuable calling, I should have to prove that I am valuable enough to fulfill such a calling. The day I feel "good enough" to be a teacher (by any standards other than God's), I should probably quit. But I digress . . .

Back to my Korean teacher, lets call her Son-Sehng Hyun. She continued to convey the connotation of calling someone a Son-Sehng. "Even more respectful than how you call father or mother," she exclaimed this with a long drawn out "yeeeeees" at the end of her sentence as if to answer the look of disbelief on my face. Furthermore, (and here's the poetic part) she related an old custom which is no longer practiced: When a student walks with her teacher, the teacher leads the way, the student must follow (makes sense) but here's the kicker--as student follows teacher, the student must be very careful to not step on the teacher's shadow (makes plenty of poetic sense). As most of my students will tell you, I take symbolism to extreme levels. This is no exception, prohibited shadow-stepping really hit me. This brings a whole new meaning to "darting in and out of the shadows," right?

Someone's shadow is an extended "mark" of their being only when they are already walking in light. This shadow would not exist in dark places. Thus, stepping on a teacher's shadow, is an ugly disregard for the "light" that comes with their teaching. Resting in someone's shadow is a refuge, walking in it, is denying their capability to lead you in the way you should go-- the "lighted" path. Take John 1:4-5, "In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." This is my personal reminder that as a follower of Jesus, I must walk with Jesus in the truth and grace of His light.

As I am now only four days away from our first day of school at the Amerasian Christian Academy, I am fully reminded of my grave responsibility to continue to train up my students in the way they should go. With God's help, I am charged to metaphorically keep them out of my shadow--not as a form of power or oppression, but as a form of protection from darkness (even my own darkness).