The Confused Composer and The Pen of Faith

The shattered pieces of his pen were laid out before The Composer. His own tears mixed with the

dripping raindrops as he stared at the broken pieces of his pen upon the pavement. These

might as well have been the broken pieces of his own life. How did he get to this point? He sat

with his skull resting heavily in his hands. Anger welled up within the composer at his

carelessness for dropping the precious pen in front of the taxi wheel. How could he ever write

again without this pen?

The shattered pen was a gift from his parents when he first began his journey to write

music, and for the composer, it carried a great significance. He believed the pen carried

considerable power. This pen, however, came with a price. Before his parents would give the

pen to him, the composer had to agree that he would always follow the rules his parents taught

him to write with. Over time, he came to feverishly believe many of his powers of composition

came from the power of this pen itself.

Many months passed since the shattering of his pen, and not only could the composer

not write his music, but it seemed as if the music of his own life had stopped, or at best, had

slowed to a boring and lifeless drone. This all changed quite suddenly one day. On that day,

the composer heard a loud knock at his back door. He did not want to open the door. ‘What’s

the point,’ he thought. Despite his attempts to ignore it, the knocking persisted.

“Delivery here!” the delivery person shouted in a raspy voice with a few more pounds on

the door. “Package for the composer.”

“Why are you at my back door!” the composer shouted.

“Sorry, I though it was the front,” replied the delivery person. “Anyhow, I have the

package you ordered.”

“I didn’t order a package,” the composer shouted form his couch. “You can go away.”

“That can’t be right,” the delivery person replied. “Say’s right here on the box, ordered

by the composer, 4298 Manicre Way.”

“I didn’t order it and I don’t want it,” the composer shot back.

“Suit yourself,” the delivery person replied. “I will leave it right here outside your door in

case you change your mind.”

The composer had in that moment no conscious recollection of ordering anything until

a memory of a strange dream from weeks before moved to the forefront of his mind. In the

dream, which at the time he believed was a nightmare, he had asked for a new pen so he could

compose the musical pieces that had brought him such joy in the past. He had asked in the

dream for a special pen called The Pen of Faith. He recalled that in the dream, The Pen of Faith

waited for him on the other side of a closed door. His deepest desire was to open the door, but

instead, he lay paralyzed with fear and could not move toward the door. This was made even

more difficult when his old pen lay in front of the dream door and the old shattered pen

transformed into a three headed demon that taunted him and blocked his way. The fear

escalated until the rapidity of his beating heart and drench of sweating pores woke him from

the dream.

Could it be? Could this be The Pen of Faith sitting at his back door? Something in his

gut told him it was, but yet, how could that be? Dreams are just meaningless hallucinations

anyhow.

For many days, the composer did his best to ignore the delivery. He tried his best to

keep himself distracted and continued his usual moping about the house. Who would he be

without his old pen? What would he compose? The thought brought knots to his stomach

and feelings of serious tension. The fear from his nightmare returned in this moment and his

heart beat faster yet again. Finally, something let loose and he thought, ‘what does he have to

lose?’ Then he took a few steps towards the door. The fear returned, a few deep breaths, and

then a few more steps. This cycle continued until he finally reached his back door. He only

managed to open it a crack but it was enough to snatch the small box that remained neatly

tucked along the wall.

The composer brought the box back to his apartment and to his desk. He slowly

opened the new box. Indeed! There inside laid a new pen. It was unassuming in color and

accoutrements and the most curious feature was the small word of faith that was etched upon

the barrel of the pen.

The word inscribed on the Pen of Faith was both confusing and comforting to the

composer. Maybe it would be ok if he wrote with this. His parents had talked about faith. They

placed their faith in a white bearded man god in the sky. Perhaps this was a delivery from the

God of his parents? He might have hesitated if he had realized the Pen of Faith was ready to

tell him a completely different story.

After his brief internal deliberation, he gripped the Pen of Faith in his hand. When he

gripped The Pen of Faith and prepared to write, new and unknown feelings flooded his being

and painted a new story for him. What he felt was a faith in himself, not a faith in a heavenly

old man god, not a faith in something separate from him. He felt a faith that he was so

connected to everything he sensed and created, and yet, he was undeniably himself all at the

same time. It was a feeling that was equal parts comforting and mind boggling for the

composer. The storm of thoughts and emotions that plagued the composer for months quickly

parted ways and the notes magically flowed from the composers imagination to the paper and

then to the symphony with little effort. When he gripped the Pen of Faith he couldn’t stop

himself from composing! The concert halls were filled again and the joy returned to his life.

This continued until one day he was again devastated. The composer went to write his

music and the Pen of Faith was gone. He looked high and low but it could be found no where.

He sunk back into despair until he experienced another significant dream. The feeling tone of

the dream was filled with the same wonder that accompanied him when he gripped the Pen of

Faith. Lo and behold the Pen of Faith he believed he had lost appeared in the dream. The

composer watched as the pen began to scribble on a small piece of paper.

The Pen of Faith wrote, “Why do you miss me so? I have been with you all along. Faith

is not contained only within a single object. It is in everything, including you. In fact, it is you.”

“You mean, that music didn’t come from your power?” the composer asked the Pen of

Faith within the dream.

The Pen of Faith wrote, “Correct, as the pen, I had only the power you gave me. You

have that power, you are the composer after all. Your music will be just as beautiful if I live in

your heart instead of on your desk. Just because you cannot see me or touch me it doesn’t

mean I’m not around. I am faith after-all.”

When the composer awoke he didn’t consciously remember all the details of the dream

or the Pen of Faith’s words, but he awoke with a sense of peace. He didn’t know exactly why,

but he began to write his musical pieces again with whatever pen he could find. The compositions

flowed just like they did when he gripped The Pen of Faith. The music was beautiful and the joy

of composing stayed with him until the rest of his days.