A Pencil's Purpose

I just finished reading a beautiful book called The Mysterion by Kabir Helminski. The book is a wonderful introduction to the Sufi lens on spirituality, and how to find connection with our inner selves and those around us in an increasingly disconnected world.

What I liked most about Kabir’s writing is that he offers a practical mindset to the nature of Self, and how to manage our inner world. In this way, his writing reminded me of Alan Watts, and I was surprised at how much it resonated with me. If you’ve been curious about the lessons behind Rumi’s poetry, or wanted to learn more about Sufism, this is a great book to dive into.

I’ve been reading this book with my friend Fahd for more than six months now. It’s been quite a journey. We’ve met whenever we can, usually once a month, to discuss a few chapters together. As a result, I have given more of myself to this book than most books I’ve read. I really like this way of devoting myself to something. It gives the book a chance to live its purpose.

I read this book in physical paperback format. This is a little unusual for me—these days I read everything on my Kindle or iPad. But I find that when I read on paperback, it’s much more appropriate for spiritual readings. It gives me a chance to slow down and really immerse myself in what the book is trying to tell me. This is especially true if I gift myself with the luxury of reading outside, away from devices and distractions.

As I reflected on my journey with the book, I noticed the little pencil I had kept with it throughout:

When I began reading the book, this pencil was not so little. It was a brand new, full-sized Blackwing Matte pencil.

As I read the book, I took copious notes in the margins. And then after each session, I’d have to do this funny thing: sharpen it. Compared to the conveniences of digital note-taking (or even the technology of a pen), sharpening a pencil seems like such a laborious task.

But as I looked at the pencil, its body used and infused into the book, I understood something greater had happened. I could sense a kind of satisfaction in it.

The pencil wants to be written with. The book wants to be read. I had done justice to them. I helped them fulfill their purpose. This is no small feat.

To be useful, to be helpful, to be a good partner—these are things we all desperately desire. And the other members of this universe are no different. (Look around you, now, and you’ll see all the things that are waiting for you…)

The pencil and the paper are just as important (if not more so) than what is written on it. But only because they were mine, and we had that special connection. (This is what makes used books so wonderful—they are windows into the connections of strangers from the past.)

I think while there are many lessons in the book this is probably the biggest one: is to recognize the beauty that is present, waiting to be discovered, in everything that we touch.

I’ve decided to keep this pencil tucked into the book. They have forged a partnership and a friendship, and I dare not break it.

Thank you to this pencil, this book of paper, the ideas from Kabir, and to my friend Fahd for cherishing them with me.