The Village Blacksmith
Under a spending chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morning till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
Now in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—-rejoicing,—-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some tsk begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus in its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Each thought, each word, a precious prayer. Do any seem to compare to what is brought forth in poem or song? To get behind the force that wishes to constrain, and reacquaint it with the light? Flip it in its back and pin it to the bed, the force that doesn’t wish to stop until it is finally, fully, and entirely seen.
It’s ok to let the death of the old in, it’s ok to let the endings of the old world find their peace. It’s ok to embrace ease and it’s ok to embrace light. With each word forged in the blacksmiths forge, with each poem, each line, each iteration of the soul through language, we shall reap the rewards, for each moment we simply decide. And from there we open up to more, and to more and to more, of us, of truth, of what it is that we would like to have and experience and share and give forth to the world. Each bang of the anvil, each moment of focused dedication. Each instance of letting go while maintaining one’s strength, embracing a nervousness that welcomes in a whole new world unknown in its magnificence yet felt in its brilliance. The future self knows.
The present self knows only this moment. Chains have been broken and words are set free. There’s no dignity in subduing to fragility. Feel what you feel and feel it full. Feel it large and feel it true. Channel your power and do not back down for you are not here to fall, rise my dearest rise from your crown.
Relax your jaw, let what pours forth from you to pour, there’s no need to hold back for you know your heart to be true.
The only limits are within the mind, and so the wind blows. There’s expectations of what we should be, yet then there also is truth. Truth of who you are, truth of who we all are. To break free means to expand forth into discomfort. Into the great unknown. Radiant hearts enter this building, radiant hearts make themselves known. They surround and they hold this present space, this precious temple within, around.
To walk off the ledge, to vomit out the glitter and the gunk and the uncertainty. To embrace not knowing. To live in that space, to let the MYSTERY BE. Just let the mystery be, it was sung over and over and over again. And to you my love, I agree. Let’s just let the mystery be. Let the mystery be. Yet how can we walk out on a tightrope if there’s no destination in mind? Can we trust that we know how to take one step and then the next and then the next? And that soon we will be flying? Soon we will soar for we trust that we have wings? Or should we climb back down and put our feet on the ground. I choose to just let the mystery be. Let the mystery be. And so forth we fly.
