Past Life Story

In the eighteenth year of King Yeongjo, you were born into a commoner family. Your father was the village blacksmith, and your first lullaby was the sound of bellows and hammer. Your first scenery was the red glow of a forge. Throughout your childhood your eyes grew accustomed to that fire. At five you took up the bellows. With small hands you pushed and pulled, and watched the fire come alive. At seven you took up the hammer. At first too heavy, you dropped it, but soon you grew used to its weight. Your hands began to harden. In your tenth year, you made a small nail for the first time. Your father looked at that nail in long silence and said, "Iron does not lie. If you put your heart into it, the iron knows." You never forgot those words. In your fifteenth year, you became a true apprentice. From dawn until night you lived in the forge. Farm tools, knives, nails, horseshoes—you made everything. Your hands grew rough, your shoulders firm, and small burn marks multiplied on your forearms. Yet you wore them with pride. They were the medals of one who works. At twenty you came to have your own forge. Your father grew old and gave up the work, and you inherited the shop. You did not work better than your father. But you were more honest than he was. You did not make a single nail poorly. People trusted you. In your twenty-fifth year, you took a wife. A commoner girl from the same village. She was diligent, and silent as you were. The two of you were not many in words, but you understood each other deeply. You had three children. The first and second were sons, the third a daughter. In your thirtieth year, a great drought struck your village. The farmers had no money for tools. You made tools on credit. Some could never repay you, and you never once pressed them. "Iron does not lie, but a man's circumstances must be understood." Those were your words. In your thirty-fifth year, you received a great commission. A government office in Hanyang ordered swords from you. Military swords. You devoted a year to that work. Each dawn you lit the forge, each night you swung the hammer. One blade, then another, all made with care. Those swords later went to military officers on the frontier and were used to defend the people. You were proud of that. In your fortieth year, your eldest son began to take over the forge. You taught your child everything you had. "Iron does not lie." You passed that one phrase on to your child as well. In your fiftieth year, your hand began to tremble. It became harder to lift the hammer. Yet you did not stop. You helped with small things beside your child. Smoothing nails, pushing the bellows. Even that made you happy. In a winter of your fifty-fifth year, you slept beside the forge as you always did. The next morning, when your child found you, a small nail rested in your hand. You had worked to the very end before departing. Your forge was inherited by your child, and by your grandchild, and your descendants kept that place for a hundred years. The swords you made were enshrined in museums, and the farm tools you made were used by farmers for generations. You were a solid person. As solid as iron, as honest as iron. The soul of every thing your hand made dwelt within it. That was the promise you kept all your life.