Creating my compass
I've shaped steel for many years, but my hands shake as I lift my grandfather's plow into the forge. Some heirlooms carry more weight than others.
Surrounded by tools, the industrial forge where I practice my craft feels somehow disconnected, so different from the warmth of my grandparents' old barn, where I first learned to forge. Progress, I told myself, but it couldn't quite replace the feeling from my first forge.
My phone's blue light pierced the darkness, scrolling through photos on my phone.
It hit me. My life is captured in the device in my hand, yet I feel more disconnected than ever.
It all started with a video call from my parents. They were clearing out my grandparents' old barn, asking which items I wanted to keep. I watched through the screen as decades of family history were sorted into "keep" and "donate" piles. That's when I spotted it in the corner – my grandparents' old plow, the same one that had carved a life from the soil, season after season.
The blade of the plow arrived a few weeks later. I almost missed the delivery, rushing home from another late commission at the forge. While holding it in my hands, I felt something shift. Every scratch and wear mark told a story – of dawn-to-dusk struggles, of quiet determination, of seasons of abundance and hardship.
But what place did such an object have in my modern life? The piece sat in my forge for days while I wrestled with the question. During breaks between commissions, I found myself drawn to it, running my fingers along its worn surfaces, finding strange comfort in its solid presence.
One sleepless night, after a particularly dark period when my thoughts felt as heavy as the metal I worked with daily, an idea took hold. My grandparents had transformed raw earth into vitality using this plow. Perhaps I could transform their tool into something that would help me break through my fallow periods.
The decision to forge the plow into Mjölnir, Thor's hammer, felt like the first clear thought I'd had in months. The metal that had once pushed through soil would now help me push through different kinds of resistance.
In the forge, as my hammer struck the metal and sparks flew into the darkness, I felt something shift. Each blow seemed to wake memories trapped within the steel – memories of my grandmother's quiet resilience, and my grandfather's unwavering perseverance. The metal that had once pushed through the soil now took on a new form, but its essence remained unchanged: it was still a tool for cultivating life.
The pendant that emerged from my work wasn't perfect – far from the polished items we see around us today. But its weight against my chest carried something no piece could match. In its edges, I felt generations of hardened skin. In its patina, I saw mornings of frost and afternoons of harvest.
Wearing it changed how I moved through the world. During difficult days when shadows crept into my mind, my hand would find its way to the metal, drawing strength from its solid presence. In the forge, when faced with challenging commissions, I found myself channeling the same quiet determination that had guided my grandparents through countless seasons.
My workspace slowly transformed too. The pendant wasn't just jewelry – it was permission to let my space tell my story. Other pieces began to find their way home. Objects that carried memories. And more importantly, they carried possibilities. They weren't relics of a past I couldn't return to, but bridges to a future I was still creating.
Now, when I look around my space, I see both who I am and where I came from. The pendant rests against my chest as I work, old strength supporting new creations. Sometimes, during quiet moments between hammer strikes, I hold it and wonder what stories it will carry forward, what meaning future generations might find in its weathered surface.
I've learned that a heirloom's power lies not in its monetary value or even its original purpose, but in its ability to connect us – to our past, to ourselves, to the future we hope to build. In choosing what to carry forward and what to transform, we write our chapters in an endless story. The weight against my chest reminds me daily: that we are all links in a chain, carrying forward not just objects, but the strength, wisdom, and love of those who came before us.