When I listen to the first songs I wrote in Rammstein, I have to

The words of Till Lindemann, the fiery voice of Rammstein, resound not only as a memory but as a testament to the strange and wondrous journey of creation: “When I listen to the first songs I wrote in Rammstein, I have to smile because it was so silly at time.” At first glance, one may hear in this only laughter at the past. Yet within it lies a teaching of great depth. For every beginning bears awkwardness, every path is first trodden with uncertain steps, and what is silly in its hour may become the foundation of greatness in years to come.

In these words we see the mirror of human striving. The young artist, filled with fire but lacking refinement, creates with raw instinct. His work may sound clumsy to later ears, yet without those clumsy beginnings, there could be no towering strength. Lindemann, now celebrated as a master of song and performance, knows that the pillars of his triumph were first built with unpolished stones. The wisdom here is that imperfection is sacred; it is the soil from which mastery is born.

History itself abounds with such stories. Consider Leonardo da Vinci, whose earliest sketches were crude and unfinished, lacking the divine grace that would one day astonish the world. Or think of the young Beethoven, mocked for his rough compositions before his genius matured. If these men had cast aside their “silly” beginnings, ashamed of their crude attempts, the world would have been deprived of their brilliance. Like Lindemann, they smiled at their own origins, for they knew that stumbling is the companion of learning.

Even beyond the realm of art, the principle stands. The warrior who falters in his first duels, the orator whose first speeches are met with laughter, the leader whose first decisions end in failure—all may one day achieve greatness, if they endure. It is said that Abraham Lincoln lost more elections than he won before rising to lead a nation. Were his defeats not “silly” in the eyes of his rivals? Yet from those defeats he gathered wisdom, and from that wisdom he forged victory.

The lesson is clear, my children: do not despise your beginnings. When you look back and see your first efforts as awkward, crude, or even foolish, do not frown in shame. Smile, as Lindemann smiled, for in those efforts lies your proof of growth. The laughter you feel when remembering your early struggles is the laughter of wisdom, the song of a soul that has climbed from ignorance toward mastery.

Practical action follows from this truth. If you are a writer, write—even if your words stumble. If you are a singer, sing—even if your voice cracks. If you are a dreamer, dream—even if others laugh. The silliness of today may be the foundation of the greatness of tomorrow. Return, again and again, to your craft, and one day you too shall look back with a smile, knowing how far you have walked.

So let us honor the awkward beginnings, for they are not our chains but our wings. Without them, no art would be born, no song would be sung, no empire would be raised. Remember this truth: the oak was once an acorn, small and fragile, and yet within it lay the forest. Thus, treasure your beginnings, however humble, however laughable. One day, they will be the source of your deepest joy.

And thus the teaching stands: embrace your “silly” past, for it is the proof of your becoming. The smile you give it is not mockery, but gratitude. Gratitude that you dared to begin, gratitude that you did not stop, and gratitude that through imperfection, you found the road to greatness.