Return to the Ancient Ways
The Dieng Plateau has always been a place of whispers. The land itself breathes stories—of old kingdoms and sacred temples, of ancestors whose footsteps still echo in the mist. The Kali Tulis River, winding through the valley, does not just bring down rainwater; it carries memories, truths woven into the fabric of time.
And so, when Joko walked along its edges, the river spoke to him—not in words, but in a rhythm, an energy vibration older than language itself.
For most of his life, Joko had felt like an outsider to this rhythm. His stutter made him feel separate, incomplete, as if he had been carved differently from those around him. He believed he had to fight against himself, that his voice was something broken to be fixed. But here, by the river, a quiet truth was stirring, waiting to be seen.
Pak Raden had told him once that wisdom is like the wind—it is always there, but you must be still, in the moment to feel it.
That day, as the old man led him into the cedar forest, Joko felt something shift. The air here was thick with an energy unseen, an ancient presence woven into the roots of the earth. The trees stood tall, their silence deeper than words. And in that silence, Pakde spoke.
The Truth Behind the Noise
“Joko,” he said, his voice carrying the energy of the ages, “have you ever wondered why the wise of old sought silence? Why the Rishis, the Wali, the Hermits of the Mountain all withdrew from the world to listen?”
Joko shook his head.
“It is because truth does not come from the mind, your thinking but from beyond it.” Pak Raden tapped his chest. “It arises from the space within, where there is no fear, no struggle, only knowing.”
Joko furrowed his brow. “But… how do I locate that space?”
“You do not need to find it,” Pakde told him with a chuckle. “It never left you.” He gestured to the trees around them. “Do you see how they stand? They do not doubt their place in this life. They do not question whether they are growing fast enough, or whether their branches are too twisted. They simply are.”
Joko looked at the towering trees, their trunks worn by time yet unshaken. For years, he had thought his voice made him less than others, that his pauses were signs of weakness. But now, standing among these silent giants, he wondered—what if he had been mistaken all along?
The Hidden Power of His Voice
Pak Raden sat down beside him, picking up a handful of soil. “The ancients knew something we have forgotten,” he said. “That every path, every challenge, every so-called flaw is a doorway to something greater.” He let the earth flow through his fingers. “Your voice, Joko—it is not a mistake. It is a gift waiting to be seen.”
Joko swallowed. “A gift?”
Pakde nodded. “Your pauses, your struggle—they are not barriers. They are the spaces where something deeper can enter.” He smiled. “Haven’t you noticed? When you speak, people listen. Not because you force them to, but because your pauses create space for something greater to come through.”
Joko’s breath caught in his throat. He had never seen it this way before.
“Most people speak to fill silence, very often even with filler words” Pakde continued. “But you—you allow silence to speak. That is rare. That is powerful.”
The words settled into Joko’s bones like a truth he had always known but never named.
For so long, he had always seen himself as incomplete. But what if, like the river that sings only when it meets resistance, his voice was made beautiful by the very thing he had once hated?
What if he had never been broken?
What if he had always been exactly as he was meant to be?
Returning to the Knowing
A wind stirred through the forest, rustling the leaves. Joko closed his eyes and felt it—not just as air moving past him, but as something alive, something that carried the knowing beyond words.
He had been taught to see his stutter as a limitation, but now, he saw the truth beneath the illusion. The wise ones of old did not rush their words. The greatest teachers, the elders, the mystics—they spoke slowly, deliberately, with pauses that allowed their words to sink into the heart.
And suddenly, he understood.
He was not separate from them.
He was not broken.
He was part of the same rhythm that had always existed, the rhythm of the river, the wind, the trees. He had been walking his own path of wisdom all along, without even knowing it.
Joko opened his eyes and met Pakde’s gaze.
The old man smiled. “You see it now, don’t you?”
Joko nodded, and this time, when he spoke, his voice was steady—not because he had forced it, but because he was no longer afraid of it.
“I see.”
And with those words, the mist over the Dieng Plateau seemed to part, revealing the path that had been there all along.
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