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"Golden Fields of Gratitude"

Golden Fields of Gratitude The rice is turning golden again. Under the gentle light of the morning sun, the fields shimmer like a vast ocean of gold stretching endlessly across the land. This is the place—deep in the interior of Java, on the quiet edge of a forest that leans softly against the mountain slopes. A humble village where nothing is excessive, yet nothing is ever lacking. Here, life is always *enough*. The soil is fertile, the water clear, the air rich with the scent of damp leaves and earth after dawn. The forest surrounding the village stands tall and cared for, the mountains remain pristine like ancient guardians keeping silent watch. There is almost no trace of illegal logging, no shadow of greed disturbing the balance. The villagers understand, in their own simple way, how vital the forest is to their lives. Not because they studied reforestation in classrooms, nor because they read books on conservation. Most of them are merely graduates of the small village school, yet they possess a wisdom deeper than theory: that nature is a home, and a home must be loved, not harmed. So they care for it with their hearts, tending the land as though it is an inseparable part of their own being. When the rice begins to turn golden, they give thanks. When they plant the seeds, gratitude is whispered into the soil—each seed a tiny prayer entrusted to the earth. Even when pests attack their fields, they still speak words of gratitude. Not because they welcome hardship, but because they believe that every trial is part of the journey of life, something to be accepted with a steady heart. When floods come or when long droughts crack the ground, their smiles remain, and their gratitude does not fade. It is not resignation, nor defeat, but a form of reverence to the One who governs the world. They believe that nature moves with purpose, and that the duty of humans is simply to care for it and be thankful. At the start of every planting season, a humble ceremony takes place. Soft prayers rise with thin curls of incense smoke, carrying hopes and blessings to the sky. They tend their rice fields as one would care for a child—with patience, devotion, and a quiet resilience. And when the harvest comes, their gratitude blossoms into celebration. After harvesting, the village comes alive with a festive spirit: wayang performances lasting through the night, gamelan melodies carried by the wind, and traditional tayub dances that brighten the evening. For them, these are not acts of superstition, nor signs of misplaced worship. They are expressions of joy, sincerity, and thanksgiving to the Ruler of the universe—God, whom they come to know through fields, forests, rains, winds, and the work of their own hands. In this village, gratitude is not merely spoken. Gratitude is lived. It is woven into the rhythms of planting and harvesting, into the steps that tread the narrow field paths, into the reverent gaze toward the forest that shelters them. It is present in the laughter that fills the harvest nights, in the simple meals shared after a long day, in the peace that settles quietly in their hearts. And every golden season of rice, every turn of the weather, reminds them of a profound truth: that happiness can be beautifully simple. That enough is one of life’s greatest blessings. That a life close to nature is a life filled with a sacred calm—a calm that teaches them that loving the land is one of the purest ways to love the Creator who shaped it.