When Attention Changes the Journey

The Blitar–Malang route had become part of my life since the beginning of college. Sometimes I traveled it every two weeks, sometimes once a month. Friday home, Sunday evening or Monday morning back again. The route felt like an old cassette tape replayed endlessly—over time, the sound faded, the melody blurred. Roads, rice fields, rows of houses passed by without leaving an impression.

Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible.

But somehow, near the end of my college years, I became interested in something I had never cared about before: collecting rare fruit trees—plants you don’t find in local markets anymore, plants that once grew in the yards of old houses. Ceremai. Jamblang. Rukem. Fruits slowly disappearing, quietly forgotten.

And once that hobby took root, something else changed with it.

One day, on my usual trip home, while keeping an eye out for new plants, my gaze stopped on two ceremai trees. One stood near a rice field, the other by a village road. They were far apart, not growing side by side. And yet, both caught my attention.

Strange. Why had I only noticed them now—after passing that road hundreds of times?

They hadn’t suddenly appeared. I had finally seen them.

That’s when a thought surfaced: perhaps our thoughts work like magnets. When we begin to care about something, we unknowingly pull it closer into our lives. Like those ceremai trees—they had always been there. I simply hadn’t been paying attention.

What we focus on is what we begin to encounter. The world doesn’t change—but our way of seeing does. And suddenly, life feels richer, more alive, more meaningful.

From collecting local fruit trees, I drifted into a new kind of adventure—searching for rare fruits growing in remote places. Something I had never imagined doing before. What began as a simple hobby slowly led me to climb mountains and explore hidden waterfalls rarely visited by others. More than once, I went alone—just me and a backpack filled with basic tools.

I remember my first solo trip to Mount Panderman in Malang. My friends thought I had completely lost my mind.

Yet these unforgettable adventures were born from something incredibly small: a simple focus on finding rare fruit.

I realized it was never just about the fruit. It was about courage—facing fear, stepping into uncertainty, and chasing things that once felt unreachable. A modest interest in local plants quietly taught me this: when we give attention to what we love, we open ourselves to unexpected paths.

Courage does not arrive all at once. It grows—from desire, from intention, from each step taken forward.

Even the adventures that seemed “crazy” to others began with nothing more than attention to a small thing—like collecting fruit trees.

“Energy flows where attention goes.” — Tony Robbins

When we direct our attention toward positive things, our energy naturally follows. But when we fixate on worry, fear, or what we lack, we trap ourselves in those patterns. Attention is power. It shapes how we experience reality. What we focus on, we invite closer.

Perhaps we all have our own “ceremai tree”—something that has always been around us, quietly waiting to be noticed. A missed opportunity. A forgotten dream. A small joy we once dismissed.

Sometimes, magic isn’t about discovering something new. It’s about learning to see what has been there all along—with presence, with care, and with an open heart.