Chapter 47 Ivy
The path to Tanah Lot stretches before us, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet.
My thighs burn as I follow the local guide, thinking about how many Instagram influencers make this climb look effortless in flowing dresses and perfect makeup.
Meanwhile, I'm sweating in places I didn't know could sweat.
"The temple teaches us patience," our guide, Nyoman, says with a smile. "And sometimes, humility."
As if on cue, my foot slips, and I catch myself against the ancient stone, heart pounding. "Definitely feeling humbled right now."
The complex reveals itself gradually. First, the outer walls, then the distinctive tiered roofs rising into the morning sky.
The air grows heavier with scent as we approach, a blend of burning incense, salt, and the soft sweetness of tropical blooms. Offerings line the path—small bamboo baskets brimming with petals and smoldering sticks.
"We'll stop at the blessing area first," Nyoman says, guiding us toward a group of local women arranging fresh offerings. "It's customary to receive a blessing before entering the inner sanctum."
An elderly priestess sits in quiet meditation, her lined face peaceful. She looks up as we approach, and her warm smile puts me at ease. Nyoman exchanges a few words with her in Balinese, and she gestures for me to sit.
She takes my hands in hers, her touch gentle but sure. Her eyes meet mine, and there's such kindness there that my carefully maintained composure wavers.
"You seek answers," she says softly in accented English, studying my palms. "But perhaps you already know them."
I swallow hard. "I'm trying to figure some things out."
She nods, reaching for something beside her altar. "Black tourmaline," she says, pressing a smooth stone into my palm. "For when the path seems unclear."
"It's beautiful," I say, running my finger along its ridged surface. "I work with crystals too, back home."
The stone is smooth and warm against my palm.
Just like the piece of black tourmaline I sneaked into Caleb's room when we were seventeen, tucking it behind his Xbox "for protection.
" I remember him finding it and holding it up with a stupid grin.
"Planning to curse my Call of Duty skills? " But he never threw it away.
"Ah." Her smile deepens. "Then you know. Sometimes we must protect ourselves to find our strength again."
Behind us, waves crash against the temple's base, and morning prayers begin to fill the air. A priest rings a bell, its deep tone resonating through the stone at our feet.
"The temple has many lessons," she continues, gesturing to the structure rising before us. "But perhaps the greatest is this: we stand strongest when we are true to ourselves."
I clutch the tourmaline tighter, its familiar energy grounding me as we move through the blessing ritual. The priestess marks my forehead with rice grains and flower water, murmuring prayers in Balinese.
We spend the next hour exploring the temple grounds, learning about its history and significance. I leave my simple flower offering—white frangipani and yellow marigold petals arranged on a small banana leaf—at the main shrine, whispering my own quiet prayers into the morning air.
The Ubud market teems with brilliant sarongs, turmeric-dusted stalls, and a constant buzz of motion and noise.
Dad navigates the narrow aisles like he was born here.
It's strange seeing him so at home—a far cry from the buttoned-up philosophy professor I remember from my earliest years, who wore tweed jackets and carried leather briefcases full of student papers.
"You have to taste this," Dad says, pulling me toward a food stall. "Best satay lilit on the island." He places the order in broken Bahasa, earning a laugh from the vendor. Twenty years ago, he would've been too self-conscious to even order for himself.
"I don't know what that is," I admit, eyeing the grilled fish skewers.
"Trust me, Pixie. Remember how I got you to try sushi when you were twelve?"
That confident "trust me" reminds me of someone else entirely. Caleb used to say it the exact same way before talking me into cliff jumping or midnight drives. The difference is Dad's "trust me" comes with follow-through.
Caleb's just came with good intentions and bad timing.
"You bribed me with books."
"And now you love it. Your old man knows things."
The satay is incredible—spicy and rich with coconut and lime. We move deeper into the market, Dad pointing out fruits I've never seen before. He buys us mangosteens and rambutans, teaching me how to crack them open.
"When did you get so . . ." I gesture vaguely with my rambutan, "like this?"
"Like what?"
"You used to give lectures about existentialism. Now you're haggling and eating street food."
"Ah." He grins. "Remember that sabbatical I took when you were seven? The one your mother insisted on?"
"When you went to Nepal for three months?"
"That's when it started. All those years teaching philosophy, I was just scratching the surface. Talking about life instead of living it." He steers me toward a stall filled with batik fabrics. "These would look beautiful in your shop window."
I run my fingers over the intricate patterns. "How much did Mom have to push you to take that trip?"
"Only about six years of gentle nudging." He laughs, helping me pick out several pieces. "I was scared of leaving my comfortable academic bubble. But your mother, she always saw who I could be before I did. Sometimes the best things in life happen when we let go of who we think we should be."
I think about my shop, about the path that led me there. "Is that why you supported me opening The Enchanted Quill?"
"You've built something beautiful." He's examining hand-carved wooden boxes now. "Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing, leaving you with Grams when you started high school."
We rarely talk about those years when they traveled, teaching and studying while I stayed in Hallow's End. "Dad—"
"You were so young," he continues, his voice soft. "And we were so caught up in our journey, in finding ourselves. Sometimes I think we were selfish."
"I loved living with Grams." I touch his arm. "She taught me everything about the shop, about herbs and crystals. About who I could be."
"Still." He picks up a box, turns it over in his hands. "When I see what you've built with The Enchanted Quill—this beautiful, magical space—sometimes I wonder if you did it because you needed your own sanctuary. Because we weren't there."
"Or maybe," I say carefully, "I did it because you and Mom taught me it was okay to follow my heart. Even when it leads somewhere unexpected."
He looks at me then, eyes suspiciously bright. "You're too kind to your old man, Pixie."
"I'm honest." I pick up a bundle of sage, breathe in its familiar scent. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing enough. Being enough."
"Enough for who?" His parent-guilt giving way to fierce pride. "The universe doesn't measure success in profit margins. It measures it in lives touched. Hearts opened. Magic shared. And you, my girl, you've created more magic than we ever could."
"Now you sound like Mom."
"Your mother," he grins, "is usually right. Don't tell her I said that. Though she was definitely right about leaving you with Grams. That woman raised you into exactly who you needed to be."
We load up on local coffee beans, raw honey, and spices I can use in my tea blends. Dad helps me pick out silver rings and earrings my customers will love, bargaining prices down while somehow leaving the vendors convinced they've won.
"Ice cream?" Dad suggests, nodding toward a cafe. "There's a place that makes jackfruit gelato. Sounds weird, tastes like heaven."
"You really have changed," I laugh, following him. "Remember when you wouldn't eat anything but plain vanilla?"
"Growth, Pixie." He throws an arm around my shoulders. "Sometimes it looks like trading tenure for temples. Sometimes it looks like trying jackfruit gelato."
The morning air at Tirta Empul holds a particular stillness, broken only by the murmur of prayers and the constant flow of spring water.
Mom helps me adjust the mandatory sarong and sash we rented at the entrance—yellow fabric with traditional Balinese patterns, wrapped precisely as the attendant showed us.
We make our way through the temple's first courtyard, past the ancient pools where massive koi fish drift leisurely. Other visitors move quietly through the space, carrying their offering baskets filled with flowers and incense.
"The purification pools are in the central courtyard," our guide explains, leading us past intricate stone carvings. "But first, we must prepare the offerings and pray in the main temple."
I follow Mom's lead in arranging the canang sari—tiny palm-leaf baskets filled with colorful flowers, each hue honoring a specific Hindu deity.
My hands shake slightly as I tuck a red flower into place, then white, yellow, and blue.
The rituals here are precise, meaningful.
A world away from my casual practices at home.
After presenting our offerings and prayers at the main shrine, we proceed to the purification area.
Two long basins stretch before us, lined with stone spouts pouring crystal-clear spring water.
The flow comes from the sacred spring source, visible through the bubbling surface at the far end of the courtyard.
"There are fifteen spouts in the first pool," our guide says quietly. "Each one serves a specific purpose. Start from the left, but skip the two at the far end. Those are for funeral rites."
I watch other visitors move through the ritual, tourists and worshippers alike, all following the same ancient patterns. A Balinese family ahead of us demonstrates the proper way: cupping the water in their hands, bringing it to their faces, then bowing with prayer before moving to the next spout.
"Remember to enter with your right foot," Mom whispers as we step into the first pool. Cold rushes over my skin, and I grip the stone edge to steady myself. "Cup the flow three times for each spout."
I follow the ritual as instructed. Three times to wash my face, three times to drink, then a final prayer with hands pressed together.
Local worshippers move through the ritual with grace, whispering prayers I don't understand but that echo in my bones.
An elderly Balinese woman beside me smiles, gently correcting my stance before the fourth spout.
There's something powerful about this shared ceremony, hundreds of people seeking renewal in the same sacred waters.
At the seventh spout, meant for cleansing negative thoughts, everything shifts.
It could be the two weeks of meditation and temple visits catching up with me, or simply the right moment breaking through, but suddenly I'm crying.
Not the quiet, dignified tears I expected in a sacred space, but real, body-shaking sobs that I can't control.
A local woman in a bright orange sarong touches my shoulder, steadying me. "Let go," she says in careful English. "The water knows."
When I finally emerge from the pools, my sarong dripping, and my face bare of makeup, Mom's waiting with a clean towel and understanding eyes, and we make our way to a quiet corner of the courtyard, beneath a flowering frangipani tree.
Other visitors rest here too, all of us wrapped in damp sarongs, all somehow changed by the ancient waters.
"I get it now," I say, watching incense smoke spiral up from nearby offerings, "Why you and Dad keep moving, seeking these places."
Mom wrings water from my hair. "What do you understand?"
"Sometimes you need to leave everything familiar to find yourself again." I watch a young girl place her offering by the spring source. "But I also know that's not my path. My magic belongs in Hallow's End. In my shop and with my community."
"That's wisdom too," Mom says. "Knowing where you belong."
Two weeks ago, I fled to Bali with a broken heart and tangled thoughts. Tomorrow I'll board my flight home, returning to customers seeking love spells, and friends requesting tarot readings. To my little cottage and garden, to the rhythm of morning rituals and evening inventory counts.
But I'm bringing something with me. Not just temple blessings and market treasures, but the reminder that sometimes, strength means letting others hold you up. That wisdom isn't about having all the answers, but about being brave enough to stay open to the questions.