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 aretrue 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?"
