"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 startedhigh 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 basinsstretch 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.
