I was raised in Lhasa, in a small upstairs room above our family’s jewelry shop. Outside, the Barkhor was always moving—pilgrims turning prayer wheels, smoke rising from incense, monks chanting in low hums, children laughing with strings of coral beads in their hands. I grew up knowing, not learning, that everything around me had a spirit. Everything was alive—stones, metals, prayers, wind, sky.

That is the world I come from.
A world where jewelry is not decoration. It is dialogue.
A conversation between the wearer and the unseen.

Spirit Is Not an Idea. It’s the Air We Breathe.

In the West, “spirituality” is often a lifestyle. In Tibet, it is life. It’s not something you switch on in the morning or perform on a mat. It is braided into our days. It lives in the butter lamps we light at dawn. In the mantras whispered under our breath while chopping vegetables. In the sky burials, where we offer our bodies back to the birds—because nothing truly belongs to us, not even this life.

We don’t just believe in spirits. We live with them.

Every mountain has a protector.
Every river has memory.
Every gesture means something.
Even silence speaks.

Jewelry as a Vessel for Prayer

In my family’s store, I watched my grandfather handcraft malas—each bead chosen with care, each knot tied with a breath of prayer. My grandmother would hum mantras while threading coral amulets. Not because it was a ritual—but because that’s how you infused the object with energy. With intention.

Turquoise is not just turquoise. It’s sky. It’s protection. It’s clarity.
Amber is not just fossilized resin. It holds warmth. Ancestors. Healing.

To the Tibetan people, jewelry carries memory. Karma. Wishes. Protection. It is spiritual technology.

You wear a ring to focus your mind.
You wear a pendant to protect your heart.
You wear a symbol not to show who you are—but to strengthen who you’re becoming.

Faith That Moves

Our faith is not rigid. It’s not hidden behind glass. It’s in movement. In touch. It flows through bodies—pilgrims spinning prayer wheels for days, fingers turning beads in rhythm with breath, monks drawing intricate mandalas only to wipe them away, reminding us of impermanence.

And through it all—there is beauty. Beauty not for vanity, but for remembrance.
Every curve of silver, every etching, every thread—it means something.

When I craft jewelry, I do not begin with metal. I begin with meaning.
What is this piece asking to say?
Who is it meant to protect?
Which energy does it need to carry?

That’s the root of my practice. That’s the soul of Tibetan art.

A Bridge Between Worlds

When Clara and I began Orientra, I didn’t want to “modernize” our tradition. I wanted to translate it. I wanted to show that our spiritual world is not outdated—it is more alive than ever. It has power in New York and London just as it does in Lhasa. The spirit doesn’t fade with distance. It adapts. It travels.

Through Orientra, we create not just jewelry, but bridges—between old and new, East and West, seen and unseen.

To Those Who Feel the Spirit

You do not have to be Tibetan to feel the energy in these pieces.
You just have to be open.
Open to the idea that the world is more alive than it appears.
That what you wear can hold memory, meaning, and magic.
That beauty can be sacred.
That tradition can be personal.

From my hands to yours—this is not just jewelry.
It is a whisper from the mountains.
It is the pulse of prayer.
It is spirit, made visible.

—Tsering
Co-Founder of Orientra
Traditional Artisan, Spirit-Keeper, Daughter of the Barkhor