I Don’t Wear Jewelry

I don’t wear jewelry.
Never have.

No watch.
No chain.
No charm bracelet, ankle bracelet, or anything else that ends in “bracelet.”

The lone exception, for nearly my entire adult life, has been the gold signet ring on my right hand. It bears the Peterson family crest and was given to me by my paternal grandmother—the single most revered person in my life. I wear it because of her, not because it’s jewelry. If it were made of wood or plastic or cardboard, I’d still wear it.

So imagine my surprise when, on a quiet morning in Bhutan, I walked into a temple and walked out wearing… well… let’s call it a woven token of improbable meaning. (But absolutely NOT a bracelet. My inner macho refuses that word.)

The Monk, the Smile, and the Moment

I was sitting on a low wooden bench when a monk approached me. He sat across from me, gave me the widest smile I’ve ever received from a stranger, and then reached out to shake my hand.

Only he didn’t let go.

He held my hand like he had known me for decades. He looked directly into my eyes—not past me, not through me, but at me. It was disarming. And then—still holding on—he said:

“You are very strong.
You will live to be 105.”

Now here’s the part that stunned me: For the past several months, I have quietly, intentionally set a personal goal for myself—

to live to be 105.

Not 100. Not 95. Not “as long as I’m healthy.” No, specifically 105.

And now, halfway around the world, a monk in a Himalayan temple spoke the same number aloud to me, unprompted, with absolute certainty.

The Woven Thing Around My Wrist

Then he reached into his robe and pulled out a small bundle of soft, woven threads—green and black, with a splash of yellow and blue here and there. The ends were tied with yellow and blue string. It looked handmade, humble, gentle.

He asked if he could tie it around my wrist.

I said yes.

He tied it loosely—so loose it hardly touches my skin. No metal. No clasp. No weight. More like a whisper than an accessory.

Since that moment, it hasn’t left my wrist.

And—this is the part that surprises me to admit—I love it.

I love the feel of it. I love the look of it. I love the memory of where it came from. And I love the idea—irrational as it may be—that it’s bringing me good luck.

What Do You Call Something That Isn’t a Bracelet?

“Bracelet” feels wrong. Too decorative. Too sparkly. Too feminine for my inner eighth-grade self to handle.

This thing is something else. A blessing? A talisman? A thread of connection? A reminder?

Maybe it doesn’t need a name at all.

Maybe it’s simply what it is:

A physical strand holding together a moment that touched me deeply.

Why This Little Thread Matters

Here’s what I’ve realized in the weeks since that encounter:

We all have objects that become infused with meaning far beyond their physical form.
A stone from a beach.
A folded note from a child.
A key from a house long sold.
A ring from a grandmother.

And sometimes, a woven thread from a monk who looks into your soul and tells you you’ll live to be 105.

• • The unexpected moments that jolt us awake.
  • The power of being seen by another human being.
  • The softness underneath my own toughness.
  • The possibility that life still has surprises left for me.
  • And the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, I will make it to 105.

A String of Meaning

So no, I don’t wear jewelry. And I still won’t call it a bracelet.

But I will say this:

Every time I glance down at that soft green-and-black thread on my wrist, I feel just a little luckier, a little calmer, a little more connected to a moment that made me believe—in myself, in the future, in something bigger.

And that feels powerful.

Even for someone who insists he isn’t the bracelet-wearing type.