About Us

Where the Gold Seeps In: A Nomad’s Ode to Broken Treasures

I still taste Jingdezhen’s kiln-dust when rain falls—that day Master Li handed me a celadon bowl stitched with gold veins. “Kintsukuroi,” he said. “True beauty knows resurrection.” For twelve monsoons, that bowl guided me:

In Tibetan highlands, nuns pressed turquoise dust into tsa-tsa tablets. “Minerals sing earth’s oldest hymns,” whispered Sister Yangchen as juniper smoke curled around us. Now those herbal tablets scent yoga studios from Berlin to Buenos Aires, releasing 8th-century mantras with every warmth.

On Mongolian steppes, eagle-hunter Altan forged a silver torque around my wrist. Its glyphs spelled “wind-writing”—ancestral symbols to trap storms. “Metal dreams what flesh forgets,” she laughed, pouring airag into cracked cups. Those glyphs now dance in our jewelry, humming Gobi tales to London commuters.

At a Chiang Mai ruin, 94-year-old weaver Mali taught me to spin silk from decayed looms. “Threads are monsoons in captivity,” she winked, unraveling a phoenix-patterned shawl. That fabric lines meditation cushions in Toronto, its birds taking flight with each breath.

These artifacts aren’t relics but living bridges:

The Bali spirit mask carved with “flaws” for deities to inhabit

The Kyoto-lacquered mala beads bearing raku-firing cracks

The Lao indigo yoga mat dyed with midnight Mekong whispers

We’ve been taught perfection means purity. The East knows better:

Gold enters through breaks
Spirits dwell in “flaws”
Breath deepens where resistance lives

So wear that Khmer coin pendant as a key—to unlock stories of Angkor market women trading lotus for silver. Unroll your yoga mat like a monk’s alms cloth, woven with patience that defies time. Display that Hiroshige-wave sculpture not as décor but a portal—to Edo-era seas where fishermen sang to appease typhoons.

Every piece I gather is a kintsugi junction: where Mongolian sky marries Manhattan concrete, where Philippine coral whispers to Parisian perfume bottles. We don’t sell objects. We broker reunions—between your modernity and antiquity’s embrace.

For in the mended bowl, the herb-stamped clay, the storm-etched silver—I found my compass home.
Walk with me: where jewelry becomes heirloom, yoga turns pilgrimage, and every crack breathes forgotten worlds alive.