The red bracelet

and other tellings of fortune

Every time I visit Jerusalem, I go to the Old City in search of a red bracelet. It might sound peculiar, that I would travel to this ancient city to attain a bracelet made of yarn, but it’s a habit that I can’t break. I’ve built up a bit of a superstition around it (something I admittedly do with a lot of things in my life), and I whole-heartedly believe that when the bracelet falls off, it will work the manifestations I planted into its knots into my life.

Near the Kotel I look for the person who is waving a fistful of pre-cut red yarn in the air. I approach them and let them anoint me with the string, and then rejoin the throngs of people who are on their way to visit the Wailing Wall. On my recent visit this past October, the bracelet-giver placed his hands on the crown of my head after the bracelet was tied. He called in marriage, a good and happy family, and prosperity. I thanked him and went to wash my hands in the communal stone sink. I tore a strip of paper from my notebook, and scribbled onto it some hopes and dreams and folded it up, jamming it into a small crevice of the Wailing Wall with my thumb. I laid my palm flat on the smooth stone, sealing its fate, offered a hello to my ancestors. The tails of my newly tied red string bracelet floated in the heat of the day. My sister and I walked backwards as we left the wall—a sign of respect. Hushed prayers and hopeful sobbing created sound layers as they always do here.

I seem to attract answers when I’m in Jerusalem. Even when I’m not seeking them. Perhaps it’s the formative years I spent in Israel, growing from a girl into woman that makes this land somewhat maternal for me. The rough waves of the Mediterranean taught me my strength, the birds showed me freedom. I learned a deeper woven fabric of family. I found my voice here. I came to love the shape of my body dancing my heart out in that one nightclub that played Hip Hop in the heart of Tel Aviv.

One time, my friend Paloma, who lived across the street from me, asked if I’d like to join her to Jerusalem. It was just shy of eleven at night, and her friend was visiting from Paris with a rental car. I hesitated due to the time, and she replied, “Let’s just do it”. Neither of us were particularly spontaneous people, so this felt like an exhilarating treat. We piled into the car, driving through the deserted roads of Friday evening Shabbat. The spines of the Judean Hills were illuminated by moonlight, and I followed their curves. When we arrived, Jerusalem met us, a fresh prayer of closure for the week had been folded into the city. We spoke in hushed tones—not wanting to disturb the sacred silence around us. We padded through the shuk, a normally bustling, overcrowded place. And that night it was all ours. We investigated walls and floors and stalls up close—parts of the market that were generally shrouded in layers of textiles and halvah for sale. It was in this unique perspective of Jerusalem that I was struck with a deep reverence. At 20 years old, I was searching. And I found pieces of myself wandering in the emptiness of what might be possible.

A few years later, I met a man—a shopkeeper in the same shuk. He convinced my sister, friend and I to enter his shop. We were always advised not to stay in the shuk past dark, but here we were, at the brink of dusk, walking through antique silverware and Turkish teacups piled high in all directions into the back of his stall. He looked at me and said, “You are afraid.” He could tell I was nervous about my surroundings. But he could also sense that I was fearful of life itself. I had graduated college already, left Israel to start my career journey back in the U.S. I was living in New York City, trying to make it in fashion editorial. I had just started a blog about the farm-to-table movement. I was finding myself all over again, and in this round, I felt more disconnected. Perhaps it was just a harsh reality of growing up. I let this mystic read me like an open book. He saw that I was holding myself back, and that I have to release my grip so that I may accomplish all the greatness that lies ahead for me in this lifetime. I wiped tears from my eyes as he told me what I already knew about a current lover. I stared up at the moon as our bus shuttled towards Tel Aviv in deep contemplation and I swore to never forget this night.

In 2017 I acquired another bracelet. As I entered the Old City, an older woman grabbed my arm and brazenly began tying the string onto my wrist. “Anglit o hivrit? (English or Hebrew?)” she asked “Anglit be’vakasha. (English please)” I said. “You will find love, you will be healthy”. 27-year-old Maya had accomplished so much. She had a successful business, and was about to move to a new city. She had pushed through a lot of fear, and knew herself better than ever, dousing herself in layers of self love. But she could not seem to overcome the nudging feeling of loneliness that met her every night as her body sank into bed. I believed this woman’s prayers. I closed my eyes and prayed them in for myself. The red bracelet finally fell off a year and a half later. Just after that trip to Israel, I had moved my life sight-unseen to DC, and had said goodbye to a relationship that no longer served me.

I sent a picture to my girlfriends. “It’s off. My man is on his way.”

Last week, on Thursday, my most recent red bracelet fell off. It released delicately into my hand, the fibers separating into mere threads right before I stepped into the shower. I held it in complete joy. I showed it to Dan and smiled. “It fell off. Great things are on their way.”

Life always looks a little different when I return from those trips to Israel, and each time the red bracelet falls off, I soak in the beauty of what’s to come. I receive. The one thing that remains constant is the belief in the magic we are capable of creating around us.