Chinese good luck charms

Read the last two columns against each other. An object can be genuinely ancient while the reason you are being given for buying it was invented in living memory, and that is the normal case rather than the scandalous exception.

The winged, horned, lion-bodied animal on half the bracelets in the shop is the pixiu, and it is the one object here whose Chinese credentials are beyond argument. It appears in the Book of Documents as a simile for brave soldiers and in the Records of the Grand Historian among the beasts the Yellow Emperor trained for battle. Stone versions of it stand in fields outside Nanjing, where they have been guarding vanished tombs since the fifth century.

What is not ancient is the money. The famous story, that the Jade Emperor sealed the creature's rear end so that treasure goes in and never comes out, appears in no classical text, and Chinese Wikipedia's own entry says plainly that the wealth beliefs attached to the animal have no classical textual foundation. That is an unusually blunt thing for an encyclopedia to say about a national favorite, and it is correct.

The whole history, along with the wearing rules people actually ask about, which hand, which way the head faces, who is told they cannot wear one, is on our page about the pixiu and what it used to be.

The dark banded beads with cream circles on them, sold in every Chinese charm shop and described online as Chinese roughly as often as not, are dzi beads, and they are Tibetan. They are found across Tibet, Bhutan, Nepal and Ladakh, they belong to a Himalayan religious world with its own protector deities, and the Chinese name for them, tianzhu, heaven bead, is the name of an import rather than a native term.

The material is agate, and the pattern is not natural. It is produced by an etching and dyeing process that alkali and heat drive into the surface of the stone, a technique that is genuinely old and genuinely widespread: comparable etched agate beads turn up across Mesopotamia, the Indus Valley and Central Asia. The earliest archaeologically controlled find of a bead with dzi-style decoration comes not from Tibet at all but from a Saka burial at Uigarak in Kazakhstan, dated to the seventh to fifth century BCE.

The Tibetan belief, worth stating because it is so much stranger and better than the sales version, is that dzi are not made by anyone. They were traditionally held to be naturally formed objects found in the soil, in grassland, occasionally in the possession of animals, rather than manufactured beads, and they are valued by the number of eyes, the circular figures on the surface. A nine-eyed bead is the top of the market.

Sold to you as an ancient Chinese wealth charm, a dzi bead is being misdescribed twice over: wrong culture, and wrong function. That does not make it a bad object. It makes it somebody else's.

The plain strings of wooden beads are Buddhist prayer beads, and in their own tradition they are not lucky. They are a tally.

The instruction comes from a short sutra known in Chinese as the Soapberry Seed Scripture, translated into Chinese in the Eastern Jin period, somewhere in the fourth or fifth century. The scene in it is worth having. A king asks the Buddha not for a blessing but for a method: something he can practice easily, at any hour of the day or night, to be free of suffering. What he is given is a piece of equipment. Thread one hundred and eight seeds of the soapberry tree, and move them through your fingers one at a time while reciting homage to the three jewels.

That is the origin of the number everyone quotes and almost nobody sources. The sutra ties the count to the hundred and eight afflictions the practice is meant to end, so the string is both a tally and a statement of the job. It is a text about attention rather than fortune. The object reached China with Buddhism, spread through the whole East Asian Buddhist world, and now hangs on a market rail beside things that promise money.

Wearing one you do not recite on is not an offense, and plenty of practicing Buddhists wear theirs as jewelry between uses. But if someone tells you a mala attracts wealth, they have the object's own tradition against them.

Searching in English for a Chinese talisman gets you jewelry. It should get you paperwork.

In religious Daoism a fu is a written talisman: a document, brushed in vermilion on yellow paper by an ordained priest, in a script that deliberately is not ordinary Chinese writing, and functionally addressed to the spirit bureaucracy in the way a summons is addressed to a person. It can be pasted above a door, carried folded, or burned and the ash taken in water. Its authority comes from the office of the person who wrote it and from the register of spirits that priest is ordained to command. What it looks like matters far less than who issued it.

Set that beside a bracelet and the difference is not one of degree. A charm is an object whose power is said to sit in the thing itself. A fu is an instrument whose power sits in an institution, and it has an author. English collapses both into talisman, which is how a category with priests, ordination lineages and a canon ends up as a search term that returns silver pendants.

The related word people meet is kaiguang, the opening of light. That is a real and old rite, the consecration that turns a made image into an inhabited one, performed by dotting in the pupils of a statue with a calligraphy brush loaded with cinnabar, by a Daoist priest or a Buddhist monk. The eye-opening of the Great Buddha at Todaiji in Nara in 752 was carried out for Emperor Shomu by the Indian priest Bodhisena in front of ten thousand monks. Every seller offering to consecrate your bracelet is invoking that. Whether a bracelet with no pupils to paint is the kind of object the rite was built for is a question the seller will not raise, and you now can.

Red thread costs almost nothing and is worn by enormous numbers of people who would tell you they are not superstitious, which makes it the most interesting object on the rail.

It belongs to benmingnian, your own zodiac year, which comes around every twelve years and which the tradition treats as a hard year rather than a lucky one. That inversion catches almost every Western reader by surprise. The reasoning practitioners give is that in your animal's year you stand in direct relation to Tai Sui, the Grand Duke of the year, and being directly in front of something is not a comfortable place to stand. The countermeasure is red, worn against the skin, and traditionally given to you by an older relative rather than bought for yourself.

We will not date the custom for you, because the origin stories in circulation are older than the evidence for them. What is solidly documented is that red has been the auspicious color across the imperial period and that the practice today is close to universal in Chinese communities, red socks and red underwear included. That is a real living tradition, and it costs three dollars.

Your own year, and which years those are, is worked out on our Chinese zodiac pages.

Black obsidian pixiu bracelets are now so common that many buyers assume obsidian is the traditional material. It is not. There is no classical Chinese literature on obsidian as a protective stone, no ritual use of it in the record, and the material's charm career is recent enough to have happened in front of us: it is the international crystal market, which does have a vocabulary about obsidian, meeting the Chinese charm trade, which had a beast that needed carving in something cheap and dark.

The traditional Chinese answer to what stone a meaningful object should be made of is not in any real doubt, and it is jade. That is a two-thousand-year-old preference with ritual texts, rank systems and burial practice behind it, which our page on crystals in feng shui sets against the modern crystal shelf directly, and which the jade cluster covers at length.

The one jade object that belongs on this rail without an asterisk is the peace buckle, the plain flat ring worn at the throat, which is the ritual disc of the Zhou shrunk to the size of a coin. It is the oldest shape in the entire tradition and one of the best-selling objects in it today. What it and the other carved motifs mean is decoded on our page on what a jade bracelet means.

The three-legged money frog and the strings of five Qing dynasty coins are charms in the same market, but they behave differently: both are objects you place in a room rather than wear, and placement puts them under feng shui rather than under jewelry. They are treated, with their dating, on our feng shui wealth page, which is also where the question of where in your home any of this should sit gets a real answer rather than a shrug.

The character side of the subject is separate again. Fortune, prosperity, longevity and double happiness are not objects but written characters, and what they mean, where they are pasted and which way up is on Chinese good luck symbols.

1. Which tradition is this from? A seller who can answer, and who does not answer Chinese for a dzi bead, is a seller who knows their stock.
2. What is the material, in mineral terms? Jade, obsidian, agate, dyed quartzite and glass all look alike under shop lighting. For jade specifically the answer has to be jadeite or nephrite and whether it has been treated, which our page on telling real jade from treated jade covers.
3. How old is the practice you are describing? Not how old the object is. The two get answered as one, and separating them is the single most useful thing you can do at a counter.
4. Who consecrated it, if you are being told it was consecrated? Kaiguang has an officiant. A ritual without a named officiant is a marketing line.

None of this is an argument against buying any of it. It is an argument for knowing what you have. An object bought because it is beautiful, or because your grandmother put it on your wrist, keeps every bit of its meaning when you find out the story attached to it is eighty years old rather than eight hundred. What it loses is the ability to be sold to you twice.