In a rare cultural outing — especially for us Angelenos — my friend Orly and I decided to see a one-man show the other night in Hollywood. We arrived early, meandered along Sunset Boulevard, and grabbed a quick bite when I noticed the still-standing Rock ‘n Roll Thai — a place I hadn’t been to in decades.

Nothing had changed. The red neon sign in the window still glowed against the dark interior and was somehow inviting. We strolled down memory lane while ordering from the same old oversized, plastic-covered menus.

The food was barely edible — proof that longevity in Los Angeles can be more about vibe than taste.

Not having the heart to tell the sweet, bleached-blonde, rockabilly waitress just how terrible the soup was, we graciously accepted the obligatory fortune cookies along with the bill. It was too dark in the restaurant to read them.

[SIDEBAR] Having heard horror stories about fortune cookies being made in dingy cellars by child labor, I’d stopped cracking them open just to read some generic prediction — besides, both the cookies and the messages are usually stale anyway.

Orly left hers on the table. For reasons unknown, I opened mine. Rather than leave it behind, I crumpled the tiny slip of paper, tucked it into my pocket, and we headed off to what I figured would not be a memorable theatrical extravaganza. This guy was no Diana Vreeland or Lily Tomlin.

Once we stepped inside the tiny storefront theater lobby — brightly lit, more New York City Korean deli than Broadway — it confirmed my suspicion: no Obie Award–winning anything was on the immediate horizon. I pulled the fortune back out of my pocket and read what would turn out to be a quiet reality check for me — and hopefully for all of us.

“Your dreams will come true.”

My immediate reaction to those words was instinctive and certain: I believe they already have.

Not in the way we’re taught to measure dreams. Not money. Not fame. Not accolades. Not the external trophies our aspiration-obsessed culture tells us define success.

What has come true is something quieter.

With all the cuts and bruises healed, I no longer live in a state of yearning — maybe for cash — but I digress. I’m not waiting for the next thing to happen so I can finally feel complete. After years of inner work, spiritual reckoning, and practicing gratitude daily, I find myself in a space of peace.

That, to me, is the dream coming true.

While watching the one-man show, I couldn’t help thinking about my fortune cookie — and how this guy on stage needed to get the message more than I did.

He prattled on, desperate for acceptance — chasing relevance, fame, and validation as if it were oxygen. Every action felt slightly overextended. Neurotic. Too self-conscious. As if accomplishing one more milestone would finally have him arrive.

Arrive where? Potentially nowhere.

He’s a very likeable guy, surely, but troubled. What he seemed to want most was true love — reciprocated love — and perhaps even more urgently, love of self.

The play revolved around the inciting incident that derailed his life: a tragic brush with death — perhaps life’s greatest teacher. There is nothing more clarifying than confronting mortality, nothing like it to snap you off the self-pity pot and force you to appreciate the smallest things, like breathing.

Death interrupted this guy’s striving for more and better, and through that earth-shattering interruption, life itself became the revelation. The very thing he was chasing had been there all along.

Not like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, who was told she always had the power to go home — a lesson that, if I’m honest, never fully sat right with me. How dare Glinda the (not-so) Good Witch keep that critical piece of information from her?

This was a different reality check for him. As the play unfolded, he was finally beginning to see that he himself was the “thing” worth believing in — without all the adornments of wanting to be a star.

We all have a story to tell. Mine isn’t a one-man show. It’s a memoir, Won’t Be Silent – Don’t Stop ’til It Matters, where the reader (or listener) is promised, “You’ll laugh, you’ll cry; it’s better than Cats.”

It was never applause I was chasing — rather, it was peace.

There’s something profound about no longer needing the chase. It’s about living with conviction and caring for the people and communities that truly matter.

Many people fall out of our orbit. Mine, surely. Yet not everyone is meant to walk every chapter with us, which no longer feels like loss. If anything, it feels like alignment — clarity about who belongs and who really doesn’t in this season of my life.

And this is what it means for my dreams to have come true.

My family matters. My peoplehood matters. Not being silent matters.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)