byChrisWhite -2018

I was dining last week with Emily at a Japanese steak house nearby, and discovered a rather evocative fortune nestled in my cookie, which compelled me to jot down a few thoughts. Now, it’s not every day that I find inspiration in a fortune cookie,  generally, they possess all the insight of a bumper sticker. But this one struck a nerve, likely because it spoke to one of my favorite subjects: advice. Probably seventy-five percent of my ramblings have something to do with advice. Not that anyone ever asked for it.

I’ve been told for most of my life that I’m a decent giver of advice, although I’d sooner label myself an “unlicensed advisor with questionable credentials.” It’s not an easy thing, giving advice. It’s like lending money to a relative, a thankless proposition that often ends badly, and typically for reasons beyond your control. You dole out some wise counsel, perhaps with a touch of wit, and there’s always the chance that the person on the receiving end will follow it — right off a cliff. Then it’s you who gets blamed for the splatter.

Still, there’s something about writing advice that doesn’t carry quite the same risk. It’s probably because I can write from the safe anonymity of my own desk, where I am not obliged to witness the fallout firsthand. If the advice works, terrific. If it doesn’t, well, then the recipient can take it up with that slip of paper crammed inside a Chinese cookie. Besides, I think fortune cookies are America’s best-kept piece of hypocrisy. You can find them in any Asian restaurant from here to Kalamazoo, but try finding one in China or Japan. There’s something to be said for the fact that the very people who ostensibly invented these sugary fortune slips have decided to pass on them entirely. Makes you wonder whether it’s the advice or the cookie that’s hard to swallow.

Maybe these little confections are metaphors for life, Americans like everything wrapped up neatly and presented with a bow, including our wisdom. Just give us the conclusion, hold the details. We don’t want the backstory, just the part where the villain gets his comeuppance and the hero gets the girl. But life rarely unfolds that way, does it? Sometimes we chew on bitter truths long before we taste something sweet.

Now, in case the suspense is killing all four of you still reading this, here’s what my fortune cookie said: “Happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort.” No attribution, no bibliography, just an anonymous nugget of wisdom crammed between a few layers of flour and sugar. All jokes aside, though, that fortune spoke to me more profoundly than it had any right to.

There’s an undeniable truth there. No matter how great the paycheck or how spacious the corner office, nothing quite matches the joy of meeting a goal you’ve poured your heart into. The thrill isn’t just in the outcome but in the process itself. It’s the creative grind, the personal stakes, and the belief that maybe, just maybe, you’re doing something worthwhile. I’ve felt that feeling with this blog. Nobody pays me to do it; it’s simply an outlet where I can share my thoughts, maybe throw some humor at the wall, and see what sticks. If one person finds value in it, then the effort was worth it. Even if that one person is Emily.

That said, I reckon most of us don’t set off on life’s journey with a perfectly planned itinerary. We stumble around, try different things, often hoping one of those things sticks. And it’s not a bad way to go about it, if you ask me. Sometimes you learn as much from the dead-end jobs as from the cushy ones. If nothing else, they teach you precisely what you don’t want. Even if that realization only comes after you’ve spent a week scraping burnt French fries off the inside of a deep fryer.

That’s not to say that there aren’t those individuals who have their whole life planned out by the age of fifteen, the kind that know they want to be doctors or engineers or Supreme Court justices before they’ve even had a proper first kiss. I’m not talking to those folks, they’re too busy color-coding their planners and setting reminders for next year’s dental cleaning. No, this is for the rest of us, the ones who wake up one day, look around, and wonder how on earth we ended up here.

The sad truth is, we often end up chasing goals that aren’t ours. We grab hold of dreams that look shiny from a distance, only to discover up close that they’re not a good fit. We twist ourselves to suit the needs of the goal rather than shaping the goal to fit our true selves. The trick, I think, is to figure out what you enjoy, what you’re good at, and then to do that, irrespective of what other people think you should be doing. Maybe you won’t make a fortune doing it, but there’s more than one kind of wealth. There’s the kind that fills your pockets, sure, but there’s also the kind that fills your soul. And while pockets can be emptied, souls are a bit more stubborn.

If I’m being honest, the greatest tragedy of the human condition isn’t that we sometimes fail to reach our goals. It’s that we never really take the time to ask ourselves if those goals are worth reaching in the first place. We are constantly changing, evolving creatures, what we want today may not be what we want tomorrow, and that’s all right. We grow. Our priorities shift. The banker becomes an artist; the artist becomes a teacher. Life has a funny way of turning us inside out, often when we least expect it. And when it does, sometimes our old goals no longer sparkle the way they once did. Which, if you ask me, is precisely why it’s worth holding on to the thing that does shine, the creative process, the act of striving.

The problem today is not a lack of information but rather a scarcity of wisdom. We’ve got all the data in the world at our fingertips, but somehow the truth has never been murkier. There’s something about the sheer volume of facts and figures that overwhelms rather than enlightens. And, yes, I have seen this in my work life too, smart people who can recite every detail from the last quarterly report but still can’t see the forest for the trees. They’ve got the facts, sure, but facts alone don’t add up to wisdom. Wisdom requires context, experience, and maybe just a touch of humility.

The older I get, the more I appreciate that distinction. Information is knowing that a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad. It’s all about applying what we know in a way that actually makes sense, and recognizing that even the brightest among us will still need the insight of others now and again. True wisdom isn’t the property of one individual. It belongs to the collective. It’s passed down, shared, built upon by countless hands and minds, all of us just trying to make sense of the world and our place in it.

So, while fortune cookies and their sweet little messages may bring us a momentary thrill or a chuckle over dinner, they aren’t the true source of insight. Wisdom is earned, often in the most mundane places, among the most ordinary people, folks with unique stories, scars, and laughter lines. It’s a messy, beautiful journey, and I, for one, wouldn’t trade it for a thousand fortune cookies.

At the end of the day, I’m no expert. Just a fifty-three-year-old husband, father, and writer of unsolicited advice. If there’s anything I’ve learned that’s worth sharing, it’s this: life has a way of surprising you. Your goals may shift, your perspective may change, but the joy of creating and striving remains. And perhaps, just maybe, that’s where true happiness lies.