When I was very young, I thought about wisdom the way other children think about prince charming or castles in the air. As if it were something glistening and perfect and true. Shining, the way Excalibur shone when young King Arthur pulled the sword out of the stone. Glowing from the inside, like a fortune teller’s crystal ball.

I knew where wisdom lived, too.

In a little house tucked somewhere between the big old houses on my block, probably hidden behind a clump of trees, because I could never actually see it from the street. I remember how small the house was, though. One room, with a wooden door, a red shuttered window, and a window box overflowing with nasturtium. It looked like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house, or the house where Goldilocks met the three bears.

The owner of the house was a salesman, and he had an unlimited supply of his product, which was wisdom. He went all over the country, knocking on people’s doors like a vacuum cleaner salesman, offering it to potential customers. I can’t exactly describe him, but I do know that he was clean-shaven, wore casual clothes and sturdy shoes, and that in many ways he resembled Johnny Appleseed.

The dictionary’s definition of wisdom is: “The quality or state of being wise; knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action; sagacity, discernment, or insight.”