Small talk has never been my thing. I can recall many first conversations with people where midway through the conversation they'll say something to the effect of, "Wait, why am I telling you this?"

My wife's uncle Jerry and I share this trait. He has no clue what I do for a living or what I think of the current President. He's very quiet for the most part, but enjoys waltzing into a room and asking some thought-provoking question.

What's the difference between knowledge and wisdom?

"Wisdom is knowledge applied." I blurted out, excited that I had this quote in the database.

He replied, "You could have the knowledge to jump off a bridge, then apply it."

Damnit! I thought. Yes, you could have the knowledge of how to split an atom, then apply it and it may not exactly be the wisest thing in the world.

The Princeton English Dictionary defines wisdom as: "Accumulated knowledge or erudition or enlightenment."

This definition would rate Cliff Claven from Cheers right up there with Gandolf.

As wisdom goes, my dog trumps all humans I know. I can't count how many arguments I've had with my wife—but all of them—where I've looked down at the dog, sitting there in silence, wagging her tail, and thought, "She is so wise!"

Perhaps wisdom is unconditional love. My dog isn't necessarily being wise by applying knowledge that she has accumulated, but by loving unconditionally.

Now, the "wisdom is knowledge applied" definition works if I were to learn (gain knowledge) from my dog and the next time a potential argument arises choose to sit there, shut up, and apply unconditional love.

The definition would be infallible if modified slightly:

Wisdom is knowledge discerned then applied.

Though I think the original quote assumes the reader isn't stupid enough to jump off a bridge.

The word of the day is "wisdom." Know it. Apply it.

When I was five, I remember standing in front of the refrigerator repeating the word "bitch" over and over in a sing-songy sort of way. My mom couldn't really be mad—it was cute. She just let me go on for a minute, then gently advised that I find another song to sing. I didn't know what "bitch" meant—or where I even heard it—I guess I just liked the way it sounded. Not long ago, I was driving and had just checked my bank statement and noticed there was an overdraft fee. "F*ck! Those motherf*ckers!..." As I continued in my eloquence, I looked in the rearview and noticed my sweet dog, Violetta, cringing in the back seat, apparently assuming that my anti-banking tirade was directed towards her. "No, sweetheart, I'm not mad at you." (as if she understands me.) My initial thought was that it was the tonality of my voice—not the word itself—that effected her. So Tessa and I experimented with saying the F word in various happy tones, including the beloved "doggy voice." Still she cowered at the word every time. (Though a little less sans the angry emotion.) This reminded me of Dr. Emoto's work with water crystals. He demonstrates the power of words before and after chanting (or even simply writing) various phrases on water bottles. He then freezes them and photographs the subsequent crystals. It really makes one give a second thought to the power of words and projection. Perhaps I was drawn to the word "bitch" way back when because I knew that it was "wrong," and it appealed to my rebellious nature. I knew it was wrong because, just like Violetta, I was innocent then—and I believe that the more innocent we are, the more perceptive we are to the true nature and energy of things.