When did spirituality get so serious? As if you’ve got to take a year off and spend it in the lotus position somewhere in the hills of India. What if discovering the meaning of your life could be done with a beer in one hand and a box of Cheez-Its in the other?
I Know Nothing is the sequel to Nothing Matters, an offbeat memoir about a woman who, in the space of a few short months, lost her job, her relationship of 15 years and everything else she thought mattered. In a fit of screw-the-Universe retaliation, she moved to Maui where she came to realize all those seemingly disastrous events were actually well-placed stepping stones on a path toward a deeper understanding of the things that truly matter.
I Know Nothing takes place on Maui, but the everyday situations that provoke new insights could take place anywhere.
With her deft wording and singular sense of humor, Denise Wilson shares the experiences that have propelled her just a little further down the cosmic highway.
Are you a spiritual hitchhiker looking for a ride? If you are, grab your backpack and hop in. This book is pulling over for you.

I Know Nothing

Balboa Press

Chapter One

It's Memorial Day, my two-year anniversary of having landed on Maui. In the beach park across the street, local families are celebrating the holiday. It's great for kids because at this particular protected curve in the Pacific, there aren't any real waves. The most you could call what hits the shore is an aggressive incoming tide. Consequently, it's the perfect spot for kids' parties: there's a natural water park a dozen yards away and you don't have to worry about who spills what. It'll be washed away in the next big rain or some dog will take care of it. At these parties, there's frequently a bouncy house, which is really just a large crib designed to contain multiple children. The hum of the generator keeping it inflated provides a steady backdrop to the rest of the sunny noises. I love sitting on my balcony on a lazy Sunday, tilting back in my plastic deck chair and eavesdropping on pure, thoughtless happiness.

During my two years on Maui a lot has happened but quite frankly, a lot has stayed the same. I still live in my little I Love Lucy apartment and I still work at the furniture store designing the daylights out of 40-yearold condos. But something new is in the air. Something seems to be preparing me to say good-bye to the best vacation I ever had.

I already miss the sound of the ocean. Even though I try to appreciate it every day, I never want to forget the sound of waves lapping the sand on a moonless night. Lying in bed, my eyes still closed, I think Aaahhh. There it is. My midnight music. It's the best lullaby ever.

I also want to sear into my memory the way the sluggish, water-dense clouds pile themselves atop the West Maui Mountains. It's as if they tried to hoist themselves up and over the spiky peaks but, because of their weight, got stuck instead. There they sit, moody and brooding and in direct contrast to what everyone thinks Maui is: all pineapples, sunshine and mai-tais.

Then there's this other thing, which is the best part of Maui. It's the magical confluence of events that occurs when you're willing to quiet your mind, step aside and let life unfold. Like the generator that keeps the bouncy house inflated, there's an undercurrent of energy that hums beneath the superficial activity of the island. Of course, it's the superficial activity that keeps Avis and Budget in business and the people of Maui employed, but there's a chance tourists might feel the energy too, even if they're sunburned and running late for the luau.

An acquaintance recently asked if my customers at the furniture store were a bunch of uptight condo owners in surly moods, looking for sofa sleepers at mainland prices. I twirled through my mental rolodex of clients then shook my head. "Not really," I responded. "They're coming to Maui."

I think a lot of people are drawn to Maui because, whether or not they realize it on a conscious level, they feel something. It resonates with some inner part of their being that makes them feel more content than other places. Another friend told me Maui is "The Land of Many Returns," meaning people keep coming back because once they've felt this thing they want to experience it again and again.

So who knows? Maybe if I leave, I'll realize I can't create the same harmonious, timed-just-right existence I live here. Maybe this feeling of being aligned with how things are supposed to happen only surfaces way out here in the middle of the Pacific surrounded by nothing but blue water and a star-littered sky. Conversely, I could discover this translates really well to Houston or Grand Rapids. I'm open to whatever the Universe wants to lob my way. But I'm trying not to think too much about it because the biggest thing I've discovered in the past two years is that I know nothing.

Chapter Two

I loved Hogan's Heroes growing up. All those rascals in a concentration camp. Sure, it looked cold and they were always trying to escape but they also seemed to be having a pretty good time. (It would probably be considered downright outlandish now—a sitcom about prisoners of war in Nazi Germany, but this was the 1960s before everybody got all politically correct.)

The head of the concentration camp was a bumbling Nazi: Colonel Klink. I can't recall exactly what would prompt him to straighten his shoulders, click his heels and pronounce, "I know nothing!" but I do remember running around the house doing my best Colonel Klink impression whenever I didn't want to answer my mother.

This brings me to my ex-boyfriend Joe. When he was in the process of getting a divorce, his wife told him he needed to see a counselor. Totally out of character, he went. For him to even consider somebody else's opinion, especially when it had to do with his behavior, was like that plant that blooms once every hundred years. A jaw-dropping, traffic-stopper. But he went.

This particular counselor used puppets in his therapy. The idea people can be tricked into letting a puppet in on secrets they don't want to share with a regular human being is sketchy, at best. Do you really think a 40-year-old is going to forget he's in the presence of another person when a plastic-headed doll asks him a question? It might work with kids, but it certainly doesn't work with somebody like Joe.

At some point, the counselor brought out the puppet. He slipped his hand up the puppet and said in his best puppet voice:

"Now, what does Joe think caused the marriage to break up?"

Joe ignored the puppet and stared directly at the counselor. "Who cares what Joe thinks? Joe's a fucking idiot."

Which pretty much ended the session.

Sometimes I feel like that. What does it matter what I think about this or that? I've come to realize I'm highly fallible. None of us knows anything for certain, yet we argue as if we can't possibly be wrong. You'd think we'd learn after about the 40th time that we might want to hedge our bets. Even the pros. Eggs were banned from breakfast tables for decades, now it turns out that eggs don't cause high cholesterol; they are, in fact, good for you. Ditto coffee and dark chocolate. These are such huge about-faces, you'd think somebody would stand in front of those lab-coated guys and tell them: Hey! Get your facts straight or we're going to put our fingers in our ears the next time you ask us to fund that little study you're insisting is so vital.

Even if we turn out to be right, it might only be for a period of time. A year. A century. Maybe with a few things we're right forever. The world ended up being round. Somebody called that one. But things change. Our perceptions change. Maybe we're in the middle of some kind of evolutionary development (which we can't even see) and tomorrow we'll discover everything we thought to be infallibly true will turn out to be false.

Even things that aren't supported scientifically—they're just notions about how things should be—have a tendency to go by the wayside. Women are now allowed to vote. Slavery is long gone. Neither of these things would stand a shot at being reinstated today, but at one time we didn't give a second thought to their appropriateness.

In light of all the things that can change, I've decided I'm done with personal Grand Pronouncements! I'm never going to make another Grand Pronouncement again!

Thinking ... Thinking.... Dammit! Habits are tough to break.

Chapter Three

I find our perception of "truth" to be fascinating. It can boil down to something as simple as calling out a color. I discovered awhile ago that what I call green, everybody else calls blue. I've tried to memorize the exact shade I get wrong, but I can't.

This small thing is what drew my attention to the fact that even when we think we physically "see" something, everybody else might be seeing something completely different. It all boils down to perception. How can we trust what we're seeing?

A few months ago two women came into the showroom. We spent a good 20 or 30 minutes looking at cocktail tables. What struck me was how well the two got along. Finally, I had to ask, "Are you two sisters?" One of them laughed. "Usually people think we're twins, but yes—we're sisters." Twins? Really? Other than the fact that both had blonde hair, they looked nothing alike. Yet something made other people see them as nearly identical. How is this possible? This wasn't a subjective call, like declaring something beautiful or ugly. I mean, either people have the same facial bone structure or they don't. Their lips are the same thickness or they're not. Or so one would think. But apparently, we do see things differently. Other people saw the similarities between the two and interpreted them as being so close as to be the same. I saw two totally different faces.

This dovetails nicely with the title of this book. What I think I see/ believe/know might be unique to me. There's a strong possibility that nobody else is seeing things the way I do, yet I've been behaving as though it's the absolute truth. Now I'm trying to discern how somebody else's truth might not be cause for argument; instead it might open my eyes to something new.

Chapter Four

I grew up in the Felton Presbyterian Church. It wasn't a choice. Every Sunday morning my mother would tell my sister and me to get dressed and get in the car. She would drive though the church parking lot, circle around to the front then stop. My sister and I would emerge from our station wagon in a puff of cigarette smoke and enter the world of religion.

We'd head downstairs to our respective Sunday School classes, which were divided by age just like real school. Only, unlike real school, these classes were taught by little old ladies who were intent on collecting a bunch of imaginary stamps to be redeemed later in some kind of Blue Chip Heaven.

Incidentally, my mother initially took us to a Lutheran church. I actually liked this one better because everyone—even the kids—started off in the main church. It felt more grown-up, like we kids were actually part of something, not just being babysat in the basement. But this church must have been too far. Even in the days of $.25/gallon gas, the Presbyterian Church was less than a mile away. Much more economical.

Around 7th grade, the church began a Wednesday night youth group program. Unceremoniously, Sunday School was dumped. I guess my mother figured once a week was good enough, plus now my sister and I were old enough to walk there and back. Even better.

Youth group was way better than Sunday School. There were games and activities and dinner. In addition, it was headed by cooler people. Sally and Dan, a married couple, were our leaders. They were young, just a handful of years out of college. I guess the church elders knew that newly minted teenagers required people with a bit more energy than the Doan's-pill-popping Sunday School set.

Every Wednesday night we met in the church basement. It was a big open space with concrete floors and a few alcoves that could be partitioned off into rooms with thick rubbery "drapes" that ran on tracks in the ceiling. Youth group began with Bible study in one of the alcoves. We kids slouched on hand-me-down couches that ringed the alcove while Dan and Sally sat on metal folding chairs at the head of the loosely formed circle. I have no idea what thoughts ran through their minds before each of these sessions. How do you prepare for kids who have no qualms about throwing out questions like projectile vomit?

I remember one meeting in particular. It was the Presbyterian version of sex education. When you're a kid, you don't think too much about how adults decide what they should teach you. Or whether or not it's even true. It's a time when you still believe adults know the truth and are concerned with preparing you for the real world, thoughtfully hand-feeding you nuggets of information you're going to need. It doesn't dawn on you until later that they might have been telling you a skewed version of reality in order to make you behave in ways that made their lives easier.

This particular Wednesday, Dan and Sally were explaining that once you were married, sex actually got better with time. Really? That seemed crazy to me. If you were doing the same physical thing time and again, how could it get better? It was kind of like saying, the more you brush your teeth the better it'll feel. I blurted out what I was thinking. Dead silence. I don't remember their delayed response, but it was along the lines of, "Trust me. We're right." I let it go. After all, nobody likes a kid who keeps asking the same question over and over—especially when class is almost finished and there's food waiting.

Getting to the Holy Spirit. Half the songs we sang featured It. Prayers usually threw a reference or two Its way. It seemed to be a taken-for-granted thing, but I didn't get it. Father and Son were understandable. Tangible. The third, the Holy Spirit was something else altogether. I couldn't understand the purpose. We already had God and Jesus. How many spiritual things did I need to get by?

But eventually, I relented. Okay, I thought, I'll buy it. And I'll sing about it.

Here's where the problem occurs: How many things do we buy off on—especially in religion where it's really easy to doubt yourself because nothing is all that concrete—then perpetuate because we have no insight of our own? We convince ourselves whatever we're espousing is true even though we've never felt the truth behind it.

Now that I've truly felt the Holy Spirit, I realize that by pretending to know what I was talking about, I might have done more harm than good. It certainly harmed me, because I'd tricked myself. I told myself that I knew all about it and therefore the matter was closed. I could have sung those hymns and prayed those prayers until I took my last breath, thinking I knew what I was doing.

Fortunately, that didn't happen.

I don't know anybody else's experience with the Holy Spirit, I only know my own and it's one not easily put into words. Here's the Holy Spirit I've come to feel: It's almost another sense in my inner core telling me things—and not in word format. It is impressions and feelings and gut intuitions. It's an image that is pure and undeniable yet at the same time isn't so insistent that I can't easily push it aside in favor of convention.

The Holy Spirit has also guided me regarding what to ask for in prayer. It's the darnedest thing. I always thought I knew how to pray and the appropriate things to ask for. I did log all those hours in Sunday School, after all. But this is not the way I learned to pray in Sunday School. Sometimes it's not even words—it's just a visual image or an emotion that can't be encapsulated in our limited vocabulary but I send it out there. Even if I don't even know exactly what I'm transmitting, I get this sense that it's the right thing. Whatever inner voice I have that needs to say something—whether or not I even know it needs to be said—gets to do it. It comes up and out of me, and the thing is? I know it's all on my behalf.

Here's another example in which the Holy Spirit grabs hold of what needs to happen. Sometimes, especially when I've said something that might be misinterpreted, I pray that the Holy Spirit makes the person to whom I said the comment take it the way I intended. I've also prayed that whatever I've said or done be erased completely. I have no physical proof that anything's been erased or altered, but I do know that after huge gaffes, I've been treated as though I never said anything even remotely objectionable.

There have been occasions when I've been involved in a conversation and for whatever reason, I haven't understood a single word that's been tossed my way. It's not that I didn't hear the sounds. The volume was there, but the words seemed like gibberish. They didn't go into my ears in any kind of coherent form. I've stood in front of the person who's just finished speaking and thought, "Hunh?" But something tells me to let it go. So I do. I let the sentences go by and I don't ask that they be repeated. Apparently, I didn't need to hear what was said, even though my ego might insist that I do just so I can be affronted to the appropriate degree.

If we're discussing the Holy Spirit and other misunderstood concepts, here's another: being Born Again.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from I Know Nothingby Denise J. Wilson Copyright © 2012 by Denise J. Wilson. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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