Until recently, I was pretty sure the only people you could rely on for deep info about the world were old dudes with white beards and big black sombreros. The sort of guys that read big Aramaic books, look stern as they wag their fingers, and talk about cosmic concepts and miraculous mysteries.

Well, I have some news for them, and I hope they can handle it. I've just discovered a new source of deep, super-cool information. The kind that will blow your mind. Who could these people be, to compete with our geniuses, our shiny pedestals of wisdom?

It may surprise you that the people I am talking about do not stand ten feet tall or wear black hats that fill the room. No, these people are, in fact, quite tiny. Little guys and gals with itty bitty voices.

I am speaking, of course, of children. The same ones who run around screaming when you're trying to take a nap, or who start talking about kitty litter when you're trying to teach them the ABC's. That's right. Them.

My realization came after having a conversation with a first grader today. He was telling me that cactuses have water in them (useful information in the right situation). I asked him what else had water. Apparently, trees in the Amazon retain water as well.

And then he said that trees also have paper in them.

I'll be honest. At first I was a bit puzzled by this statement. I mean, I know that trees can be turned into paper. But they don't have paper in them, last time I checked. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I almost corrected him. Can you believe that?

But then I began thinking. Maybe I was the one that needed correcting. After all, he seemed pretty sure of himself. And really excited by the idea. I don't know the last time paper excited me, unless it was green and I could buy stuff with it.

So, I thought some more. Was it really possible I had been wrong all along? When you cut down a tree, does paper fly out from inside the bark? I was pretty sure that wasn't the case.

Maybe the kid meant something else. Was it possible I had misheard him? No, he definitely meant that trees had paper in them, just like cactuses have water in them. Like it was the same thing. At this point, my head really hurt.

But as I thought about it, something became clear to me. Why were we talking about this stuff at all? Because most people wouldn't know that a cactus has water in it. Who would think a cactus, out in the desert, would have water inside it? Not me.

So maybe it was possible that trees really do have paper inside – but on a deeper level? Like, it's there, but we just need to know how to get it out? I asked him his thoughts on the matter, but he started talking about kitty litter.

As I thought about it, it made more and more sense. I mean, we say our computers have tons of information inside them, but we have to turn them on and allow the hardware to go through a bunch of processes to access the information. So, maybe on one level, our computers don't have the information. But you and me and every little kid knows that a computer does posses information. We just need to know how to extract it. Just like wood contains fire, coals contain diamonds, and water contains life.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this stuff could apply to you and me. I mean, don't we say everyone has thoughts? But if you ask some guy in a white coat if that's true, he'll tell you that we don't have thoughts, but nerves inside gray stuff in our skulls that shoot electricity around. This is part of the reason I've stopped listening to guys in white coats.

And there are plenty of people, dressed in all kinds of clothes, who would like you to believe that your essence is just a big bag of bones. They think that you – magnificent, wonderful, amazing you – are just a bunch of atoms and chemical reactions.

Sure, maybe they're right, from a certain perspective. But in a deeper, truer way of thinking, the kind of thinking only a first grader could come up with, our bodies, just like computers and fossils and wood, are really tools to reach something much truer, to unveil their ultimate purpose.

So, that bag of bones has something much more hidden within it. It has you. And you are that something waiting to come out, waiting to be revealed. No matter whether you wear a black hat or a baseball cap, or if you're big or tiny. Just like the rough bark of a tree hides paper inside, your 248 limbs and 365 sinews are really just waiting to expose the true you beneath.

All you have to do is find the power button, rub two sticks together, and press that coal until a diamond comes out.

So.

I was going to write a piece this week about my GPS. And then I found out that good ol' Naftali had already written one. Such is my life.

But, seeing as I'm a lazy writer, I'll have to find some way to use it to my advantage. Gonna have to use all the writing skills at my disposal. Get ready to witness some magic, guys.

Anyway.

I just moved to Chicago, and I have to agree with what Naftali said about the tone of the GPS-lady when she says, "Recalculating." In my case, however, the majority of the time, it's not because I can't follow the GPS, but because I'm positive I know a better route.

You see, my GPS is top of the line. It takes into account all the possible ways to reach my destination, the traffic along the way and my calorie count (probably) in order to assess the fastest route. Even so, 90% of the time I drive to work, I know, I know that the GPS got it wrong this time. That if I go with my gut, if I really believe in myself, if I believe what my parents told me about being special, then this time I will, in fact, beat the GPS.

I think I've beaten it maybe once or twice. The rest of the time I make a turn onto the "wrong" street, and that GPS-lady says that horrible word, I am hit with a red light. Or a traffic jam. Or an old lady in a low speed limit zone.

I guess my parents were wrong about me being special. Figures.

But what's so special about being special, really? I mean, my GPS knows better than me. If I just listened to it, life would be perfect. I would hit less traffic jams, beep my horn at fewer old ladies, and probably avoid a stress-induced heart attack when I turn thirty.

See, Naftali was wrong when he said we were better than GPS's. He was so wrong. Oh, that Naftali. If only he knew that it would be better if we were all machines like GPS's. Or washers and dryers. Or toasters.

But the thing is, I called my mom to ask her about this recent crisis of mine, and she insisted that I was special. Insisted. Well, maybe it's my ego, maybe it's because I played George Washington in my elementary school play, but I believe her. I mean, it really sounded like she meant it.

Maybe I was wrong both times? Maybe I don't always know better than everyone and everything around me (crazy, I know!)? And maybe I'm also not a complete failure every time I try to find direction in life?

I can't help but think of one of my interactions with the lady inside the GPS. I forced my car towards Lake Shore Drive, despite her cries of "Recalculating" ringing in my ears. She really wanted me to go on the highway, but I knew it would be gridlock. At first, everything was peachy. As I approached Lake Shore Drive, my plan seemed to be working perfectly. I would beat the GPS.

The moment I hit the street, though, I was hit with a traffic jam. I had lost again! I cried in frustration. Screamed in agony. Pounded my fist on the dash. It was dramatic, man.

I turned toward the next exit, like my GPS told me to (I could have sworn I heard her laugh). But as I got off Lake Shore Drive, something magical happened. Ms. GPS told me to go down Sheridan Road, my second favorite street in Chicago after Lake Shore Drive. The drive was brisk, easy and there were no old ladies crossing the road.

Despite our differences, my GPS and I learned to live together that wonderful September day. For a moment, she understood that I just wanted to have a nice stress-free drive that didn't involve the freeway. And I understood that, maybe, sometimes my GPS is right. It was beautiful.

Perhaps as my relationship with GPS-lady evolves, we'll learn to work together harmoniously. To combine my desire for a nice drive with her absolute perfection. It's a day I can only dream of (for now).

To this day, I drive on Sheridan Road on the way to work. It's a little longer than driving on the highway, sure, but it's worth it. And it's special. Special like me.

Hmm. I guess my mom was right.