Genius

my grandparents, Don and Mary, a long time ago

GP, my father’s father, was the first person I ever thought of as a genius. He was a genius at life; a genius in a way that came from paying attention, from being completely himself. He was an inventor and a nightclub singer, a builder of houses, boats and clocks, a reader, a journalist, a sailor and a mechanic. He was sometimes intimidating and sometimes shy. He was kicked out of high school and college for one reason or another, he twiddled his thumbs in the car at red lights and was friends with Aldous Huxley and PD Eastman. He loved geodesic domes, Bill Evans and going to the library. Occasionally he wore an ascot with a T-shirt. He had a dark sense of humor and was more often than not found outside riding a tractor, or in his room with the door closed. He might hate these descriptions --as I listed each detail I heard his soft voice repeating after me: shy? twiddle my thumbs? Good hhhheavens-- but he also might love them. My grandmother had her own variation of genius which I wrote about here.

Every person has their own particular brilliance: the thing that someone can point to and say that’s what makes you you, but in some people, it is turned up. From GP, I learned about the kind of genius each of us is born with as opposed to the kind we work to achieve. It’s a difference between curiosity and certainty, between beholding something and just seeing it. A person’s deepest wounds are often connected to their genius; and healing them, or at least uncovering them, reveals it. Martin Shaw, storyteller, mythologist and writer of the stuff I’ve been reading, said: true genius is a kind of deep, imaginative, and often “non-utilitarian” way of seeing the world that comes from a long, slow immersion in story and soul.” I love that, an “immersion” in story and soul, like your whole life is just you slowly easing yourself into a hot bath of discovery.

I love too when a person’s genius shows up in odd ways, though maybe they are all odd ways, unique flow from the source: the strawberry guy at the farmer’s market who sharpens knives like a bladesmith from the middle ages or the guy who directs traffic during Dodgers games who falls to a knee after a dance of hand-signals and whistle blowing. Now I am thinking of my mother’s father, and the way his genius came out when he refused to let someone else pick up the check. Here he goes, hawk-eye, as someone else tries to get it first. He puts his hand on top, they object, he flicks his hand a couple times, they say something else, his whole face winces and frowns and he shakes his head and closes his eyes as he stands up and walks away, putting his arm around the waiter’s shoulder conspiratorially. Across the room, he pulls out a wad of bills wrapped in two rubber bands one way and two more the other way, snatches off the necessary bills, crumpling them slightly to make sure no two are stuck together, rewraps his money and then walks quickly to the exit with his head down, like an assassin.

It seems like a small thing, (is it even “genius?) but yes, if you were to break down the why and what and when of the whole equation, you would know everything you need to know about my grandfather, immersed in his story and soul. That was him being his most him. Are you born with that or does it come to you at various times in your life from a myriad of sources? I’ve heard about how in ancient Rome it was believed that genius resided in people’s homes, a little genie or spirit, an inspiration that was passed down from generation to generation, crawling into your ear on occasion. It could come from a tree outside your window having passed first through a parent or an ancestor, or even strangers you may have bumped into on the local train. All of them teachers, silent guides and inspiration.

GP and I were penpals starting when I was 9. He sent me letters that he made into little books, a piece of paper folded in half, then in half again, and then once more until it was about the size of my hand. He didn’t write to me like I was a kid, he wrote to me like I was a reader with thoughts and feelings and ways of understanding I didn’t even know I had. He wrote to me about his experiences in school and old friends and his drive to the library, and he always made it interesting. The people he wrote about seemed like characters in a story, his, something I didn’t think about until much later in my life. I cherished these letters then especially because my own dad wasn’t in my life at that time. Maybe he was aware of that when he took the time to respond to my letters, or maybe he recognized that I was interested in writing, like he was, but it was something that connected us. Funny how we didn’t have long or especially meaningful conversations in person, but we always wrote to each other, something we continued until he died.

I like the idea of the genius as soul or imagination, not high IQ, and discovery of it as less of a “hero’s” journey than an internal one. One you find through sense and experience. It’s not about what you bring to the world, but what brings you to it, something that is part generosity of spirit/part flex/part gift from who knows where.