Sitting with a Genius
Last night, before the sun set, I got on a plane, and a genius sat down behind me. I didn't know he was a genius then. I'd find that out later. All I knew was that a 10-year-old kid was sitting behind me.
The plane took off. I ate pretzels and read.
At one point, I turned around to stretch my neck. And I noticed the kid behind me.
He was staring out the window. So, I looked out the window, too. The sun was settling over the horizon. The sky glowed peach and golden light. Cloud banks longer than football fields lay silently in the air.
And the kid got it: this was astonishing. And every last one of us on that plane had a front row seat. We just didn't know to look up.
But the kid knew. And in his knowing, he sat and he watched the sky like the once-in-a-lifetime, implausibly beautiful, and totally free show that it was.
Genius comes in many forms, and surely this must be one. For it's genius to look up from our busy hands and see the sun, the sky, the world for the astonishment it is.