The Gene for Making

My father was a builder. He thought with his hands as much as with his head. Wood, nails, wire, and concrete were not just materials; they were conversations. He would listen, adjust, and try again until the form revealed itself.

My mother was a maker too. Her thread and fabric carried a different rhythm, but no less profound. She could take what seemed ordinary and, with quiet patience, turn it into something alive.

And further back, my great-grandfather in Puerto Rico. The story goes that he was the carpenter who solved the problem of the heavy hotel doors. He made them swing shut on their own, simple, inevitable, like gravity wearing the face of craft. No plaque carried his name, but the doors still whispered his presence every time they closed.

So I wonder: is this proof? Is there a gene for making? Or is it something else, something subtler, like water flowing downhill?

Inheritance, or Repetition?

Zen would tell us: do not cling to categories. There is no boundary between inherited and learned. The child watches the father, the mother, and the great-grandfather. The motion becomes familiar. The body remembers before the mind names it.

Maybe we don't carry making in our blood, but in our seeing. In the way our eyes linger on what is broken, restless until it is whole again.

The Puzzle Mind

Some people meet a broken thing with frustration. Others tilt their heads, curious, as though the problem itself is offering a riddle.

A Zen carpenter does not ask, Why is it broken? He asks, What does the break want to teach me?

When I see a problem, I feel that same tug. Not to fix for the sake of fixing, but because the puzzle is an invitation. A koan, disguised as a hinge that won't align, a beam that won't sit true.

Hands answer where words fail.

Survival Becoming Art

The oldest sutra is not written on paper. It is carved in stone tools, tied in rope, bent in bamboo. Survival demanded making. Over time, survival became craft, and craft became art.

But Zen reminds us not to mistake art for ornament. Making is practice. Each cut, each stitch, each repair is a form of meditation. Repetition is not drudgery; it is clarity.

Choosing the Lineage

So, inherited or learned? The Zen answer: both, and neither.

Each day, the lineage is not given, but chosen. My father chose it when he lifted the hammer. My mother chose it with each thread. My great-grandfather chose it when he shaped the door.

And I choose it every time I put my hands to the work. Not because the gene compels me, but because the world calls, and I cannot ignore it.

The door swings shut, not by magic, not by bloodline, but by attention. By someone, once, caring enough to listen to wood and weight until it moved with grace.

Field Note:

Making is not inherited. It is remembered. Every cut, every stitch, every door that swings shut is a way back to what has always been ours.