Albert Einstein is widely considered one of the most creative and influential persons in the modern era.

Yet in his younger life, he was considered a bit on the lazy side and would often sit idly around daydreaming.

He called this “thought experiments,” during which he would daydream about problems and seek solutions outside the “box” of accepted theories.

A former landlord of his once told a story that during the years Einstein was working on his theory of general relativity, he would often hear a neighbor playing Mozart on the piano through the walls.

Einstein would burst out of his room, violin in hand and join his neighbor in an afternoon immersed in the wild genius of Mozart.

Einstein said later in life that those days spent in the fertile ground of the creative genius of music somehow connected him to the insights he was working on that would literally change our understanding of the universe.

Some years ago, I knew a gifted biochemist who had taught generations of medical students the intricacies of his science — which was for many of us the bane of our existence.

For some reason, he decided to end his academic career and enroll in medical school. He completed a family medicine residency and went into private practice.

And despite his gifts in the sciences, he often could not correctly diagnose some of the simplest of medical conditions. His genius lay elsewhere. He simply was not wired for the “art” of medicine.

He understood the sciences, but could not make the transition from theory to practice.

In my experience, the best of science and clinical medicine often steps outside of the “box” and always has an artistic and intuitive side.

This allows us to break the bounds of our understanding of what is “normal,” take what we know of our patient and allow art to take over.

Humans have a right-brain function that seems to lead us to art, literature, music and intuitive thinking.

Our left-brain function tends to be scientific, dry, precise and analytical.

It’s when these two functions are integrated that we reach our potential as clinicians.

We are learning that humans can write pretty elaborate and accurate computer programs to analyze the data of human disease and come up with therapeutic treatment algorithms.

Yet none of these programs can replace wisdom and creativity. We often need to simply get out of our “heads” and let that creative genius have its way with us.

Such skills may be instinctive to a certain degree, but we are learning that they can also be taught and modeled.

Medical schools now are offering courses in literature. Students read poetry, short stories and essays — and reflect upon them and their meaning in medicine.

One medical school has developed a class on art and medicine, in which students examine great works of art and integrate it into their inner lives as physicians.

This opens the door for a whole new way of processing illness, disease and healing.

Patients can also benefit from this way of thinking.

Among the curses of the Internet, patients often come in with masses of complex information — charts, printouts, boxes and graphs — and too often, they reduce their illness to mounds of data.

When doctors attempt to think outside the “box,” some patients can get defensive and lost in their data.

Patients with better-developed, left-brain abilities often are limited in understanding that disease, wellness, health and healing simply cannot be reduced to data.

Their therapeutic options become self-limited. They often are frustrated with their health care encounters as a result.

Patients who have a well-developed artistic side are often more flexible in their understanding of options that are realistic, even if unconventional. And they are comfortable with medicine not having all of the answers.

In the Medical Humanities program at Baylor University, this foundational shift in thinking is essential to what we are trying to teach students.

I believe we are on the cusp of some very important work as a result. Hopefully, future generations of patients will benefit from the habits of Einstein.

Michael Attas is a local doctor, a medical humanities professor and an Episcopal priest. Contact him via e-mail at Michael_Attas@baylor.edu.