Gaining ground

In her 2004 novel Shebang, Valerie Vogrin briefly mentions an Austrian music scholar "who had worked himself into a street-wandering dither as he struggled to complete the final movement of his symphony." And even Mozart, in composing La clemenza di Tito, supposedly experienced a rather severe case of writer's block; with the premiere approaching, several messengers arrived at his door, hoping for the long-awaited overture. "Not a single idea will come," the beleaguered Mozart reportedly told them.

Only nine weeks into parenting, I'm already familiar with a new form of creative impasse. Where to walk Cleo today? Can I simply rehash the mumbled narrative I offered yesterday? And since these shorts felt fine yesterday, screw it, they'll work again today. And, sure, let's just have pasta again.

But, magically, a baby then provides breakthroughs on her own. Four days ago, Cleo offered her first laugh: an unexpected blossom. And last night, out of the blue, she slept for seven straight hours in the night, leaving L truly well rested for the first time in a long while. Suddenly she can grasp a rattle. Her head rises higher. And so on. The seemingly static trenches that run through the Belgian countryside suddenly give way, and new frontiers are established, new beach heads visible.

With Mozart at a loss regarding his overture, it was the soprano Josepha Weber, his sister in law, who finally solved things, when she shouted at the composer "Then for heaven's sake, begin it with the cavalry march!"

Cleo doesn't shout so effectively yet, but new movements are constantly beginning nonetheless.