Leibniz' sand

Reading Diderot's delicious Salon of 1767 this morning, I came across this:

"You've never heard the same melody sung more or less identically by two different singers. The text, the vocal line, rhythm, pitch, so many restrictive guidelines, would seem to collaborate in assuring an identical effect. But in the event things work out very differently..." And he goes on to recall the philosopher Leibniz' contention that no two grains of sand - and, by extension, no two things in the universe - are exactly alike.

Most of our days over the past two months have been pretty comparable. Wake to a squirming Cleo; feed her and play with her; take a walk; feed her and try some time under the mobile, or on her belly; naptime; another feeding; a big afternoon siesta; maybe an evening stroll around the neighborhood; and pretty soon it's nearly 8 p.m., or bedtime. With few exceptions, the days seem organized around a comparable template.

And yet, they really don't ever contain quite the same melody: despite the superficial similarities of forms, there are all sorts of little differences and evolutions. Last night, out of the blue, Cleo reeled off an uninterrupted 7 1/2-hour band of sleep. Gadzooks! And today, after several weeks of crying rather miserably when we set her on her belly, she simply raised her head and peered about her. Frustrating boundaries suddenly give way; seeming routines are suddenly banished.

"Never," wrote Diderot, "since the world has been the world, have two lovers said 'I love you' identically." Circumstance and individuality, in other words, preclude any rote repetition or sheer duplication. We loved Cleo on Friday. But we love her slightly differently (and not just in a more rested way) today - just as all parents' love for their children evolves, and waxes, and is over time burnished.