When the levee breaks

It often happens suddenly, and dramatically. After writing few compositions in the previous years, for example, Allen Sapp resigned as Dean of the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music, in 1980, and a "torrent of ideas" (in the words of Alan Green) suddenly came to him, resulting in a number of his best-known works, written over the span of a few months. Or Paul Hindemith, a 23-year-old when World War I came to a bloody close, suddenly embarked on a whirlwind of activity, writing what Arnold Whittall once called a "flood of compositions." A change of career, a long-awaited armistice - and the floodgates are open.

For Cleo, like many babies, the floodgates seem to open, at least temporarily, around the six-month mark. For several weeks, she's made few dramatic strides: sure, she's more comfortable on her belly, she's getting close to sleeping through the night, and she's increasingly able to grab objects with strength and confidence. But these are changes in degree, really, rather than radical novelties.

Or, at least, that's what I thought when I got home today, and played with her for an hour and a half. Suddenly it was like dealing with an entirely new person. The nanny reported that she'd eaten a tablespoon of pear puree: that's big news, after she'd offered only bored expressions to my lovin' spoonfuls of yam, and peas, and had actively rejected Lisa's proffered zucchini. And then Cleo was sitting up, ramrod straight, for minutes at a time, after months of wobbling like a reed in a strong wind.

Does she know that she's changing? I'm not sure, but I'd guess the answer's yes. For weeks, she seems to have been in a sort of cocoon, evolving, and biding her time. Now the moment's come, I gather, for a sort of emergence. So why not simply enjoy it? As Thoreau wrote, in Walden, "Life in us is like the water in a river." Both have their own logic, and their own pace, and they pursue their own destinations.