Inventiveness

Every now and then, if you spend enough time with Cleo, and you listen closely, you might catch her singing an original composition. Usually, it's little more than a phrase that she's heard lately, repeated over and over in a soft voice, and a very high pitch. There's no real melody; rather, it's a comforting, relaxed rhythm or chantlike aspect that qualifies the utterances, in my mind, as music. Pink house, pink house, ran a typical composition, which floated up to us from her back seat.

Yesterday, we had to smile at the latest song. Cleo spends, as I think you know, a good deal of time with George, a stuffed monkey who has now attended nursery schools on two continents, and who often wears a tight tee shirt with a small hole through which his generous tail can be threaded. Thus, as we drove to school yesterday morning, it wasn't completely surprising - but was somehow still deeply endearing - to hear Cleo chanting George's hole, George's hole, as she idly played with his shirt and tail.

No, we're not the most discerning audience. In fact, we're downright biased. But even biased and easily satisfied listeners can experience real happiness at hearing the debut of a new song.