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Everything that happens, happens spontaneously. If the baby appears to be thinking, we are immediately tempted to assume the opposite. Behind every stirring, especially a stirring of the eye, every glance, and especially when that glance meets our gaze, we imagine something hidden, a secret, a context (preferably that of love). If joy shines out at us, we brim over. If we hear screaming, we are alarmed. The baby’s patience is unfathomable. Every day he practices with us the flux and transience of feeling – and yet succeeds only in nourishing our unbelief in his spontaneity.