Contemplating the Navel
Omphaloskepsis is a word you
won't find in all dictionaries. It refers to the practice of meditating while
contemplating one's navel. I would venture to say there aren't many omphaloskeptics
where I am in St. Tammany parish, unless of course there's some subculture
I'm not aware of.
What is it about
the navel that intrigues us? Barbara Eden couldn't show hers. Belly dancers
adorn theirs. Shirley McClain chains herself to out-of-body experiences from
hers, or so she says. (Earth to Shirley, Earth to Shirley...) Bikinis expose
them, rings pierce them, and lint collects in them. So why on Earth would
I write about belly buttons in the first place? Is it because I ran out of
every other conceivable medical subject there is to write about? Not to worry.
There's an endless array of bumps, protuberances, pits, and orifices on the
human body to keep me well stocked for years.
An immediate
consideration for me in justifying today's subject is that doctors use them
surgically to place their laparoscopes. Also, the exciting new research in
using cord blood as a source of stem cells for cancer patients hints at a
brave new world in transplants. But that's where my own omphaloskepsis would
stop had I not had children who asked me about their own navels.
A child's questions
are extremely important on many levels, because besides simply requesting
information, a child goes right for the heart of the matter. This often stimulates
us to look at things in ways other than just the practical. Within every child's
questions are inquiries into philosophies as well. A child seeks to get at
the center of an issue. Not just What is a navel? but Why is there a navel?
We are a centrophilic species. Throughout history we have sought the centers
of everything. The ancient geocentric scientists saw our world as the center
of the universe. Then the heliocentrics correctly saw the sun as the center
of our solar system, and many were persecuted for their theories. We are
comfortable with centers. Even our two eyes, spaced well enough apart on
our faces to give us true stereoscopic vision, align the two fields to create
a central point for our gaze. We walk and run and somersault using our centers
of gravity. And our center-seeking ways in some fashion emphasize the navel.
The Bible's
Adam and Eve were missing two things we all have--Original Sin and belly buttons.
The navel is nothing more than a scar, after all. But what was there before
this skin scarred over makes our whole existence possible. Through this portal
both life and nurturing flowed from our mothers. Two arteries and a vein
exchanged nutrients and oxygen for us during the pregnancies that safely
delivered us into the air-breathing world. The cutting of the cord at birth
is more than symbolic, for it challenges us to survive within our own machinery.
The stump that remains withers, until we're left with what seems like the
body's only joke--the belly button.
The fascia is
a tough fibrous tissue that is the main supporting layer of the abdomen. It's
really the thing that holds our organs inside. The carnivores among us will
encounter fascia as grizzle on steaks. A weakening of this layer is a hernia,
which emphasizes its importance. During our development in the womb, there's
a separation in the fascia at the navel, for the umbilical vessels need a
way out and in while the umbilical cord's in operation. After birth when
the navel remains, there is a small hole left which is technically a hernia
as well. It is a point of weakness in our bellies we all are aware of. Whether
we realize it or not.
Of course, unless
you're an omphaloskeptic, you probably haven't ever stopped to contemplate
it. (Wake up and smell the lint!) Consider this: We're comfortable braving
the elements of this world with these shells we occupy. We can throw our back
to an onslaught, we can stiffen our abdominal muscles and invite your best
shot, but just don't poke your finger in our navels as hard as you can. That
would hurt bad. Somewhere, somehow, deep in the recesses of our brains lies
a vague sense of physical vulnerability, and the navel is one of the places
that is connected to that area. We are all able to close our eyes and with
pin-point precision bring our index fingers straight to our navels. Why?
The navel, the
belly button, the umbilicus--all are words that describe a center of our
physical bodies. An answer to my children about it involves the medical descriptions
of how the arteries and vein in the umbilical cord flow this way and that,
and then at birth when we become air breathing, lung-inflated beings, the
flow alters, the portal there shutting down, the heart adjusting to a different
type of circulation, and we're on our own. But this answer is incomplete,
because we really do have a center.
We were all
connected to our mothers, and they to their mothers, and so on all the way
back. We are all wired. We are all "on line," with our connections intact
to the first people. The lines drawn on paper that make up a family tree can
easily be envisioned as cords of life, all inserting into navels down the
page. The field of genealogy is learning the way to untangle and draw umbilical
cords. Looked at that way, there's a certain beauty to a navel, whether it's
an innee or an outee, as we are tethered snugly to our species. But I still
don't know why Barbara Eden couldn't show hers.
