As I navigate the cusp of the Gregorian calendar year’s end I am following, closely, the immediate fate of my navel. I have always cherished the word, Omphalos, the notion of a central site from which power emanates. Since the Ancient Greeks, attempts have been made to locate the earth’s navel. I place the word within the universe of another word, ‘umbilical’. I have been obsessed with seeking the umbilical in nature, and I discover it delightfully nestled within moong dal, for example, as it surfaces after I have left it to sprout for a day or two, or when I sow mustard seeds in a pot, or when I’m harvesting apples and take great care to ensure the stem is preserved with each pluck, because the fruit’s shelf left is dependent on this arboreal remnant.

Beyond the botanical, I have been seeking the umbilical within feminist discourse through citation and by tracing systems of legacy. I love to keep altering the expanse of my feminist ancestral lineages as I expose myself to more diverse and radical systems of thought and belief, and I enjoy how my world expands. I think of the umbilical as a form of rootedness. When I look at my navel, which has always been well-liked, I don’t see void or absence, but I glimpse, invisibly, at that which links me to my mother. I am reminded that I come from her, that my first site of dwelling was within her body.