Contemplating My Navel

Contemplating My Navel

How often do you think about your navel? It is literally and figuratively the center of you. It connected you to life and to your heritage, undeniably so. We are mostly bestowed with “innies”, but who among us does not wish that we had the abdominal muscles to show off an “outie”? We mostly ignore it until it accumulates some lint and we are forever washing it in the shower absentmindedly because we instinctively know it can easily accumulate a funny smell if we don’t. The Greeks would call this omphaloskepsis, and it was thought that meditating by focusing on your navel might lead you to too much introspection and self-centered contemplation. I am guilty as charged more times than I am proud to consider. Socrates famously said the “the unexamined life is not worth living”, but I’ll bet even he was accused of over-thinking things at times. His focus on the radical democracy of Ancient Greece is said to be the cause of his injestion of hemlock, so I guess that means he despaired too greatly about the issues of his times. And yet, Socrates never wrote a text that was captured for posterity. His wisdom was imparted through various dialogues and references from other great writers of his time. I am still the proud owner of a lovely stone and copper life-sized statue of a reclining Socrates that is sitting in some warehouse in Ithaca, waiting to be placed on a town path for all in that little burg to enjoy. He gave me much pleasure for a quarter century and now I hope soon he will give others such pleasure as they pass by in contemplation.

I read Heather Cox Richardson and her Letters From An American this morning, as I do religiously every morning. She has become the academic and historical chronicler of our times through these daily dialogues that she started in late 2019 out of some degree of shock and despair over the state of our democracy. I guess that makes her the Socrates of our time. I hope she stays away from the hemlock because we need her voice of truth to record the events of our day in this country as it wrestles with its growing pains. Her factual and objective chronicle is Socratic in nature, but it leaves opinion to other commentators (though it would be hard to say that one cannot discern what she is thinking as she goes about her recitation). Whenever I write a story about our times in this country, and am told I should publish it in some Op/Ed, I am cowed to do so by HCR and her so-precise writing. I am simply not worthy of her discipline and rigor in her writing. That is one well-established moment of my regular navel contemplation.

I used to write a movie blog back in the day and anyone who reads my blog stories knows that I can hardly get through one without a movie reference or two. Movies speak to me and have my whole life. They epitomize my storytelling and there are few activities I relish more than wrapping myself in a good story for two hours of sensory immersion. But I have stopped reviewing movies per se since that is a job that professional movie critics do and do so well in many forms and venues. Today I read a story from Melissa Kirsch, a culture and lifestyle editor for The New York Times. Her article called The Joy and Sorrow of Streaming did a fine job of explaining and dissecting the state of play of moviegoing. I think it is fair to say that I have had lots of thoughts about moviegoing, ranging from how we watch movies to why we watch movies. Just the other night at a family dinner, we got into a discussion of favorite movies (a rather typical topic among people at any given gathering). We stumbled our way through the conversation with hit-or-miss recall of our movie anthologies and preferences, most people shifting their choices as others reminded them of this or that great flick. My friend Mike and I often discuss the Netflix shift from DVD to streaming services and the degree of access to content of both means. In other words, there is a not-insignificant piece of my mindshare that is dedicated to these topics. But Ms. Kirsch did such a thorough job of laying out all of these issues and more that I have decided that like with the movie critics I have read or HCR’s political observations, I am simply not worthy of comment or chronicle of this topic any longer. She too has cowed me and made me feel that any thought that I felt was original, has not been and may never be. It makes my navel sore to think too much on it.

And last night I got a delivery of the first five copies of my latest book, titled Carpe Diem: That’s Rich. This 259-page book was prompted by a gift last year by my daughter Carolyn to something called Storyworth. The title comes from my favorite expression (Carpe Diem, also the theme of my 60th Birthday booklet made by Kim for that birthday) and a pseudo-TV series that Kim’s nephews joke about called That’s Rich, which they use to poke fun at me. I spent the year sporadically writing stories to answer prompted questions about my life and filling in with other stories from my blog compendium of 2,000 stories, to create a 31-chapter book that starts with The Toys of Childhood and ends with Who Wants to Live Forever. My favorite selfie if on the cover and this is probably the closest thing I will ever write to an autobiography. I had only 5 copies printed. I have earmarked three to send to each of my three children and have two for myself, figuring that if anyone really wants to read it, I will lend them one copy and be sure to keep the other one here on my coffee table, less for reading and more as a reminder or conversation-started. It will live among four or five of my other books that I have written. This book may very well be the most concentrated version of my navel contemplation that exists.

I am writing this particular story because my blog story backlog runs up to January 29th at the moment, which means that the next story I write and place in the queue will be the one that publishes on January 30th, my 70th birthday. I had a nice 60th birthday party. I gave Kim an even nicer 60th birthday party at Hearst Castle and told her not to expect the same at her 70th. I have wanted to completely ignore my 70th birthday but have decided that such a move would be a louder, more annoying message to my family and friends than if I allowed there to be a small and subdued gathering for dinner that night. It will be a catered dinner for 16 of us, almost all local friends that can walk home from here or family within easy driving distance. I somehow think 70 is a less complementary milestone than either 60 or 80 and I just want to get it behind me. Least anyone decide to roast or otherwise pay tribute to me, I can stop them and say they should just read about it in the book on the coffee table. My life and thoughts are an open book in all ways.

So, in this, my milestone birthday story, I would conclude by saying that my contemplating my navel leaves me feeling good enough about myself to publish a book with my picture on the cover, but humble enough about who I am and the value of what I can and do contribute to the universe to only print so many copies. A man’s life should only be remembered in any detail for the lifespan of his children because there are simply too many other stories to be built and told.