Note: For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.
Human Remains, Wikimedia Commons
When I was 11 years old, I had what may have been my first real moment of insight. I was in fifth grade at a Catholic elementary school in Portland, when I slipped out onto the playground ahead of the rest of my class. I can’t remember why I was out there alone – perhaps I didn’t have to go to the bathroom, where the rest of my classmates were herded before recess. This was 1962, and the Sisters of the Holy Child maintained the strictest order to ensure that all God’s children in their care would eventually be herded into heaven.
Whatever the reason for my being separated from my classmates and teacher, there I was clambering up the metal bars of the the play structure at the farthest corner of the asphalt playground, alone. Near the top, I reached out for a bar but lost my grip. In an instant, I hit the ground, stunned by the pain that came from my right arm near the wrist.
The playground now swarmed with kids. I sought out my teacher to tell her I’d hurt myself. “That’s what you get for coming out here before everyone else,” she said. When I insisted that it hurt, she told me I had a sprain and sent me to another nun who, she said, used to be a nurse. The nun who used to be a nurse told me to run cold water over it. At a water fountain, my left hand twisted awkwardly around the handle and my right arm under the meager trickle, I did what I was told. It didn’t help.
I noticed my arm had a slight S curve to it. I considered the situation, hearing in my memory the snap when I hit the ground. I’d heard of people breaking arms and legs. But before this moment, I hadn’t understood what it meant. I’d figured that having a broken arm was something like having doll with a broken arm. There were two pieces: the doll in one hand, the arm in the other. Now, no one needed to explain it to me. The bone inside my arm was broken, and I knew it.
Eventually I made it into the office. My mother was called, and off we went to the hospital.
By definition, a bone is an organ, although it’s not usually what comes to mind when we think of organs. The 206 bones in an adult human make up the skeletal system, the framework of the body. Our bones serve more purposes than providing structure and support, however. Bones protect the brain and spinal column and the contents of the thoracic, abdominal, and pelvic cavities. Muscles and tendons work with the skeleton to create movement. Tiny bones in the ears allow for hearing and the bones of the skull enhance the the sounds we hear and give resonance to our voices.
Bones are a storehouse of calcium and phosphorus. Through the marrow within them, bones are the site of blood cell production. (Marrow and blood are separate categories in the contemplation of the 32 parts of the body and will be discussed later.)
Bones are comprised of living cells and the non-living mineral calcium phosphate. Like other tissues of the body, bones grow through the process of cellular division. In addition, and unlike other tissues, specialized cells called osteoblasts create a protein mixture that mineralizes into the solid structural component, bone. Other cells – osteoclasts – break down bone tissue to release calcium and phosphorus into the bloodstream. Bones go through an ongoing process called remodeling. Our bones – like everything else – are constantly changing. On the molecular level they come into and go out of existence day after day, just as each breath does.
Bones, being mostly inorganic calcium phosphate, remain long after the once living tissues of the body decay after death. The skeleton, or some parts of it, is a symbol of death. The skull and crossbones is the universal symbol for poison. Some pirates used it as a symbol on their flags – the Jolly Roger – as a means of frightening their victims into surrender. Not doing so was certain death.
Skeletons make popular Halloween costumes and play a prominent role in Day of the Dead celebrations in Mexico (these two religious holidays are related).
Sometimes, while lying next to Robin, I feel her bones. There is a skeleton beneath her skin – skull, ribs, vertebrae, tibiae, pelvis, etc. Her bones hold her up, allow her to move through space, and to touch me back. Someday, though, they will not. Nor will mine.
Surrendering to the inevitable – and not clinging to what is impossible to hold for long – is the purpose of contemplation of the 32 parts of the body.
For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.
