In a science fiction novel I really loved in college, and only to a slightly lesser extent, love now, there is a monestary of intellectual, academics, and scientists that live in cloistered monasteries. They live in different sections of these university/monasteries based on how long they are closed off from the rest of the world: 10 days, 1 year, 10 years, 100 years, and 1,000 years. 
The only people allowed to live out their lives in the millenially cloistered communities are orphans donated to the place before their umbillical cords fell of. 

Roby’s fell of some time this evening, we found it kickin’ around inside of her onesie. I’m not sure what it means, but it doesn’t mean nothing. We’re certainly not going to toss it into the trash. That’d be profane. I think that much is obvious given even a cursory thought. 

We kept Abby/Roby’s placenta, tossing it into a bin of medical waste likewise felt sacrilegious. We’re going to plant a tree on it come springtime. I believe the consensus is a black locust tree, her namesake, or part of it. I might, by springtime, lobby for a shift to something that fruits things we can eat, there’s something lovely about fruit and flowers and I don’t think I need to explain that.

Roby’s a bit of fruit herself, Abby and Me and the Universe fruiting this new and beautiful person the way an apple tree fruits a Red Delicious. 

I always feel bad tossing away a stem.