Betwixt Lakeland & Edinburgh
So, I am a pen –
apparently an object
incapable of
thought yet possessed of
ability to make marks
on paper that speak
of metaphor and
so I permit myself to
enquire from whence comes
imagination
that flows in my ink, from whence
and how, why and when? –
heady stuff for all
of us: women and men and
contemplative pen
Every day, twelve little bins in which to order disorderly life, and even more disorderly thought
Mary Oliver
Upstream, page 25
Recycling in the UK has had a bad press this month. I read I’m not as good at it as I once was, and need to live in one of four counties to pass muster. Boxes and bags are out. Ubiquitous and ugly wheeled bins host the nation’s best-ordered recycling efforts.
Mary Oliver writes of the social self that might be cycling life through ‘twelve little bins’ – the hours of the clock – more concerned with keeping pace with the ‘regular’ governor of time than with whether or not it gathers ‘some branch of wisdom or delight’ along the way.
Containers play their part, like the hours. But both the regular and the irregular – coupled with an ability to reflect and to ask ‘what am I doing and why am I doing it?’ – are essential elements whatever we’re talking about, wherever we are, and whatever we do.