My eye caught on a specific pile of dust on the floor. Through some bizarre pattern of foot traffic or air currents the threshold to the upstairs bathroom serves as a catch-all for lint, dust, and tumbleweeds of cat hair. I ran for my camera.

With my belly on the oak floorboards I spun the aperture dial to let in plenty of light, narrowing depth of field and intensifying the pure, white sunlight making fuzzy highlights on every stray hair.

Of course for a time I troubled my mind over the validity of photographing the intimate details of my house. I expected most photographers proved their worth by way of innovative subjects, new places to shoot, seeking and finding. In the end I couldn't deny my captivation with domesticity. I stole many sunny mornings before work to document the quality of light across the floorboards, the particular arrangement of a stack of library books on the table, crumbs, a dish out of place, a warm halo around my bedroom lamp exposing a deep, blood-red wall.

As I fumbled around on the floor to frame my shot I was briefly concerned about getting my sweater dirty. Had this much dust really accumulated in a week? With each smooth motion of the shutter I reinvented my space. I saw my home anew. At once I wove an elaborate story and documented my surroundings simple as they were.

I continued on my way eventually, replaced the lens cap and vanished into another household project. Those images I created stayed frozen in the camera, waiting to be pulled out and pressed and polished, made into something altogether unique and not at all the mundane bits of dust settled on the floor.

Frustrating days happen.

On this particular evening, I made a positive decision to quit stalking angrily around the house and walk to the library. Walking has always calmed me, mellowing my mood with each footstep I seal against the pavement. No matter what, a solid walk always injects a certain feeling of openness into my chest, drawing my breath toward the sky.

I've always loved to lose myself in the library, hiding away in a corner and running my hand over the uneven rows and columns of spines, delighting in the unlikely juxtaposition of subject matter in the nonfiction section: knitting, wine, bathroom remodeling, crafty handbags. Somewhere in this odd commingling of volumes my fingertips come to rest upon a book titled It's Hard to Make a Difference When You Can't Find Your Keys.

This title describes me in such an essential way I have to pick it up. It is full of language-based exercises such as making lists, thinking of life in terms of straightforward descriptions. I figure it's worth a try since I'm certainly not going to complete the series of visualization exercises in 4 Weeks to an Organized Life.

While I'm in the library my husband calls to ask what sort of soda he should buy at the store: root beer, cream soda, or berry lemonade. I debate sending a text message from the lobby after I've checked out this new book along with a copy of Stitch and Bitch, but think better of it. He can figure it out. I still need to walk.

My brisk yet meandering journey leads me down Union Avenue, past Formstone and brick and cedar shingle houses. The city possesses a nourishing beauty I can see and hear and breathe as my feet put square after square of sidewalk behind me. When I walk alone I see through the lens of Writer and Photographer, my mind constantly cataloging snippets of images, words, phrases. Rough, weathered brick; crumbling stone surrounding an archway of rusted steel; a clamoring bell urging railroad gates to lower into place as the Light Rail slides into the station; Dick Cheney's face in blue stencil on the sidewalk under the JFX; the cool, dark underside of the expressway contrasting the cars speeding along hot asphalt overhead.

Suddenly there is a young hipster girl in front of me carrying a green bike with one tire removed. The bike is carelessly draped across her back and she is walking briskly, her t-shirt soaked through with sweat. I tuck this away in my memory, too: her damp, almost-black curls barely held in check by her headband; her determined stride, powered by lean muscles concealed beneath the soft, milky skin of her thighs; the careless ease with which she carries the bike frame on her petite body.

Hipster Girl is still walking, starting up the hill toward Druid Hill Park when I turn toward home. I wonder where she is going with that half-dismantled bike, whether she is a figment of my imagination. Eventually I come up out of the valley and resurface on our street, my shirt damp from sweat, my feet passing under familiar sycamores.