Writing the details

"It is important to say the names of who we are, the names of the places we have lived, and to write the details of our lives. 'I lived on Coal Street in Albuquerque next to a garage and carried paper bags of groceries down Lead Avenue. One person had planted beets early that spring, and I watched their red/green leaves grow.'" --Natalie Goldberg (Writing Down the Bones)

As a reader, I love details. I love knowing the color of the quilt on the white wicker chair or the number of pots on the front porch. As a writer, I wonder if I record enough of the details in my life. Will I remember in ten or twenty years that my fish bowl has blue pebbles along the bottom or that it is three miles round trip to the baseball diamonds on 300 West? Will I remember that Jamal called me "Ms. Crazy" every time he saw me or that Stuart was a handwriting perfectionist? Do I take note that my desk manages to always pile up during the day or post-its litter the periphery of my screen?

This winter and spring I have grown into the habit of going on long walks. At first I was a bit self-conscious of being seen by students or parents or whomever. I have sort of lost that pena. I find Blanding an interesting place to roam. There is so much character here. Beautiful brick houses with shanties in the back for drying out the hunting kill, next door to small houses with pain chipping and toys strewn about the yard. Some streets have side walks, some do not. Some yards have beautifully laid out lawns, others towering cactus. They are rusted cars permanently parked, wagon-wheel fences, and an occasional motor home. Randomly squashed between houses will be a stable for horses who stick their noses out to passing cars and pedestrians. And just over the rooftops is the great expanse of the deserts. At night the stars hang low on the horizon and in the morning the same horizon gleams orange against the deep blue of daybreak. Overall this town has an air of being unfinished. It could not be compared to a gated community or city suburb. Few houses are perfectly tailored. Even the streets, laid wide, add to the open feeling of the environment surrounding us.

And I love to stand at my kitchen window, facing out to the street and patch of empty land behind the truck-stop and watch the occasional car or kid passing by. I like to people watch. I like to look in their houses and wonder what their lives are like. Where do they come from? How do they live? What are the details of their lives?