Hello Friend, On the very last night of our Alaska trip, Andy and I decided to take a drive. I was snapping photos of old buildings for our abstract class when I noticed a breathtaking sunset. The sky was glowing with color, and I couldn’t resist. I asked Andy to pull over, and then I saw it—a large, flat rock that looked like the perfect place to capture the scene. To reach it, I had to step across some uneven rocks. I made it out just fine and stood on that big rock with the sunset stretching wide in front of me. I lifted my camera and clicked. The result was everything I’d hoped for—a photo that stopped me in my tracks with its beauty. But coming back across those same uneven rocks, wearing my Hoka slides without much support, my foot caught. In an instant I was launched forward, hard. My shoulder and head slammed against the car, and then I hit the ground with my hip, arm, and hands. Andy jumped out, certain he’d find me badly hurt. I managed to get up, sore but intact. And later that night, I realized I had a choice. I could let my last memory of Alaska be the fall—the bruises, the pain, the shock. Or I could let it be the sunset—the moment of beauty I was determined to capture. That choice is what has stayed with me. And isn’t that how it often goes in life—and in art? We all have moments that hurt. We all stumble on uneven ground. On the canvas, too, we make mistakes, smudges, brushstrokes we wish we could take back. But in the end, the question is: where do we put our focus? If I chose only to remember the fall, my trip would feel heavy, painful, unfinished. But if I chose to remember the photo, the beauty, the stillness of that Alaskan sky—then I carry something forward that fills me with wonder. The fall taught me something practical (slides are not hiking shoes!). But the sunset taught me something more enduring: that the beauty we create, the moments we dare to capture, can outweigh the stumbles it took to get there. When you look back at your own journey—in painting or in life—what memory are you choosing to carry forward? With warmth, Laurie