Tonight, as I was scanning in these negatives from a trip I took to California in November, the word process was all I could think of. The discipline of process. The practice, the work. This trip was the longest and furthest I've traveled alone. It was intense and surreal. I had full days simply to practice, to learn, and to discover. But I struggled with my pencil and my camera and I could hardly sleep at all the first few nights. One day, I was sitting at a bar down the street from a a beautiful beach that I had been to in my childhood and I noticed a coffee mug ring on the napkin in front of a woman sitting at the table across from me. I sat back and watched the sky change colors in my beer. I felt the wind on the small hairs on my hands and arms. I wrote everything down. I picked up my camera and shot what I saw, not thinking of what would come with developing. And months later, as I'm scanning in each image, one by one, some with dust and some with scratches, I'm thinking about the life in this process. The photos came to me a lot fuzzier than I would have liked but they are all exactly as I want them to be. Every moment is there. Every memory and discomfort that led to these creations—it's all in the photos, in my stories, and in my head. And the discipline of process, I'm discovering, is found in steady practice and a deep attention to moments. Because in daily, ordinary, fleeting moments I find the beauty of process and the equal significance it has to the creations I bring into this world.