The title of this blog doesn't exactly make sense at first glance, but trust me, there is a point, and it is coming.

I had the chance to head out to a beautiful part of the states for a few days earlier this week. My dad lives in Sedona, Arizona, and although the occasion wasn't a happy one (he was having gall bladder surgery), I managed to get some nice shots and have some fun while I was helping him recover.

But during the two-hour ride home from the hospital where he had his surgery, the sky offered up a gorgeous display. That afternoon's thunderstorm had cleared, leaving behind beautiful cloud formations against the hills and mountains in a fabulous sunset.

Perfect. I mean, it was PERFECT for shooting great landscapes in almost any direction you cared to point your camera.

From minute to minute, the lighting changed from beautiful, to gorgeous to spectacular.

First it started out as a green, blueish gold where the sun was setting against the hills. Then, it all went orange and bright and a little while down the road, WHAM, you got hit with swaths of fuchsia pink clouds against the evening sky.

My shutter finger was itching and I was saying over and over to myself, "Your missing this. Oh, look at that shot, and that one! And YOUR MISSING IT."

But after a few minutes of beating myself up about not being able to pull over and spend the next hour taking photographs of the beautiful world blooming around me, I realized something.

While a photograph would preserve the sunset, no piece of film or group of pixels could preserve this moment.

I was with my dad, who I don't get to see as often as I should or would like to. He'd made it through surgery and I was going to spend the next few days hanging out with him. This beautiful sunset was something we were sharing together, and something I should be relaxed enough to enjoy without thinking about what great photos I could be taking.

I didn't miss a thing.