A sharp kee-eeeee-arr breaks the silence as I climb up this monumental slope of vines and silver grasses. Circling overhead are a pair of the iconic Red-tailed hawks that inspired the name for this place. I’m in the middle of the original Pinot Noir vines at Eyrie Vineyards in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. These aren’t just old vines—they’re the first Pinot Noir vines ever planted in Oregon, put into the earth in 1965 by David and Diana Lett, two visionaries who dared to believe that Burgundian grapes could thrive in the Pacific Northwest...

Last fall in Bordeaux, I found an old vine that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t the most dramatic in the vineyard, nor was it the gnarliest or the most laden with fruit. But there was something in its shape, its stance, that felt deeply human. Twisted, weathered, stubbornly reaching. I photographed it from every angle, trying to memorize the way its arms held the last clusters of grapes and how its leaves, tinged scarlet and gold, fluttered like old paper in the wind.

There’s something about Provence that vibrates beneath your skin. The light dances differently here—brighter, bolder, almost operatic. I just returned from a trip that felt less like travel and more like a spiritual excavation. I went to see the places where Van Gogh lived, worked, and wrestled with the world, and I came back with a head and heart brimming with color, texture, and longing.

Honoring your Muse can be one of the greatest things you do for yourself. Ignoring it can be disastrous.

Don’t fight fear, outsmart it. Just give it what it wants.

Power tools, sweltering heat, twelve-foot high ceilings and thirty years of grime all come together in a epic tale of transformation.