Ask the Author: Windu Thorne
Answered Questions (4)
Windu Thorne
I woke to the sound of my own voice whispering from the closet, repeating the exact words I had just dreamed.
But when I opened the door, my mouth was already waiting there—smiling back at me.
But when I opened the door, my mouth was already waiting there—smiling back at me.
Windu Thorne
I would step—barefoot and unannounced—into the whispering realms of Middle-earth, but not to join grand quests or battle dark lords. No, I’d head straight for the Shire, to learn the art of stillness from hobbits who understand that a well-tended garden is as noble as any throne.
I'd spend mornings walking through dew-laced fields with a pipe I don’t know how to use, learning names for clouds and birds I’ve never seen. Afternoons would be for storytelling under trees older than memory, sipping ale that tastes like forgotten laughter.
And at twilight, I’d find my way to Lothlórien, just once, to sit beneath the golden mallorn trees and hear the silence that even elves pause to listen to.
What would I do there? Exactly what I seek to do here—listen deeper, feel slower, and remember that magic lives in the small things we rush past.
I'd spend mornings walking through dew-laced fields with a pipe I don’t know how to use, learning names for clouds and birds I’ve never seen. Afternoons would be for storytelling under trees older than memory, sipping ale that tastes like forgotten laughter.
And at twilight, I’d find my way to Lothlórien, just once, to sit beneath the golden mallorn trees and hear the silence that even elves pause to listen to.
What would I do there? Exactly what I seek to do here—listen deeper, feel slower, and remember that magic lives in the small things we rush past.
Windu Thorne
This summer, my reading list is more of a ritual altar than a checklist.
I'm revisiting "Braiding Sweetgrass" by Robin Wall Kimmerer, a book that reads like ceremony—where science and Indigenous wisdom don't compete, but hold hands. It reminds me why plants are not just ingredients, but teachers.
Then there's "The Book of Symbols" by Taschen, a rich dive into archetypes and imagery, because symbols often say what words can’t. I leaf through it slowly, like decoding a dream one page at a time.
For fiction, I'm drawn to "The Overstory" by Richard Powers. Trees, fate, and time—woven together in a way that humbles any writer who thinks they’ve grasped narrative structure.
And somewhere in the stack, always, there’s a tattered copy of "Walden" by Thoreau. It follows me like a shadow, especially in summer—reminding me to sit still long enough to hear the earth think.
I'm revisiting "Braiding Sweetgrass" by Robin Wall Kimmerer, a book that reads like ceremony—where science and Indigenous wisdom don't compete, but hold hands. It reminds me why plants are not just ingredients, but teachers.
Then there's "The Book of Symbols" by Taschen, a rich dive into archetypes and imagery, because symbols often say what words can’t. I leaf through it slowly, like decoding a dream one page at a time.
For fiction, I'm drawn to "The Overstory" by Richard Powers. Trees, fate, and time—woven together in a way that humbles any writer who thinks they’ve grasped narrative structure.
And somewhere in the stack, always, there’s a tattered copy of "Walden" by Thoreau. It follows me like a shadow, especially in summer—reminding me to sit still long enough to hear the earth think.
Windu Thorne
Ah, mysteries… life seems to serve them in small doses, quietly folded into the ordinary. If I had to choose one, it would be the silent knowledge passed down to me without words.
There was a woman—an old herbalist—who lived in the forests near where I grew up in British Columbia. Locals whispered stories about her: healer, witch, guardian of the woods. As a boy, I’d watch from the trees while she collected roots, murmuring to plants in a language I couldn’t place. We never spoke. Yet, years later, when I began studying ethnobotany, I’d find myself instinctively drawn to herbs I’d never consciously learned about—like memories imprinted before they had meaning.
Sometimes I wonder: did she pass something on to me without speaking? Was it in the soil? The scent? The gaze we never exchanged?
It’s a mystery that still lingers like smoke in pine woods… and yes, it could make quite the book.
There was a woman—an old herbalist—who lived in the forests near where I grew up in British Columbia. Locals whispered stories about her: healer, witch, guardian of the woods. As a boy, I’d watch from the trees while she collected roots, murmuring to plants in a language I couldn’t place. We never spoke. Yet, years later, when I began studying ethnobotany, I’d find myself instinctively drawn to herbs I’d never consciously learned about—like memories imprinted before they had meaning.
Sometimes I wonder: did she pass something on to me without speaking? Was it in the soil? The scent? The gaze we never exchanged?
It’s a mystery that still lingers like smoke in pine woods… and yes, it could make quite the book.
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