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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