Creative Grief: The Wind Phone Connection

If you are anything like me, then you look back at your life to see the patterns, and how certain choices propelled you forward or held you back. In surveying the landscape of my past, it is clear that the last six years have been my most difficult to date: I lost both of my parents, we survived a global pandemic, I had major surgery on my throat, my only child transitioned, got married, divorced, and moved away, I lost touch with my birth family, and my 26-year marriage ended in divorce after long-term betrayal. So, yeah, that is a lot of big change to work through, but one of the constructive things I am doing to crawl out of this compounded grief is to write a new play, which is a mystical world built around the “Wind Phone.”

In Japan in 2010, Itaru Sasaki created the Wind Phone to help him cope with his cousin’s death, but there are now over 460 Wind Phones, internationally. Still, most people have never heard of them and will ask, “What is a Wind Phone?” It is an unconnected telephone where visitors can go to hold one-way conversations with deceased loved ones. Wind Phone sites are places where you can meditate on life and loss because, sometimes, you just need a way to express those thoughts and feelings.

As part of my process for writing this new script, I introduced the Wind Phone concept to the authors in my writing group, The Write Stuff, and I invited them to create their own windphone entries.

“I love the idea!” Carol Cespedes said.

“I think we should build a Wind Phone here—and I’ll design it!” Kay Cox added.

“We’ll have to figure out somewhere quiet but accessible to install it,” Dee Karp problem-solved.

“Maybe we could put it in the Butterfly Garden?” Kathy Johnson suggested.

The room crackled with their excitement and, when I proposed our Wind Phone Project to the administration where I work in the independent-living unit, they were all for it. So, The Write Stuff will spearhead the project, but the Wind Phone installation will be for all our residents. The first stage of our project will be explaining the HOW/WHY of the prospect to this senior-living community at a Town Hall meeting in September 2025.

Now, here are five of my writers’ responses to the assignment, paired with the real Wind Phones each selected. Several wrote to beloved family members, while others wished to connect with friends who are gone:

THE WIND PHONE ON SOURDOUGH ROAD, by Carol Cespedes

This morning, I set out, as I loved to do, in the bright Montana air, 
Looking for a wind phone that might carry my voice to you.  
I knew it had to be there, far away, up a path…
But first, I had to find the path.
So, I walked, and then ran toward the Crazy Mountains,
I turned right on Church Street, and
Then took Sourdough Road toward the Gallatins.
The phone was there, calling with the wind,
And now I cried out,
Where before I had only listened.
You were the wisest man I knew, though the words sometimes came slowly,
You may have thought it didn’t make a difference
When my opinions turned so far from yours.
Then pain began when my actions didn’t meet your words –
But, in truth, they did because words are not the true beginning –
nor really the end.
You inspired with tales of Scottish courage and Bible quotes.
You taught me by your choices, hard but, somehow, wise.
In the end, I couldn’t hear you and meanings blurred
Because I knew your memory was fading.
You did not always know who or wherefore,
But you did know love. So, now, I can say it:
I love you, Daddy.

FOREVER FRIENDS, by Kay Cox

Hi, Betty,

I found the wonderful Wind Phone you created. I knew the minute I saw it that it was the one you had built… so like you with its cool mix of old parts and fantastic finds. I really miss you and all the adventures we had. So often, when I have trouble remembering someone’s name or place now, I think, “I’ll call Betty; she will know.”

Can you believe the crazy stuff we did? The summers beginning in 1972 at Texas Tech drawing, painting and firing kilns? The geology students at Texas Tech in Junction who shared their tools when Steve Reynolds, our ceramics instructor, took us on a field trip to find fossils along the highway? The geology prof was upset and wanted us to confess where we got the picks, and we played dumb. He thought all of us artists were a bad influence on his students.

Maybe we were, but it was fun–especially the big Saturday night trips to London, Texas, the closest dance hall. Junction was a dry county so, for a beer, we had to travel. And what a dance hall it was, complete with a live band. The hard-bodied cowboys didn’t arrive until after dark, but they appeared all slicked up and ready to dance, and so were we after a week of clay and fire. I remember being so surprised that Texas Tech instructor, Bill Lockhart who taught kite making, could waltz, really waltz; a thrill when he chose you for a turn around the wooden floor.

Oh geez, remember how it all began? The purchase of the property in Webster with a house and barn for our studio. You, Marilyn Heath and I bought the whole thing for $9000, $3K each. I’ll never forget the realtor demanded that our husbands cosign the sale, which was ridiculous even in those times, and we were paying cash. We were so upset but gave in.

The old barn was perfect for the electric kiln. The next-door neighbor who worked in construction helped us pour slab for the kiln, with our hubbies pitching in to help. Ever wonder what happened to that neighbor? And his kids? That was a whole other story, huh! But you,

the little, Italian lady from New Jersey, blazed your own trail into the Houston art scene, and when your Bob got assigned to the White Sands NASA center and moved to New Mexico, you refused to go with him. That took guts, and I think Bob felt you would eventually come. So, he started building a house. But your life was full of teaching and creating amazing art. That move was never gonna happen (and it didn’t!), and I don’t know if that house Bob was building ever really got finished either.

I am so grateful for your friendship, Betty… and I think Bob thought we were gay, hee, hee. But when you moved to Brookdale in Houston, we sold our house in Seabrook and moved there, too. And, when we found you on the floor unable to get up, we knew it was time to move you for more support for the Parkinson’s disease that was taking over. And off you went to California. I think you would love to know that your wonderful daughter, Lynn, still keeps up with me! I miss you, and I will call again.

Bye for now, love you, Kay Cox

BESTIES, by Rochelle Lacy

Hey, Carol. It’s Rockie. Yeah, I know it’s been a long time, and things have changed so much—

for both of us.

I attended your Memorial Service in Pampa, Texas, but didn’t make the trip to the main service at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. But I found this great place here at Rock Ridge Retirement Center. It has a Wind Phone where we can contact family and friends who have passed over. So, I thought I’d get in touch with you.

I really miss you. After all, you were my Bestie from the third grade on. And that was 80 years ago, when we first met at school! I was the new kid, and I was a year younger than the rest of you, but you took me in.

My parents owned a photography studio, and your dad worked for Cabot Corporation. I don’t know what he did, but he worked in the office and, eventually, became one of their executives. I was so honored when you asked me to sing at his funeral. Earlier, you had also asked me to sing at your mother’s service, but I had laryngitis and couldn’t talk, much less sing.

I still remember when you were temporary choir director at the Presbyterian church, where you, occasionally, asked me to do a solo for your services. I am lots older now, but I’m still a passable singer at karaoke.

Looking back, it was strange that we became such good friends, as we were so different from each other. I was timid and somewhat shy, a fact that people who know me now don’t believe! You, on the other hand, were outgoing and fearless. So, I let you be the leader in our adventures.

You were in band, and I was in choir. You loved the color chartreuse and disliked aqua. I loved aqua and hated yellow-greens—and I still do, ha! But we both loved our Girl Scout troop, but we can talk about those many adventures at another visit.

Our biggest difference was cats! You loved your cats and had 3 or 4 of them. I was a “small dog” person. Your cats sensed this so, of course, they rubbed against my legs at every visit and tried to climb into my lap. I didn’t want to hurt them so, when you weren’t looking, I would slide my foot under their belly, gently lift, and “throw” them across the room. Don’t worry. I never tried to hurt them, but “two” could definitely play their little game of “annoyance.”

I was so lucky the time your brother, Richard, came home on leave from the Air Force. We were in high school by then, but you did not warn me that he had a new pet with him. It was Saturday morning, and I made my usual half-block trek to your house and knocked on the door. You yelled for me to, Come on in!, so I opened the door. Suddenly, this large German Shepherd came barking and dashing into the room. PANIC!!!!

With a loud scream, I quickly retreated out the door, where I held the screen door shut so the dog couldn’t reach me. You, Richard, and your dad really laughed. I didn’t think it was funny. I was terrified. I was a small person, and that dog was big enough to swallow me in one bite. So, I did not visit your house again, until Richard and the monster returned to his base.

Well, my friend, I enjoyed this walk down Memory Lane. There are so many adventures to recount still. So, I will wait until another time for more stories! I am so glad you answered the Wind Phone. I have missed my childhood friend so much. Bye for now!

CONVERSATION ON THE WIND, by Dee Karp

Hi, Gram,

You know I talk to you every day, but now I can pick up an actual phone and send my thoughts and conversation through these wires straight to you! I know you’ll hear me this way, like I hear your voice talking to me on the currents of the wind. Softly at first, like a slight, gentle breeze, then a rushing, whirling, ruffling of my hair, as it comes to me in a wind-blown song.

I came across this lovely little shrine while walking through the woods and raspberry patches behind our old house on Riverside Drive! I know this must be a dream, because that land has long been gone, morphed into yet another housing development. But it still lives in my mind.

This bright, cherry red phone with the curly cord, on a weathered piece of wood, in the middIe of the old dirt path in the woods behind our house! I stared at it for several minutes, relishing the memories, recalling the days you used to put on an old pair of Dad’s galoshes, slip me into my wellies (to guard against the snakes!) and took me with you to the “back 40.” I giggled at your attempt to mimic a western accent over your proper British parlance! We walked carefully to the bushes to pick the bright, red berries. I held the basket, and you picked the berries, while we sang our favorite songs together! Every once in a while, you popped a big, juicy berry in my mouth, and I can still taste the succulent sweetness. You laughed as you took your favorite embroidered hanky out of the pocket of your housedress and wiped the bright red juice that was spiraling down my chin like the cord on this phone. Being enveloped in your love like this was the best gift you could ever give me! 

You are my favorite person in all this world: You always have been, and you always will be. I’m older now than you were when you left this realm, so I feel I’ll be joining you soon. Then we can talk and gab and sing together for always. In the meantime, I’ll visit this special place often and use the special red phone to talk to you on the wind.

A WINDFALL OF A WIND PHONE, by Kathy Johnson

Mom, I can’t believe that I have discovered a possible way to communicate with you, even though you are no longer walking this earth! As long as the memories of you still fill my brain and heart, I can supposedly communicate with you using a Wind Phone. So I chose a site that’s in the middle of the woods, since we both enjoyed nature so very much.

My concept of how this Wind Phone works is that if I talk into it, you will hear (but cannot respond). This may be wishful thinking, but the possibility that it works makes it worth trying.

Lately, I have missed you so much, as I go through stacks of old photo albums and read your life stories. At age 80 myself now, I miss you while I write my own stories and add my photos–and even some of your old photos to make your travels and love of horses come alive again.

Mom, I realize now that you are the reason why I am the person that I wanted to become. In my ear, I can still hear you telling me that I can achieve anything I really want to accomplish. Because you convinced me that I am exceptional, I continued to push myself to grow to meet the never-ending challenges that life brings. You helped me learn how to adapt to every situation, as we moved frequently, while Dad tried to compress me into an image that he wanted to behold, which just made me stubborn and annoyed.

At a time when it wasn’t cool, you let me be myself, until I realized that it wasn’t always a way that I wanted to be. As a result, I kept re-shaping and learning, as I grew to adulthood—and I have continued learning and changing in positive ways well into my old age, as did you.

You encouraged me to read, write, draw, and play my flute in my bedroom, my sanctuary from Dad’s ultra-authoritarianism. I was so fortunate to have my own, quiet place. And I have–if sporadically–continued to putter with the arts throughout my life due to this gentle start.

Since I began writing this, I am shocked to realize that I may have received two messages from you. If you really sent them, I must say I found both messages delightful. Your first message that I found today was in a box of papers and photos from the garage; a booklet labeled “Grandmother, A Record Book of Memories.” In about 1982, my son, Matthew, gave you the booklet that his teacher assigned her 5th graders. I read the booklet, which contains questions about your life, and you beautifully handwrote complete answers to each question. And, yesterday, as I re-read it, I felt as though I had had a lovely visit with you, while you answered so many questions that lay heavily on my mind.

After your “Record Book of Memories,” I was treated to a song that seemed to be from you on my favorite morning radio station. The words of the song spoke volumes, and it was as if you were talking or singing in your lovely, lilting voice: “After all these years, you are still you.”

I have to admit that the Wind Phone seemed to work for me—or, at the very least, it enhanced my memories of you, which caused me to interpret events differently, after my wind-phone conversation with you.

********************

But, alas, not every Wind Phone “call” is sent to re-live fond memories. Some are dedicated to that which is unresolved and to people we struggled to know and/or love. Finally, then, here is my Wind Phone entry to my mother who went to her grave at only 78-years-old, but she still suffered from active addiction.

TANGLES AND VINES, by Rita Anderson

I picked up the phone to call you,
as I had for decades, my lifetime,
because–although you were difficult–
You were my lifeline in any situation
where I could barely even bring
myself to say the problem out loud.

But, this time, the rings just echo
with no reply, just like they have
the last three years because no
fingers exist, no face, anymore,
that cradles the receiver to your ear
because I have already heard my last
“Hello?” from your voice.

You were an impossible woman,
Mother, ill and uneven, and given
to grudges: I forgive you, you said,
without irony, the last time we spoke,
and I could not speak (plus, there was
never any room for the truth, not
with you), the air stuck with the words
burning my throat and heart. Still,

I drove all this way to cover the distance
in miles (if not in understanding)
between us, and as I hiked that hill
deep into these woods, my head filled
with practiced phrases:

We saved your dog, I would say,
when the family wanted to put her
down, after you died. We loved Lily,
and she became best friends with our
wily puppy, who groomed her in worship.
But it was Lily and I who healed each
other’s brokenness, and I, finally,
let you go, too, when she took
her last breath in my arms. –Oh,
and I left my husband, that man
you sent me back to when I came
crying to you about his cruelty
in my first year of marriage.

–Or so I had planned to say, until
I saw the old phone booth with
the red rotary. And, although
I was drawn to the leafy debris that
enveloped it, my words collapsed
amidst the family of vines doing its best
to hide, if not strangle, the evidence.
Because This, I understood. A tangle
so massive you weren’t sure you could
ever dig yourself out from under it. And
how imperfect butapt “tangles and vines”
were for us.

–Stay tuned for PART II, where I will share the progress on my new play, and on our project of building our own Wind Phone installation here in Austin, Texas! And below are the other authors’ BIOs, in order of their entry’s appearance in the article.

BIOS:

Carol Cespedes is a world traveler from Montana. In the 86 years of her lifetime, she has lived, learned, and loved in many places, but the creative wind always takes her back to her family roots in the open spaces of the West.

88-year-old Kay Cox, a published poet and visual artist, is a retired therapist and teacher of everything from three-year-olds to graduate students here and in Australia. She loves to play with paint and words, and she loves anything chocolate but hates panty hose.

Rochelle Lacy grew up in the Texas Panhandle, where she taught high school theater and world history. She likes reading, writing, theater, and friends. She will be 89 in May.

Dee Rose Karp’s love of writing began in grade school, when she won first prize with her contest entry, “My Life is Rosey.” Throughout her 86 years, she has continued writing short stories about life as she knows and has experienced it.

Kathleen Johnson is a very active 80-year-old widow with a couple of Masters’ degrees, followed by decades of teaching and education leadership. She is currently working on improving her writing and singing skills, in addition to writing her family story.

View All Stories By Rita Anderson