Wind Phones
In 2010, Sasaki Itaru of Japan, grieving the loss of his cousin to cancer, discovered something beautiful: a poem his cousin had written, titled The Phone of the Wind. The poem spoke of a mysterious phone, one that had no line, no connection—only the wind, which carried thoughts and feelings directly to the heart. “Whisper to the wind,” the poem said, “and I will hear you.”
Moved by this sentiment, Sasaki built a phone booth in his garden, a place where he could connect with the souls of those he’d lost. The booth was unique, unlike any other—there were no phone lines, no wires, just the wind to carry the words. Sasaki believed that our deepest thoughts couldn’t be conveyed through ordinary means; they had to be carried on the breeze, beyond the reach of the physical world, into the hearts of those who had passed.
A year later, Japan was struck by one of the most devastating disasters in its history. A massive 9.0 earthquake off the coast triggered a tsunami with 30-foot waves that ravaged entire villages, including Sasaki’s. His small hometown of Otsuchi was almost entirely destroyed. In the chaos and heartbreak, 1,300 lives were lost—10% of the population. The tsunami also caused a nuclear disaster in nearby Fukushima.
Amidst the devastation, Sasaki opened the phone booth to his grieving neighbours. The Phone of the Wind became a place where people could call out to their lost loved ones, to say things that had been left unspoken—words of love, sorrow, or regret.
Though the booth had no telephone line, no connection, it was a space for hearts to speak across the void. People came day and night, pouring their feelings into the wind, trusting that their loved ones, now gone, could somehow hear them.
In 2015, powerful winds blew the booth away, but volunteers from across the region came together to rebuild it, stronger than before. A new phone booth now stands on Sasaki’s hilltop garden, beside a book where visitors can record their thoughts, memories, hopes, and regrets. The stories are written in a book that Sasaki later published, along with another written with a grief expert, offering guidance on how to listen to the wind—and to the hearts of those we’ve lost.
Today, the Phone of the Wind continues to serve as a sanctuary for the grieving, a place where 30,000 people from all over the world have visited. The whispers of love, longing, and hope fill the air, carried gently by the wind.
The Wind Phone has inspired similar booths worldwide; the closest ones I am aware of are on Denman Island and in downtown Comox. It reminds us that, though we may lose those we love, their spirits live on in the whispers of the wind.