Guestbook for Grief

I grieve in tears, in words, in writing and in quiet yearning. Recently, I thought of something that I thought might help me, and others in their process. I wanted to create a way for people like me to connect anonymously and intentionally through our grief. A local grief group.

I'd call it: A guest book for grief. It's a good idea, I think. But first let me preface my idea with...

The Telephone of the Wind

When I moved to Springer Cottage, one of the perks the realtor mentioned was access to the Squaxin Park trails, just a few blocks down from our doorstep. We moved, we remodeled, grandma died, winter hit hard. I had a miscarriage, changed jobs, got a second dog. Then the spring came.

That was the first time I harnessed up the dogs and braved the trails - trails I just KNEW I'd get lost in. Trails that intimidated me, just because of how new they were to me. But I knew I needed fresh air, and I knew I couldn't hide from my grief.

That morning, I looked up a map of the park and took a screen shot (just in case). Then, I just started! The trails were much less intimidating than I thought, and were easy to navigate. Just a few loops, nothing too crazy. But it was my personal hundred-acre woods, and I felt at home under it's canopy. That first day, I stuck to the main trail and didn't venture far.

The next day, more confident, I took a different split in the trail than the day before. I was excited to get to know the trails like the back of my hand. To explore my new woods with my fur babies.

It was then that I stumbled upon the Telephone of the Wind.

There, at the end of a short trail off the beaten path was an old-fashioned rotary phone, hanging from a cedar board nailed to a tall post in the ground. Beside it, a plaque read "This phone is for everyone who has lost a loved one. The phone is an outlet for those who have messages they wish to share with their friends and family. It is a phone for memories and saying the goodbyes you never got to say."

I looked around, afraid for a moment that I was being watched or punked. It seemed too much a coincidence, too random a thing to see in the forest.

No one for miles (or as far as I could see in a dense forest). And then, certain of solitude, I stepped forward and took the phone in my hand, holding it to the ear. I heard nothing. But put my intention on my angel grandma. Awkwardly at first, I shared about my life. Then the words were spilling, as were my eyes. All the things she'd missed, and how I deeply missed her. When I hung up the phone, I sat beside the tree and soaked in the peace of the woods.

For years, it's been a place of solitude and a place of healing.

Hello, Goodbye Daddy

Recently my dad died, suddenly and unexpectedly. The kind of death that keeps you reeling and wondering and reaching. It took me weeks to approach the Telephone of the Wind. I avoided it for a while, actually. Not really sure why, but it just made dad's death as real as grandma's, maybe? And I wasn't ready for that.

On January 10th, 2025, 9 weeks after dad's death, I was out walking. And I realized I was ready. So I went to the beach and collected a few tokens. Then I re-entered my woods and made my way to the rotary phone.

I don't know what I said exactly, but later that day I wrote this:

Dear dad,

Today I watched my babies play on our tiny private beach. Private because the tide was so far in, we only had access to a small section. I didn’t mind. It was the first time we’d been down there since you died.

The sun warmed my face as the wind whipped my hair. The dichotomy was not lost on me. You would have loved it here today.

Maple tried to catch a leaf and ended up in a muddy stream. Klay stayed far away from the cold waves and peed on everything. They made me laugh.

I walked to the waters edge and looked down and thought my snow boots were out of place. Not exactly toes in the sand. Even so, It felt right somehow.

I called you on the phone. The telephone of the wind. Your area code 360, same as mine. You didn’t answer, I knew you wouldn’t. The phone isn’t even connected, not in that way. But I dialed anyways. Just to prove to myself how much I loved you. Your phone number, forever memorized. Rare.

I talked a little. Mostly I let the tears fall. Witnessed by the trees. It’s ok- most of them too tall to notice.

I didn’t tell you about Maple’s wet fur or Klay’s dirty paws. But I left you a shell from the beach and reminded you of my love.

I see you in the trees and in the ferns. You taught me to reverence nature. It’s in my genes to fall in love with my home and this land every single day. My walk reminded me of that love we share for the Pacific Northwest and all things green.

I think I’ll go again tomorrow.

Love, B

A guest book for grief

When I get to my airbnb, I love to set my bag down, get a glass of water, and find the guest book. I refrain from writing my name (that'll come on the last day, when I have more to say). For now, I flip through the pages, looking for - I don't know what exactly. Just looking. At the names, the signatures, the stories, the sketches. I don't know where they come from. I don't know what they do. Their class, age, family structure, culture and identity is a mystery to me (except the oversharers). I love to read the complaints and the appreciation, alike. The stories and jokes and recommendations.

I love a good guest book. It makes me feel traveled, to add my name to the list. It makes me feel important, apart of something, even if it's small.

I WAS HERE! ME TOO, my signature says. I can't quite remember what got me thinking about the Telephone in the Wind, but I thoguht "what if places like THAT had a guest book".

And before the thought was out of my mind, I was reaching for a pen to write the first line of my poem "guest books intrigue me".

The poem (one of my first poems ever written), is not good. But it came out of me with an ease that encouraged me.

Guest Book, by me

I’ve always been intrigued by guest books,
I love to sit down and take a look.
The way they bring people of different walks and paths
Together on a page with stories and laughs…
Signatures and scribbles from one person bleeding into the next—
as if the people and the stories connect.

But they do, if only by this place, I’d think.
Then pick up my pen and put down my drink.

I’d always take a minute to sign my name next to a note or two,
painting a scene of adventures or thoughts—something true.
It makes me feel traveled, heard, and seen.
Even by strangers unknown to me.

Whenever I stand here at this telephone,
I look around and I’m always alone.
Only the birds and the trees witness my grief.
But I have this feeling, it can’t be just me.
There are tokens here, scattered below.
Stones and flowers and symbols of love.
Spiritual offerings from people like you and me,
who come to speak their truths to their angels, unseen.
But I’m not alone now that you’ve found this place,
even though I can’t quite picture your face.

Hi, stranger, it me, fellow traveler in life.
If you have a minute, I wonder if you might
sign your name with a note or a phrase:
Who do you miss? How did you find this place?

I know this introduction may be unexpected
but I wonder if we might be connected.
If only by this place and this grief.
A moment and time and feeling, so brief.

Maybe your name, or your words, like the birds and the trees
will steady someone else who feels unseen.

Thank you, my friend - may I call you that now?
'Cause in my book, we’re connected, somehow.

a final product

After finishing my poem, I grabbed my keys and headed to the store. At marshalls, there was an array of notebooks and journals to choose from. The one I chose had a hydrangea flower on it. One of my favorite flowers, and one that we used in dad's funeral arrangements. When I got home, I scribbled my poem in the front pages of the book, and encouraged others to add their memories, stories and names to the pages. Then I zipped it with a few pens into a plastic bag, to keep it all waterproof.

Tomorrow, I'm going to walk to the telephone, and place my journal and my pens in my plastic bag there, and see if, in a few weeks or months, someone like me might find it and add their name.

My hope is that it becomes a collective of messages of loss, grief, love and hope for all who stumble upon this place. It might seem so insignificant, but-I don't know-to me this feels important! It can't do any harm. And who doesn't love a good guest book? ...ok maybe just me.

If you're in the neighborhood and have something to say, I hope you'll sign your name next to mine in the Guestbook of Grief.

Love, Brooklyn