Winds of Onemo

Winds of Onemo is a love letter to a moment I didn’t know was the last. The wind at the bayhouse wasn’t just movement through trees – it was composition. Certain days, mostly in spring or fall, the breeze would come alive, playing the trees like an instrument. Not melodic in the traditional sense, but something better: Boléro written in white noise, where every “shhhh” felt medicinal. I always joked that the winds here were what doctors would prescribe, if they could.
I had just gotten a new recorder with proper wind protection, and the timing was perfect. I nearly didn’t record – was tempted to just be lazy, let the day pass through me. But something nudged. So I pressed record, and the wind gave me a performance.
That weekend might’ve been the final time I ever stayed at the bayhouse. It was never available again. I didn’t know that then, but listening back now, the recording feels like a gentle goodbye. A reminder that peace can hum, hiss, and swirl; that noise, too, can heal. Sometimes it’s the soundscape itself that knows how to let you go.