Will Montei

Will Montei (’13) graduated with a major in writing and a minor in philosophy. He currently lives in Seattle, taking full advantage of the abundant local coffee and surrounding mountain hikes. He is an avid daydreamer, an old soul, and a creative potty mouth.

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Unaccounted Years

They tumbled into my lap to watch Puffin Rock. Two on my knees, one on my crossed ankles. I’d have been little more than a chair were I not kissing their cheeks.

The Faith of Trump Supporters

Jesus did encourage us to have a childlike faith, after all, and for all the criticisms we may have of the example before us, we are witnessing a childlike faith on a broad scale.

All The World A Burden

After listening my alarm blare for five, ten, or twenty bleary minutes, I started to admire whoever designed the heinous tone.

A Goodness

A few days later I was back in Seattle and it felt like coming home, like jumping into your bed’s cold sheets and warming them as you fall asleep. I feel bad about that, for loving two places at once.

On Reading Breitbart

It’s best to approach the matter as you would your Facebook wall: scroll, scroll, scroll until something tickles your fancy. And to that point, I’ll say this: Breitbart knows how to tickle.

We Wanted the Entire World

Someone would pass a six-pack of cold root beer up and all of us would lounge in a circle and talk about nothing, and it felt like everything.


I was once told the way that my eyebrows slope down symbolizes wisdom, but it looks like sadness, which might be the same thing.

The Men I’ve Loved

We would say it without worrying about whether or not it came off to anyone within earshot as romantic. As you say it to your family, so we said it to each other.


Outward Bound, Super Camp, tutors, counsellors, mentors—my parents spared no expense in trying to figure out my 2.33 cumulative high school GPA. Nothing worked.

Places I’ll Never Know

Lights shine along Seattle’s hills, illuminating all the homes where everyone no one knows eats, sleeps, listens, and loves.

Bon Iver’s “22, A Million,” A Review

Maybe it’s the state of my own fractured life that allows me to listen past the fractures in the composition of Bon Iver’s latest offering, 22, A Million, to see the transcendence hidden inside.


Because I am, and “I AM,” and love is, and there must be more love out there—“the greatest of these.” For these reasons, I follow in the long tradition of abiding with God in silence.


Its branches bloomed with little white, fuzzy pearls that I thought were baby rabbits being born.

Above and Below

My mom refers to Cedar as a “thin place.” She means that whatever barrier keeps humans at a distance from the Spirit is measurably smaller.


I was not just leaving behind a friend, but someone who loves the parts of me I don’t. Sometimes adulthood just feels like a dawn of frequent partings.

The Hermione to My Ron

I don’t like planning anything. Plans may have good intentions, but they always end up a little too strict. Like Professor McGonagall.


My sister owned a copy of Hanson’s first album, “Middle of Nowhere,” that I loved to steal, along with her cream-colored boom box, and play on repeat while I circled the garage in rollerblades and sang along to words I didn’t really understand.

Youth in a Sound

One of the pleasures of listening to a new band is creating an image of who the singer is. What do they look like? What kind of life do they live when they’re not playing?


In the tops of the leafless bushes that stood shoulder height along the path, a sea of spider webs swayed in the soft wind—hundreds and hundreds of webs, perfectly spun and glistening with dew in the morning light.

Good Morning, It’s Christmas

This year I’ll sleep in a guest room, maybe on an air mattress. It will be a normal night of sleep. I won’t be waiting for the rumble of the Polar Express, watching for its headlight to flood the walls of my room in a gold glow.

Dear One

I am speaking of all my relationships, but I’m mostly speaking of love. It’s when I share something with someone I hope to love, or do love, that I’m left wondering if it has always been so dark here.

To Know and Be Known

I first had sex when I was eighteen years old. It was very unromantic. We had to be quiet and careful because her parents were rustling around in the downstairs kitchen.

The End of Solitude

Strange how things happen. You can put all your effort into living well only to find that you were living just fine the whole time.

On Emma Watson and Self Love

Sometimes I Google search Emma Watson, just to, you know, stay in touch. She’s this contemplative introvert who values privacy, thrust into a world of celebrity.


For the first time in my life, I walk out of a church service, driving in silence back to my parent’s apartment. The next day, when I get home from work, I collapse wordlessly in my mom’s arms and sob into her shoulder.