WordPress is a lovely tool, no doubt, but requires a bit too much thought and effort when all a bitch wants is to write. This year is teaching me to own who I am and to celebrate my strengths and my weaknesses. My shadow is as deserving of love as the shiny person I project to the world. Thus I have decided to migrate my writing over to Substack. I have been wanting to write more than poetry and felt my current theme wasn’t quite right, but I just haven’t had the bandwidth to “WORK” on it and unforch… it is not easy, nor for my brain — intuitive. As fate would have it, I discovered an ad for Substack (likely from Google reading my mind) and the rest will be herstory at montrescher.substack.com. I invite you to follow me there, as I will likely be taking this site down by the end of the year. Starting fresh in 2021 seems apropos anyway. Onward and upward! ❤

Trauma Sandwich

I have been so busy with work. Right now I am juggling two jobs as I continue my regular public health role and then split that with being a Disaster Service Worker for our COVID response team. Been thinking about trauma and how much more some humans have to bear than others. How this affects every corner of our lives. I know now that trauma doesn’t have to dictate my path in life nor is it a determinant of my potential. But having trauma, understanding the bruised parts of myself that have healed and those I am still nurturing allows me to be kinder to others. And even more than that, it allows me to see the potential in even the most hurt souls. (Except Trump— fuck that guy!)

Fifth House

“I want to be a writer,” I told the moon.
And the sides of her lips twinkled against the depth of blackness
in an anxious abyss
This sheet of blue-black midnight illuminated my skull
and carried my message like winter turning to spring
And the adult who wished for better childhood memories
vomited failures until the liquid turned clear as the moon
Our reverie was here in the wood shed,
in the grass sprinkled with dog shit,
on the deck suckling obliteration
I realized I wanted to live and
grown-up words, like “be sensible,” had slapped me across the face
Thrusted silly wishing into molds of sacrifice and safety

I left the chill to nest inside a green electric blanket
Fed of its warmth and effortless comfort
Eased into sleep, into a familiar daze
of success and never-ending contentment
with green pools of grass and smiling moons
In the summertime when I was a child
with screaming hands
and a dangerous mouthful of dreams.

pic by my mom