Author Archives: pjoak

This ocean has no boundaries.
It stretches beyond the edge of the world.
It is too big.

I can’t see the shore or the horizon, only the waves threatening to pull me under,
threatening me with every opportunity to remind me of their pervasive presence.

A little one. A bigger one. A little one. A monsoon.
I am so strong and so resilient and so fucking tired.

I can’t stop swimming because I’ll drown.
But what direction am I going, if salvation is out of sight?
Why am I even trying if there’s nowhere to go?

But…
I see something different than the same it has always been.

If we breathe, can it be smaller?

If I whisper, can it be smaller?

If we push, can it be smaller?

If I fight, can it be smaller?

If we roar, can it be smaller?

I will make it as small as it has made me.
I will hold this ocean in the palm of my hand, and I will swallow it whole.

A love letter to the patriarchy

I receive, inhale, and They hold steady in my bones.
Chaos holds, trembling in my soul.

I belong to Chaos.
I can’t move for stumbling.
I can’t breathe for faltering.

I wonder what it would look like to give everything back,
To lay upon the Earth and give Her all that suffocates me,
To let the heaviness sink into Her flowers, Her grass, Her leaves, Her snow,
To feed her my Chaos.

What would Her magic look like if I gave Her more?
Could I relinquish all of the entropy and watch Her make order,
Watch Her use my storm to nourish an ancient tree?
and in those entwined branches might lay the wisdom I seek
Could I bury Them into the Earth, so that I could then rise free?

It begins with
a whisper

an upturned nose at the dust on the surface
Oh, I meant to…
but you didn’t

I survey the field and see all the criticisms before he has a chance
I react with internal self-flagellation
it’s better than the crack of a spoon or a belt, I think.

I can’t believe he said that
it’s not your fault

he’s going to tell everyone that I…
but why does that matter

do his views reflect on me?
it’s not your fault

I am doing it all wrong
he is not right

I should have said, done, felt…
he is not your fault

He is disappointed in me
I am not enough
You are enough
He is disappointing you

He is not so far out of reach, after all

Hard isn’t strong enough to capture the lives we have recently lived.

There are easier out there. We are intimate with grief and exhaustion and resistance.

There are harder. We breathe lighter than war and famine and poverty.

And yet, moving through these days has been knee-deep snow fighting uphill in a blizzard.

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Some days we fight the blizzard. Some days I fight you.

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But here we are taking a moment.

Only you. Only me.

No world can shut us out or make us small, because we have already broken from it.

No, this moment is ours.

---

A glass of rioja reflects the flickering in your eyes.

A swirling intoxication of warmth.

I breathe in your words and joy and laughter.

I drink you in, like this glass of wine.
I melt from the brittleness and am poured

poured alongside a glass of you.

is what we remember what we believe?

are the imprints of moments sequenced in our dna?

does our heart beat in rhythm to the melodies of our past?

do our breaths falter in the wake of every shame?

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i remember

hiding under the mahogany table, breathing in the musky wood, breathing out a prayer for no one to find me

being shut in the closet, padding the cracks with pillows, defending my heart from the shouts below

wishing upon stars that there was another life waiting for me in the books I consumed

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but I also remember

her picking me up early from school, plush puppy in hand, guiding me into a moment of rest

her voice telling me that I needed my own money, to never let someone else control it, or me

wondering if that look in her eyes was dying for freedom, if she was dying for her freedom

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i wonder if you’ll remember

your first date

that time you laughed so hard something came out of your nose

or the way your mother sobbed, folded over your hospital bed, too broken to hold you together, too scared to let go of your hand

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is what we remember who we are?

am I hidden?

am I free?

am I broken?

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how many memories are left for me to make?

how many more chances do I have to remember the woman I want to become?

In those blue eyes. You are the sea of warmth and an awakening. You are the gentle wash of sweet relief when you reach my skin. You are the birth of something bright, of something new. You, my love, are blue.

In those green eyes. You were the supple strength in the live oaks of my youth. Your presence was home – it followed your every smile and breath. You were wild in your own deep soul – as a secret only you and I could see. You, my heart, were green.

In those brown eyes. You are built like no other, in the forges of war, escape, and triumph. You crossed the oceans of chaos to craft a world of your own. You are finding softness in a life of iron. You, my ancestor, are brown.

In those golden eyes. You are life: of laughter and joy. You create and grow everything you touch, and I am your greatest artwork. You are finding stillness in the tempestuous winds. You, my soul, are golden.

I long to peer through the gateway of your eyes, but instead I am faced with a mirror of myself. And instead, I find a refraction of you. And here, I dutifully arrange those fragments of light into an iridescent dream of who I might be.

Is Penelope Josephine Oak my given name?

Nope.

And what is the wonder of the world if not to birth in a little piece of newness?

Penelope for the lady who taught me the beauty of radical giving no fucks.

Josephine for the desert magic that taught me the beauty of radical acceptance.

Oak for the roots that taught me the beauty of home – not a single place: an action of growth.

And so PJ Oak will be speaking to you through these words.

Thank you for being here.

Sometimes, Bluebird, you might feel something is wrong and you don’t know why. The something might be crushing, or prodding, or nothing at all. You might hear a whisper of thoughts that pry at any opening into your soul. Little pebbles of doubt might crack the windows you use to look out upon the world. Words might leave your capability, and just breathing might be the next best step.

You can just breathe.

To the outside, it may look like you’re shutting down, but I know you’re just resetting. You are not broken. You are breathing.

And you are not alone in your breath.

These moments hit me suddenly too. On a day when I find myself opening my eyes at dawn with a strange quiet, I end my day as a soft piece of paper, folded unto myself in an unrecognizable origami silhouette. Sometimes the creases hold me for too long. Sometimes your father tries to unfold me too soon. Sometimes a few good breaths are all it takes for my edges to turn to silk, and I can lavishly lay in the feeling of relief.
But if the breaths don’t come, or perhaps even if they do, water comes next – cleansing the shattered shards of stability out from the cracks they’ve crawled into. A sip down the throat, a splash on the face, a soak of the feet. The drops are revival to the moments of wither that you temporarily endure. This ritual envelops you with the connection you may be longing for. One body of water pulling souls together through the pipes and the air and the ground beneath our feet.

And if in these moments you still feel small, know that you will grow, able to take in more of the light around you. The light is there, always, waiting for you to open your eyes. She peeks between your curtains, asking to be let in. Her voice will ask gently, and you may not hear her, but she will wait for you, just on the other side. You may never throw the panel aside, yearning for her warmth. You may simply finger the intricate red embroidery thread on the edge of a folded cloth, and in doing so catch a glimpse of her rays on your smallest fingertip. And that may be enough.

And, my dearest one, you may find yourself still, still. This feeling may linger, but it will pass. Its will may be hard, but you will be stronger. I will lay with you here, until you come back.