‘Sometimes you don’t even want to breathe’

‘What if you put your grandfather on the boat?’

Deena asks the question quietly. Almost inaudibly. She’s a small person, barely five foot one and anywhere between 70 and 200 years old, but sometimes her voice can carry across football fields. Others it can whisper through the air, rippling it just enough to make an impact.

The question invites me to reconsider a story I carry that may or may not be true. In this story, my mother’s father is sent to America on a boat with his three sisters. He’s seven years old and had been living in Eastern Europe. Somewhere. For this story, the exact point of origin isn’t as important as the fact that he got put on a boat by someone.

Confused, seasick, small for his age, he arrives at Ellis Island and is almost immediately whisked off to an orphanage where he is separated almost completely from his sisters. His roots, whatever there is of them, are severed.

He’s a smart guy and picks up English fairly quickly. He never really fits in and doesn’t know why. He hurts all the time and doesn’t know why. He gets bullied and doesn’t know why. Nor does he care. He starts to fight back. He cultivates a quick wit and a crusty exterior to keep people at bay. To make it through the day, he starts drinking in his teens. He’s not doing it to consciously numb the pain. He just knows that drinking helps him navigate the world.

This story may not be true in any sort of conventional sense involving facts. But, for whatever reason (and in the absence of facts), it’s become one of the cornerstones of how I define my family and lineage, in as much as I define my lineage at all.

When I’d shared a small piece of this story with Deena during a seven minute session as part of a weeklong intensive, I’d said, almost dismissively: ‘He just got put on a boat.’ She perked up, eyes shining. ‘Look at that,’ she said.

So I looked at it. Stepped through it. I went analytical on it. Contemplating this story about my Grandfather, I made it about myself and got very deep, indeed. What parts of myself had I ‘just’ put on a boat? In my journal, I wrote:

What are parts of me are adrift, confused, and have been disconnected and set adrive to safer shores? What wants to be reclaimed and what wants to be released?

With these questions in my mind, I sat on a chair overlooking the Santa Monica mountains and began to breathe. Soon, Buffalo appeared. He was large, loomed over the whole landscape. Then he was standing at the edge of the vast ocean. My grandfather’s boat bobbed in the waters. Buffalo planted himself and began to drink. He drank and drank and with each mighty sip, the boat came closer. The small figure on it, I thought, is a part of myself. A part of my soul that had been set adrift.

Even as I thought this, wove this story, I knew it didn’t feel quite right.

When the boat reached the shore, I invited the figure to join me. ‘Welcome back,’ I told him, ‘You’re welcome here.’ He rejoined me. . .but, again, it didn’t feel quite right.

Buffalo ambled off, his work complete.

I shared this with Deena. She sat for a moment silently regarding me. Waiting for the story to almost-settle.

‘What if,’ she said so softly that the vibrations created only the smallest ripple, ‘You put your grandfather on that boat?’

A smile began at my center and wound its way up to my lips. Something small shifted into place and my heart lightened. This was the piece that had felt wrong. It wasn’t me on the boat: it was my grandfather. And I had put him there. With Buffalo’s help, I had brought him back and made amends.

I sat across from Deena for who-knows-how-long lightly touching my heart. ‘It’s delicate, this stuff.’ I said.

‘So delicate that sometimes you don’t even want to breathe.’