Profound Trust

For Brian

I hear that my brother Brian has been hit by a car while riding a motorcycle on a country road near our family ranch. I begin to shake.I run up the hill for Dad’s truck, jump in, and with my feet and hands shaking wildly, drive to a spot 100 feet from where my brother lay silently, face up on the hot asphalt.  While running, I’m sure I’m going to fall because the sensations in my legs and arms are so strange—like I’m running on the earth’s crust that’s been enlivened by a massive earthquake.  I see my mom kneeling on one side of Brian, my dad on the other, stricken with grief, crying.Brian’s body is still.  I slow my pace to a simple gait and arrive standing at Brian’s feet.  My entire body slows to a stillness not unlike what I observe in his silent retreat, and I hear the words, “Here lies the body—he is done.”   The contrast between my shaky body/mind/soul of a moment ago, and my still and now peaceful body/mind/soul is stunning.  I look down at Brian’s body, raise my head to gaze across the fenced hay field, up and over the pine trees, and finally into a deep blue Dakota sky, and I hear an inside voice say, “He is now a part of all of this—and more—and I trust that his journey, including this seemingly tragic end, is right for him.”My connection to Brian is reset by this experience of being in support of him and his soul path, instead of being in resistance to what has occurred.  I am linked to him and to all that surrounds me in that moment in a blaze of peaceful insight. It is an experience of truth that simultaneously anchors me and frees me. In that NOW all the parts fit together perfectly and I am transformed—literally changed.As I walk away, I hear the sound of my breath, living in my ears, and I want to sing and cry.  Then comes the thought, “Oh, I wonder how long this feeling will last . . . we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”  I can’t imagine that this new awareness could stand the test of grief in a country home with a family gathering for a long overdue reunion.  That was the plan.  Instead, we gather and each begin a journey of grief – to process the unthinkable loss of our brother/son/grandson.The day after comes and goes, and my awareness remains like a fast new friend.  The funeral comes and goes. No change.  A month passes, then a year, and at a certain point, I realize that this is a true transformative moment in my life.  I am open to a truth that is mine forever.This instant shift is a gift with side affects.  My mind, accustomed to leading, becomes a nuisance—insisting on returning to the scene to build a case against my newfound insight, as if it knew better. Honestly, how does a car hit a motorcycle in broad daylight on a country road where you can see for miles?  Really? A brief “what-if” loop forms until I realize that this kind of thinking is a habit, not born at the site.  Eventually a new thought appears: “If it truly is meant to be, all aspects align to that end: the appearance, timing, and speed of the car—more often than not, there are no cars on that country road—and Brian’s turning of the bike at just that moment, resulting in a non-negotiable impact.Having managed that mind-hurdle, in the first few days after Brian’s physical death I become acutely aware that I am now a one-of-one in the family dynamic, not to mention the community at large.  When I hear people share their strong views on why this should not have happened to a 14-year-old boy, or what should happen to that young man who was driving too fast, ultimately crashing his car into Brian’s body, or that no parent should have to bury their child, I know that I am now an outsider.I really can’t speak.  They cry.  I cry.  I can see that it helps them to follow their shared beliefs and cluster for comfort.  I cry knowing that I won’t hear Brian’s voice again, or see him grow and thrive in this life we shared.  I also cry from the joy of my connection to him, which I now know is not, and never will be broken, and for the abundant comfort afforded by trusting another human being, Brian, to perfectly live his unique journey.Brian David SiegJuly 7, 1963–July 27, 1977Char Marie Sieg is certified in the Birkman Method, the Work of Byron Katie, and Grief Counseling (through the American Academy of Grief Counseling) for individuals and groups. Char has pursued extensive training in Psychology, Spirituality and Mind-Body Awareness, including hospice training at the San Francisco Zen Buddhist hospice society, Citrus Valley Hospice, and Serenity Hospice in Palm Springs. Char is a native of the Black Hills of South Dakota. She is a photographer and particularly skilled at coaching people to claim and process their feelings about change and re-claiming their entire, creative selves.Char Marie Sieg cmsieg@gmail.com