The Power of "Mollyness"

On June 4^th, 2013, a bright source of light was transferred from the harsh reality of a transplant hospital in Omaha to a much kinder gentler existence with the Source of that light.  After an entire lifetime of major physical challenges and suffering, and at the ripe old age of 24 years, 6 months, and 18 days, my dear, creative, bright, beautiful, funny friend Molly Jo Eaker-Pearce stepped out of her wounded battered young body and into the perfect health and wholeness of eternity.

 

Molly probably wouldn't remember the first time we met, since she was only a baby.  She might not remember the second time either - but I certainly do.  It was in Flagstaff, at the Li'l Bit North Ranch - and a group of us had just finished a women's retreat with Molly's mom, Melisa.  I stayed an extra day - and that was when Melisa had the bright idea that she could go into town to run some errands, and that I - the very experienced 30-something mom of two with a BA in Education - would be quite capable of taking care of this tiny sprout of a 3 year old while she was gone for a couple of hours.   

Now, I knew something about Molly from the grapevine of mutual friends Melisa and I had - but I had not really spent much time with her.  I mostly knew that she had serious physical challenges - that she was frail and kind of sickly - and I had seen her dragging the pole on wheels that carried her feeding pump around behind her much of the day.  With more than a decade of being a mom, and my saddle bags overflowing with creative drama training and experience with special needs kids,  I had no reason to think this sweet blue-eyed angel would be any kind of a challenge.  But unfortunately, Molly decided she did not want Mom to go… and when Melisa had the audacity to go anyway - Molly's anger flared.  I tried the normal distraction things - games, stories, even Barney on the TV (oh, my… I was, in the near future, going to watch an unimaginable amount of Barney shows and play Barney games and spend more time desperately looking for her lost Barney that she absolutely had to have or the world would come to an end), but on this day, poor Barney was not getting Molly's attention.  I assured her (over loud wailing) that Mom would be right back - and she was only going to get a few things from the store - but it had no effect.  Her anger grew to rage - and then to complete outrage that Mom would dare to go off and leave her!  And then… I was privileged to witness my first, official, dyed-in-the-wool, Molly Jo Pearce temper tantrum.

I know it is perfectly age-appropriate for a 3 year old to throw a tantrum when they don't get their way.  It's just that I had no concept of the amount of power and fury contained in this petite, apparently frail body that had flung itself to the floor in front of me.  The wailing - the flailing arms and legs… what was I to do with this supposedly sickly child who was quickly turning into a Tasmanian She-Devil before my eyes?

I tried again to convince her that mom would be back soon, but the kicking and screaming continued.  I tried distracting her with funny voices - silly songs ….even using my official authoritative "Mom" voice to demand she calm down - but Molly was not to be dissuaded.  I was really afraid that something horrible was going to happen - that there might be serious injury,  Finally - after what seemed like an eternity, (but which was probably about 20 minutes), when nothing I said or did had made one bit of difference, I quit.  I just gave up and lay down on the floor next to her.  I placed my hand lightly on that trembling little back, and lay there, saying nothing.  At first she escalated in protest, but after a few minutes, the yells began to fade into whimpers - and I felt her muscles slowly begin to relax under my hand.  It would take quite a while before she stopped completely and yielded her spot on the floor, but the worst was over… for now.

I didn't know it at the time, but extreme tantrums and dissociation are one way that kids who have been through medical trauma process some of that emotional pain.  They can literally get so lost in the emotion they just check out and don’t even know what is going on around them anymore.  All I knew on that sunny summer day in the mountains of northern Arizona was that I would never again equate a frail body with a frail spirit, especially not in the case of one Molly Joe Pearce, determined 3 year old and Tasmanian She-Devil impersonator!

There is so much power in the way we present ourselves to the world every day.  Molly, with all her physical limitations - displayed more power to affect good in the lives of people around her than most of the  famous and supposedly powerful people I know.    So the easiest way I have of sharing one of the major lessons I learned from Molly is to quote Marianne Williamson:  “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Molly knew this about herself.  In her short lifetime she learned what many of us never find out - we are the powerful beyond measure.  

Thank you, Mollywog.  Your power is awesome… and it is with us still, along with your joy and your passion for life.  Enjoy your next journey my friend!

For most posts about Molly – please go to: 

http://undissolved.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-poem-below-was-written-by-my-dear.html

http://undissolved.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-molly-connection.html

Thank You, Marianne Williamson

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” -  Marianne Williamson

This is probably one of my top 5 favorite quotes… maybe even the one I love most.  But the first time I read it - maybe 30 years ago when I was in my mid-thirties - it totally boggled my fundamentalist Christian mind.  I had been consistently taught that to even consider that I was "brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous" was a sin of arrogance and vanity - and any good Christian would never EVER actually say something like that OUT LOUD!  (The fires of hell were always lingering just around the corner back then.)  I think my eyes darted around a bit in search of stray lightning bolts - - - and that was just for reading the quote!

Back in those days, I was “blessed” with a great deal of trauma and drama.  I say “blessed” because although it was a horrific time for me, it forced me to reevaluate pretty much every nook and cranny of my life.  PTSD and other challenging experiences, coupled with honest confrontations from some amazing, loving, and wise friends, forced me to reconsider the spiritual beliefs of my youth. Eventually, life pried much of the fearful, judgmental, fundamentalist dogma out of my tightly clenched fingers, and I began to consider the world from an increasingly different perspective. 

35 years of fundamentalist brain-washing has not been easy to undo.  I still have negative knee-jerk reactions to some things I hear in New Thought and Ancient Wisdom teachings.  A Course in Miracles has too many Biblical “buzz words” from my past, and the idea that I totally create my own reality makes me shudder.  I don’t always feel brilliant or talented or fabulous, and (to be totally honest) I still occasionally glance around for lightning.  But my mind is about 500% more open than it was when I first read Marianne’s brilliant words so long ago.  I know, on the most basic level, that I was born to make manifest the glory of my Creator that is within me.  I am indeed brilliant and talented and maybe even fabulous!  (I still struggle with gorgeous, but I am working on it.)  It is okay for me to let my light shine, and self-deprecation is essentially blasphemy against the Source within me!  That one was powerful when it finally sunk in – on the hierarchy of sins, from bad to abhorrent, blasphemy against the Divine is way worse than arrogance or vanity! I now spend a lot of time working on my own liberation from the fear that can throw such a wrench into the workings of life.  And I hang out with people who are diligently seeking truth and peace and love, and who accept me unconditionally - for exactly who I am!

I’m looking for a strong finish for this blog, but I don’t think I can say anything more brilliant than this short and sweet quote by our friend Ms. Williamson:  

“Stop waiting for a producer. Produce yourself.”

Thank you Marianne!

DEMAND PEACE

DEMAND PEACE    

Rain falls hard on a world that needs peace.

The Earth struggles to purge herself

Sends storms and torrents of water

to wash away the hatred and terror and dread

To shout in our ears

And remind us that we can start again…

without it.

Thunder and lightning come to wake us

Grab our muddled minds and say

“Pay attention!”

“Look for it!”

“See with your eyes and listen with your heart!”

Cough up the smoke and the flame and the hate

And make room to breathe in peace.

Rain falls softly on a world at peace

Soft on hillsides that do not sizzle from war

On cities that do not choke from smoke and flame

On soldiers that do not need a gun 

To keep others from dying.

Rain falls gently on a peaceful world.

Gentle on man and panther and buffalo

On ladybug and meadowlark

On all beings living without hate.

Breathe in peace

Let peace fill your lungs and your mind and your heart.

Let peace drench your being

From the top of your head to the bottom of your feet.

From the tips of your fingers

to your eyelashes and elbows and toes… 

Let it all be peace… and peace… and more peace.

Earth showers down her truth in the gentle rain

We can start again… right now

Right here.

without the hate.

John Lennon said: 

“If everyone demanded peace 

instead of another television set, 

then there'd be peace.”

Start again.  Right now… right here… without the hate.  

Demand peace.

  LAE 9/5/2009

Momma

40 years ago today, my mother chose to end her life. Even after all these years, I still miss her. She was often unable to give me what I needed from a mother. But this volatile, moody woman was the same person who taught me how to love Chopin, and musical theater, and poetry, and animals. She gave me the gift of humor that has been such an important part of my survival… and taught me how to laugh with all my being. In acknowledging these gifts, I believe I have finally come full circle. First denial, then pity, then rage… and finally, forgiveness. I know that she was human and flawed, and as an innocent child, I deserved more from my mother. But now I know that she did the best she was able to do, and in spite of everything, I know that my mother loved me with all her heart. She is an eternal part of who I am. I will always love her, and I know now that she will always love me too.

Once there was love
And she would sing to me
About her little girl
Pink and white as peaches and cream
And she would stroke my hair.

Once there were Saturdays
Filled with the sounds of the Metropolitan on the radio
Being lifted above mundane chores
On the magnificent strains of
La Traviata or Butterfly.

Once there were pretty dresses
Each one unique and beautiful
All made with love
By my personal dressmaker and mother
Just for me.

Once there was ballet
The Nutcracker
Second tier
Seeing nothing but the tops of heads
But sharing the wonder.

Once there were concerts
Recitals and musicals
“The Sound of Music,” “Cabaret,” “No No Nannette”
Some of my happiest times
And she was my fan club.

Once there were surprises
Coming home from a week at summer camp
To find my room redecorated
With the door closed
And wrapped like a giant birthday gift.

Once there was love, imperfect and flawed
But strong enough and loud enough
To break through the chaos that was life
And leave me aching to once more hear her song
And feel her stroke my hair.
 

Barbara Ann Angel Wrightson 

11/28/30 - 1/14/76 

I love you so much Momma!

Mourning and Cherry Pie

Mourning and Cherry Pie  

Everyone was having such a good time.  She could hear them talking over their plates of food.  So many people had come to bring things; casseroles, salads, all kinds of desserts.  Laura lay on Granny’s bed listening to the noises of the house.  The sound of dishes clinking and clanking came from the kitchen.  The doorbell rang, new voices entered, and she could hear someone clearing off the buffet to make room for more gifts of food.  Was this a Southern tradition - this endless bringing of things to eat?  It didn’t make any sense.  The last thing she wanted right now was food.  She felt as if she would never be able to eat again... or sleep again either.  Nothing would ever be okay again.  Nothing.

Laura tried to cover her ears with a pillow.  She couldn’t bear to hear all the talking, but the pillow only muffled the sound; it was still there.  The doorbell rang, another gift of food was presented, and several more voices were added.  There was no way to avoid hearing the North Carolina drawl as they spoke.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”
“How did it happen?”
“She was only 45 - just a young woman.”
“Such a tragedy.  How is Laura?”
“How will that dear child handle this in her condition?”

When she tried to roll over, Laura was reminded of the reason for the questions about her “condition.”  The baby in her belly was nearly six months old and had almost been lost three times to miscarriages.  There had been so many complications... and now this.  “If my child survives in spite of all that’s happened in its short life, I guess I’ll know how much it wants to be here,” she thought to herself.  The doorbell disrupted her reverie once again, followed by the foghorn voice of her grandparent’s neighbor, Mrs. Stanfield.  “Where’s Laura?  Laura dear, where are you sweet child?  How will she ever bear this?  Barely in her twenties… a baby havin’ a baby!  Paper said the death was an accident, but that’s not what I heard, no sir...”

Laura buried her head deeper in the pillows until the words were just a mumble.  No one was supposed to know.  That was Granny’s decision.  Don’t tell anyone.  There was no need to talk about it, not even to each other.  She heard a sudden rush of footsteps on the wooden floor as Mrs. Stanfield was whisked to a seat at the far end of the dining room.  The Protectors were at work again; two cousins who were the self-appointed sentinels of the family’s grief.  They had been working vigilantly for two days, making sure that no one got too close... said too much... interfered with the family's denial.  They had done their job very well... until now.  

Suddenly the idea was in the air, and it hung there like a ravenous beast, waiting to devour them.  The attack came in soft whispers.
“What did she mean, not an accident?’
“Pastor said she slipped and fell!”
“The woman did have cancer, you know.”
“You don’t suppose it could have been... suicide?”

At last, there was the word.  It was said by someone Laura had never seen before; a fiftyish mousy looking woman who had arrived bearing some kind of cake.  It was the first time the word had been spoken aloud, and it hovered over the people, dripping its poison.  It grew in Laura's head, multiplying, reverberating, amplifying to a deafening roar.  Suicide.  A sixth story hotel window, a desperately hopeless woman, and a fatal leap to the concrete below.  Suicide.  “The victim never regained consciousness,” the reports would say.  Suicide.  Quick and probably painless, at least for the victim.  But who was the real victim... the one who died, or the ones who were still alive?

Laura cried herself into a deep, merciful sleep, and the bedspread under her head was still damp with her tears an hour later when she woke.  For just a moment she experienced that gentle state of amnesia that sleep often brings, and then reality roared into her head once again.  “I’m at Granny’s house.  People and food are everywhere.  There was a memorial service this morning at Oakley Baptist Church.  The minister of music sang 'Because He Lives,' and the pastor talked about seeing our loved ones in heaven someday.”  It had really happened.  All of it had really happened.

There was no formal viewing and no graveside service.  Laura had insisted on this.  It was what Mama would have wanted.  But Granny and Granddaddy had to see the body, so they made Aunt Willie take them.  Granny said that Laura needed to go so that she would accept the death... what kind of memory is that to engrave on your mind?  They went without her. She stayed at the house and tried to keep taking one breath after another.  “For the baby,” she kept thinking.  “I have to keep going for the baby.”

Now it was all over; greeting the relatives when her plane landed, deciding on the music for the funeral, the surreal job of choosing clothes for her mother to be buried in... and then somehow managing to sit through the service.  All that was left was to endure the endless smorgasbord of well-wishers bearing food.  She glanced through the French doors into the living room and saw her grandparents huddled together surrounded by sons, daughters, grandchildren, long-time friends, church acquaintances.  “Guess they needed this - it seems to be good for them,” Laura thought.  “I suppose I should be grateful.”  But gratitude was in short supply for her right now.  The Protectors had been watching her from a distance, giving her space to grieve, but now it was evident that she needed more than solitude.  They settled in at each side of her on the old mahogany four-poster bed, stroking her hair and speaking words of comfort.  Laura loved them for being there, and yet their support was threatening her self-control.  The doorbell rang again, and someone called from the kitchen, “Does anyone want more cherry pie?”  The tears that had been leaking in a steady stream down Laura’s cheeks now became a flood, wracking her body uncontrollably.  Then she was speaking, but the words were indiscernible through her sobs.  When her cousins could finally understand what she was saying, the words broke their hearts.  They were words of someone insane with grief.  “They’re having a party,” she sobbed.  “Make them stop!  Please make them stop!  My mother is dead!  She killed herself and everyone’s having a party!  Oh God, please make them stop!”  Her words had risen to a scream, and the people in the living room looked toward the closed French doors uncomfortably.  They glanced at each other, shifted awkwardly in their seats, paused in mid-conversation.  For a moment, the silence was broken only by a daughter's desperate, inconsolable sobbing.  Then once again the doorbell rang, and Laura’s anguish... the anguish of a child whose mother had chosen to leave her forever... was lost in the rush to serve up hot fried chicken and freshly baked cherry pie.

 

(originally written in 1988 for “Don’t Fall Off the Edge”)