Protect The Candle

By Lisa Scottoline

I just hung up the phone, having said no to going out to lunch with a friend.

And about an hour ago, I said no to a speaking engagement that would’ve been wonderful.

And yesterday, I said no to somebody who wanted to invite me to drinks and dinner at a local golf club.

Do you think I’m being negative?

On the contrary.

I’m being positive.

Because as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that my time really is precious.

Not in monetary terms, but more in its scarcity.

When you’re sixty, the end is near.

And I’ve come to realize that every time I say no to someone else, I am saying yes to myself.

What am I talking about?

Let me explain, because if I have any accumulated wisdom in all these decades, it is this:

You need to protect the candle.

What does that mean?

Here’s where I got the image, and it’s not overly impressive. It’s not from great literature, but from old fashioned scary movies.

Remember those movies, where the family is in the dark mansion at night and they hear a noise, and it’s in Victorian times, so there’s no electricity. In the next scene, a beautiful woman with a long braid and wearing a cotton nightgown will invariably grab a candle, light it, and walk around the house in the dark, cupping her slim, elegant hand in front of the candles flame.

Think Nicole Kidman during a power outage.

She cups the candle for obvious reasons, so the candle won’t blow out, since it’s a fragile thing and could be extinguished by the slightest breeze, not to mention some terrifying ghost.

And for some reason, as my writing career progress, I began to feel the squeeze of lots of obligations and requests, barking like dogs in the yard.

I’m not complaining, because I know how lucky I am, but truth is I think my life is exactly like yours in this respect.

You might have a job that you need to do, or you have a child you want to devote time to, or an elderly parent that needs your attention. Or you simply want to set fifteen minutes aside every day to do yoga, start your own book, or cook an incredibly complicated French recipe.

In the lives of modern women, there is a constant tension between the things we want to do and the things we ought to do, and it’s impossible to balance these things.

Especially when, at least in my case, I’ve spent a lifetime confusing the things I want to do with what other people want me to do.

I’m a people pleaser, from birth.

But as time wore on, and my nerves got more frayed than they needed to be, I thought as many people as I pleased, I really never got to please myself.

To do whatever I wanted to do.

Even if what I wanted to do was clear my head and write my book, which is my actual job.

People who don’t work at home don’t get that home is work.

And finally, after decades of this madness, I came to realization:

I have to protect my candle.

My candle was the stories I wanted to tell, in my books.

And what I started to do was to say no to anything that wasn’t those things.

My image at all times was the woman in the nightgown with the long braid, cupping her hand in front of her flickering candle.

And even though it sounds simple to say no, it wasn’t, not for me.

People asked repeatedly, which I came to realize was pressure.

Others became angry at me when I said no.

I lost a few acquaintances, and one or two friends.

I missed out on some boring parties, and some great ones.

But the more I protected my candle, so that I spent my energy and time on what I loved, the happier and happier I got.

You may be more enlightened than I, in which case you might be rolling your eyes by now.

But if you’re like me, I hope you take my advice, because it is the only thing I know for sure:

Protect your candle.

And what is your candle?

Whatever you want to do.

Trying Tai Chi.

Reading a novel.

Writing a novel.

Learning Spanish.

Watching Real Housewives.

Sunbathing.

Whatever you want, it’s completely up to you.

Something you love.

And then, make that the thing you say yes to, every time.

If you have to do a job that isn’t your candle, give time to your candle every day.

Protect that time like a maniac.

Put your hand in front of the flame and don’t let anybody blow your candle out.

Give yourself the permission to say no to the requests of others.

To disappoint them.

To even make them angry.

If they get mad at you because you did something else that you wanted to do more, you don’t need them in your life.

And the interesting thing is that the more things you say no to, you feel that you are paring your life down, but you’ll be expanding it, because the time you give yourself allows you to grow in new directions, which arise organically from something you truly love to do.

And in time, you may come to the same realization that I did recently.

Which is that the candle isn’t a project at all.

The candle is you.

Copyright Lisa Scottoline

Column Classic: Deadhead

By Lisa Scottoline

Of course I read the obituaries.

I can’t be the only one.

I do it every morning, in two newspapers, before I start to work. It takes a lotu of time. I know, it sounds like stalling, but it’s more like praying.

You’ll see what I mean.

And it’s not as if I started reading them recently, now that it’s likelier I’ll die than find a date.

In truth, I’ve read obits all my life, even as a kid.

I never saw them as being about deaths. I saw them as being about people, and I love people.

In other words, it’s not a death story. It’s a life story.

I’m always struck by how accomplished people are, and what they’ve done in their lives that’s benefited me, only I didn’t know it. For example, today I read an obit of a doctor who was one of the first to link smoking to cancer. I owe that guy, though I ever knew him. I nagged my father to quit, and he did. I nagged Mother Mary to quit, but she didn’t until she got and survived throat cancer.

Did I mention she’s stubborn?

I read another obit, of a real estate developer who changed the skyline of my beloved hometown, Philadelphia, and was also responsible for one of my favorite works of art, the giant Clothespin by Claes Oldenburg, which sits in front of the office building where I used to work.

I owe that guy, too.

I used to love to look out of my office window at that sculpture. It’s a brown clothespin that’s ten stories tall, and it made me smile, every day. Because of it, I bought a book about Claes Oldenburg and learned about his life and his art. So the least I can do is take the time to read about the man who introduced me to Claes Oldenburg and send him a mental thank-you note.

I always read the obits of soldiers. I owe it to them, each and every one of them. They’re so young, and they’re out there day and night, putting their very lives on the line while I make dinner or walk the dogs or pour coffee. The obits are the stories of their lives and their accomplishments, which are the greatest and most unselfish of all.

Sacrificing one’s life for another.

But not every obit is of a soldier or a famous doctor, and that’s precisely the point. Lots of obits are of cooks, dentists, teachers, and mechanics. Every death matters, because every life matters.

Everybody owes somebody for something.

For example, I read an obit today about a high school English teacher. I can’t imagine how many people owe her. Hundreds, maybe thousands, in all her years of teaching. I also read an obit of a fire captain who trained new firefighters at the fire academy. This was a man who saved lives, and who taught others to save lives. How many people owe him?

Plenty.

In our own lives, whom do we owe? Mother, father, daughter, sister, brother, aunt, teacher, doctor, girlfriend. It’s all in the obits. Each one tells the story of a human life, and of a family’s love. I look at the notices, I see the names. Grieved by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Greatly missed by his father. Survived by a beloved wife.

It sounds simple to say, almost simplistic, but all of us are connected by love and by gratitude.

And the proof, its very particulars, are the obits.

It’s true that I’m a little sad after I finish the obits.

Sometimes the pictures break my heart.

The faces smile at the camera, grinning at someone they love, happy and alive.

They’re me.

And I remember how lucky I am, every morning.

How lucky we all are, in each other.

Past, present, and even future.

All of us.

Amen.

Copyright Lisa Scottoline