Chapter 8: Neither Too Tight Nor Too Loose

From Every Day to Never

Kwesi is thirty-six and decided, on his birthday, that this would be the year he finally ran a marathon. He bought new shoes, downloaded a training plan and threw himself into it with enormous energy. He ran every day, often twice. He cut out sugar, alcohol and most of his social life. When the plan said to rest, he ran anyway, because resting felt like weakness. He checked his times obsessively and felt furious with himself whenever he was slower than the day before.

After seven weeks, his knee began to hurt. He ignored it. After nine weeks, he could barely walk down the stairs. A doctor told him that he had overtrained and needed to stop running completely for at least a month. Kwesi was devastated. And then, almost overnight, he swung to the other extreme. If he could not do it properly, he told himself, there was no point at all. He put his running shoes in a cupboard, stopped exercising entirely and went back to late nights and takeaway meals. Three months later, he had not run a single step, and he felt worse than before he started.

One evening, talking with his older sister, he described the whole story with some embarrassment. She laughed gently and said, "You have two settings: maximum and off. Have you ever tried the middle?" Kwesi realized that she was right. In almost everything, from work to relationships to his health, he swung between trying far too hard and giving up completely. He had never really learned how to try in a steady, sustainable way.

Kwesi's two settings are familiar to many people. We grip too tightly, then let go completely. We exhaust ourselves, then collapse. The Buddha knew this pattern well, both from his own life and from his students. His response was one of the most practical teachings in the whole tradition: the middle way, illustrated by a story about the strings of a musical instrument.

Between Two Extremes

We saw in the first chapter that the Buddha's first teaching began with a warning against two extremes: chasing pleasure on one side and harsh self-denial on the other. The path he taught was a middle way between them. This was not a theory he had read about. It came from his own experience.

According to the tradition, the Buddha spent his early life in comfort and pleasure, and found that it did not answer his deepest questions. He then spent several years in extreme self-denial, eating almost nothing and pushing his body to the point of collapse, and found that this did not answer them either. Only when he accepted a simple meal, regained his strength and sat down in a balanced way did he find the understanding he sought. The tradition tells that his former companions, who were still practising harsh denial, were disappointed in him for eating, and left him. But it was this balanced approach that led to his awakening.

The middle way is sometimes misunderstood as a kind of lukewarm compromise, a little of this and a little of that. That is not quite what it means. It is not about doing everything halfway. It is about finding the approach that actually works, that leads to understanding and well-being, rather than the approaches driven by craving on one side or by harshness on the other.

This idea is very important for a book about letting go. Some people imagine that letting go means becoming completely relaxed about everything, never making an effort, never caring too much. That would be the slack extreme. Others turn letting go into another task to be done perfectly, gripping tightly to the goal of not gripping. That would be the tight extreme. The middle way suggests a different path: steady, wise effort, held with an open hand.

The Lute

In a discourse found in the Aṅguttara Nikāya at number 6.55, the Buddha speaks with a monk named Soṇa. The story is one of the most human and touching in the early texts. Here it is in my own retelling.

Soṇa came from a wealthy family and had grown up in great comfort. When he became a monk, he threw himself into practice with extraordinary energy. He practised walking meditation so intensely that the soles of his feet, which had never known hardship, were torn and bleeding. Yet he did not reach the freedom he sought. Alone in the forest, he began to despair. He thought: I have tried harder than anyone, and still I am not free. Perhaps I should give up and return to my family's wealth, where I could at least do good works.

The Buddha, knowing his thoughts, came to him and asked: "Soṇa, when you lived at home, were you skilled at playing the lute?" Soṇa said that he was. "When the strings of your lute were too tight, was it in tune and easy to play?" No, said Soṇa. "When the strings were too loose, was it in tune and easy to play?" No, said Soṇa. "When the strings were neither too tight nor too loose, but tuned to just the right pitch, was it then in tune and easy to play?" Yes, said Soṇa.

"In the same way," the Buddha said, in my own paraphrase, "too much effort leads to restlessness, and too little effort leads to laziness. So keep your effort balanced, tuned like the strings of a lute, and find the right pitch for your practice." The discourse tells that Soṇa took this advice, practised in a balanced way and, before long, reached the freedom he had been seeking.

The image of the lute is beautiful because it is so practical. Anyone who has tuned a musical instrument knows that there is a right tension, and that finding it requires listening and adjusting. Too tight, and the string sounds harsh and may snap. Too loose, and it buzzes and makes no clear note. The right tension cannot be calculated once and for all. It must be found by playing, listening and making small changes.

It is worth noticing how the Buddha taught Soṇa. He did not scold him for trying too hard, or lecture him about theory. He asked about something Soṇa already knew well from his own life, the lute, and let Soṇa discover the answer himself. This is a gentle and respectful way of teaching. It also suggests that the wisdom we need is often already present in our own experience, in the crafts, skills and activities we know, if we take the time to notice it.

When the Strings Are Too Tight

Many people today live with their strings too tight. Like Kwesi in his training, or Soṇa in the forest, they push themselves hard in their work, their exercise, their studies, their parenting or even their spiritual practice, believing that more effort is always better.

Strings that are too tight produce certain recognizable sounds. One is restlessness: a mind that cannot settle, that is always pushing toward the next goal. Another is exhaustion: bodies and minds pushed beyond their limits, leading eventually to illness, injury or burnout. Another is harshness: toward ourselves, when we fall short, and often toward others too. Another is rigidity: an inability to adapt, to rest or to enjoy, because everything must be done perfectly.

There is a strange irony here. Too much effort often leads to worse results, not better ones. Kwesi's overtraining did not make him a faster runner. It made him unable to run at all. Soṇa's intense walking did not bring him freedom. It brought him despair. Many people find that their best work, their deepest understanding and their most joyful moments come not when they are straining, but when they are working steadily and with some ease.

Tight strings are often driven by fear: fear of failure, fear of not being good enough, fear of losing control. This connects with what we have explored throughout this book about clinging. Gripping our goals too tightly is another form of clinging, and it brings the same suffering.

Tight strings can also be a sign that we have confused effort with worth. Some people feel that they are only valuable when they are working hard, achieving or suffering for a goal. Rest feels like failure, and ease feels like cheating. Recognizing this belief can be an important step. Our worth does not depend on how tightly our strings are tuned. A person resting is no less valuable than a person working, and a well-tuned life includes both.

When the Strings Are Too Loose

Other people, or the same people at other times, live with their strings too loose. After his injury, Kwesi swung from overtraining to doing nothing at all. This is the other extreme.

Strings that are too loose also produce recognizable sounds. One is drifting: a life without direction, where days pass without much intention. Another is avoidance: putting off anything difficult, staying in comfort, never stretching. Another is a kind of dull dissatisfaction, the sense that life is passing by. And sometimes, loose strings come disguised as wisdom: "I am just taking whatever comes," "I am letting go," "Nothing really matters."

It is important to be honest about this disguise. Letting go, in the Buddhist sense, is not the same as giving up effort. The Eightfold Path includes right effort as one of its parts. The Buddha worked hard throughout his long life, walking from place to place to teach. Letting go of clinging is not letting go of care, commitment or energy. A person who uses "letting go" as an excuse never to try anything has not found the middle way. They have found the other extreme.

Loose strings, like tight ones, are often driven by fear: fear of failing if we try, fear of discomfort, fear of disappointment. Sometimes, after a painful experience of trying too hard, we decide that it is safer not to try at all, as Kwesi did. But this does not bring peace. It brings a different kind of restlessness.

There is also a quiet sadness in strings that are too loose. Many people who drift for a long time are not lazy at heart. They may be discouraged, tired from earlier struggles or unsure what is worth trying for. Seeing loose strings with kindness, rather than judgment, can make it easier to tighten them gently. Often the first turn of the peg is very small: one walk, one phone call, one page, one decision. Small turns, repeated, can bring a life back into tune.

Finding Your Tuning

How do we find the middle way between too tight and too loose? The image of the lute offers some guidance.

The first lesson is that the right tension is found by listening. A musician tunes by playing a note and hearing whether it sounds right. In our lives, we can learn to listen to the signals that tell us our strings are too tight, such as exhaustion, harshness, restlessness or pain, and the signals that tell us they are too loose, such as drifting, boredom, avoidance or dull dissatisfaction.

The second lesson is that the right tension changes. Instruments go out of tune with changes in temperature and use, and must be retuned often. In the same way, the right amount of effort changes with our circumstances. When we are ill, tired or grieving, our strings may need to be looser. When we are well rested and facing an important task, they may be tighter. There is no single setting that is right forever.

The third lesson is that small adjustments are usually better than big ones. A musician does not tighten a loose string all at once; they turn the peg a little, listen and turn again. Kwesi's problem was that he only had two settings, maximum and off. The middle way invites small, frequent adjustments: a little more effort here, a little rest there.

The fourth lesson is that balanced effort can feel surprisingly good. A well-tuned instrument is easy to play. In the same way, when our effort is balanced, work often flows more easily. We may still work hard, but without the strain of the tight strings or the guilt of the loose ones. This is sometimes described as effort with ease, or energy held lightly.

And the fifth lesson is that we need to keep playing. Tuning is not the goal; music is. The point of finding the right tension is to be able to play, to live, to practise, to work, to love. Once we have found something like the right tuning, we can turn our attention to the music, and adjust as we go.

The Middle Way With Others

The middle way applies not only to our own effort, but also to how we hold the people in our lives.

Parents, for example, often swing between holding their children too tightly and too loosely. Too tight, and they control every detail, leaving the child no room to grow. Too loose, and they give no guidance or structure, leaving the child feeling lost. A middle way offers both support and freedom, adjusted as the child grows: tighter with a small child near a busy road, looser with a teenager learning to make their own decisions.

The same is true in friendships, partnerships and teams at work. Holding too tightly can feel like control or possessiveness. Holding too loosely can feel like indifference. The middle way involves care, attention and presence, combined with respect for the other person's freedom and space.

Even in how we treat ourselves, the middle way matters. Some people are extremely harsh with themselves, demanding perfection. Others are so lenient that they never hold themselves to any standard. A middle way combines kindness with honesty: high hopes held gently, standards held without cruelty.

The middle way can even guide how we read a book like this one. It is possible to grip its ideas too tightly, turning every chapter into a list of rules to follow perfectly, and feeling guilty when we fail. It is also possible to hold them too loosely, reading with interest and then changing nothing at all. A middle way might be to choose one or two ideas that speak to you, practise them steadily and gently, and let the rest wait until you are ready.

Four Lives, Four Tunings

Helena is forty-four and has a twelve-year-old son. She has always been a strict parent, with clear rules about homework, screen time and behaviour. Recently, her son has become withdrawn and secretive, and they argue often. A friend suggests that her strings might be a little too tight for his age. Helena reflects on this. She keeps the most important rules, about safety and kindness, but loosens some others, giving her son more choice about how he spends his free time and when he does his homework. She also spends more relaxed time with him, without rules or lectures. Over a few months, their relationship becomes warmer, and he begins to talk to her again.

Rio is twenty and has dropped out of a university course. Since then, he has been drifting: sleeping late, playing games, avoiding decisions. He tells his friends that he is "taking it easy" and "not stressing about the future". But he feels increasingly low and stuck. A former teacher suggests that his strings may have gone too loose. Rio decides to tighten them a little: to get up at a regular time, take a part-time job and spend one hour a day looking into courses that interest him. At first it feels hard. But after a month, he feels more alive, and he has found a short course in graphic design that excites him.

Mohan is sixty-three and has a vegetable garden that he loves. For years, he worked in it so intensely, weeding every day, worrying about every pest, that it became a source of stress rather than joy. Then, after a frightening problem with his heart, his doctor told him to slow down. For a while, he barely went into the garden, and it became overgrown. Then he found a middle way: an hour each morning, working steadily but without rushing, and accepting that some weeds and some pests are part of a garden. The vegetables are not perfect, but the garden is beautiful, and Mohan enjoys it again.

Kwesi, from the beginning of this chapter, takes his shoes out of the cupboard. This time, he follows a gentler plan: running three times a week, resting on other days, increasing his distance slowly and paying attention to how his body feels. When his knee aches, he rests. He still hopes to run a marathon, but he holds the goal more lightly. A year later, he runs his first half-marathon, finishing somewhere in the middle of the runners. He says it is the first time in his life he has achieved something without hurting himself or giving up.

Helena, Rio, Mohan and Kwesi each found their strings too tight or too loose, or both at different times. None of them found the perfect tuning once and for all. But each learned to listen, adjust and find a balance that let their lives sound more clearly.

Practical Steps

First, notice your extremes. Ask yourself whether you tend to swing between too much effort and too little, like Kwesi. In which areas of your life are your strings too tight? In which are they too loose?

Second, learn your signals. Make a list of the signs that tell you your strings are too tight, such as exhaustion or harshness, and the signs that they are too loose, such as drifting or avoidance.

Third, make small adjustments. When you notice an imbalance, make a small change rather than a dramatic one: a little more rest, a little more effort, a little more structure, a little more freedom.

Fourth, retune often. Remember that the right tension changes with your circumstances. Check in with yourself regularly, perhaps once a week, and adjust.

Fifth, beware of disguises. Notice if "letting go" has become an excuse for avoidance, or if "trying my best" has become an excuse for harshness.

Sixth, focus on the music. Once your effort feels balanced, turn your attention to what you are actually doing and enjoy it.

A Short Practice: Tuning the Strings

This practice takes about twenty minutes. It helps you see where your effort is balanced and where it needs adjusting.

Draw a simple picture of a lute or any stringed instrument, with five or six strings. Label each string with an important area of your life, such as work, health, relationships, rest, learning and play.

For each string, ask yourself how tightly it is tuned at the moment. Write "tight" beside it if it feels too tight, "loose" if it feels too loose and "right" if it feels about right. Be honest. You may find that some strings are too tight and others too loose at the same time.

Choose one string that is too tight. Write down one small adjustment that would loosen it a little: for example, finishing work half an hour earlier, allowing yourself to make a mistake, taking a real lunch break.

Choose one string that is too loose. Write down one small adjustment that would tighten it a little: for example, going for a short walk three times a week, setting aside twenty minutes for a project, calling a friend.

Try both adjustments for two weeks. Then return to your picture and check each string again. Notice whether anything has changed, and whether the instrument of your life sounds a little more in tune.

You can repeat this practice every few months. As your life changes, your strings will need retuning. That is not a failure; it is the nature of a living instrument.

Questions People Often Ask

"How do I know whether I am being lazy or simply resting?" A helpful question is: after this rest, do I feel refreshed and ready to engage, or do I feel more stuck and low? Real rest usually leaves us restored. Avoidance usually leaves us heavier. Another question is whether you are resting because your body and mind need it, or because you are afraid of something you need to face. Being honest about the answer can help you find the middle way.

"Isn't intense effort sometimes necessary?" Yes. There are times in life, such as before an important exam, during a crisis or in caring for someone who is very ill, when we need to work very hard. The middle way does not forbid intense effort. It asks us to notice when intense effort is becoming harmful, and to rest and recover when the intense period has passed. Even musicians tighten their strings for certain pieces and loosen them afterwards.

"What if I cannot find the balance on my own?" Some people find it very difficult to find a middle way, especially if they tend toward perfectionism, burnout or low mood. If your effort is consistently causing you exhaustion, injury or distress, or if you feel stuck and unable to start anything for a long time, it may help to talk with a doctor, a counsellor or another qualified professional.

Chapter Summary

The Buddha's first teaching warned against two extremes, chasing pleasure and harsh self-denial, and taught a middle way that he had found through his own experience. The middle way is not a lukewarm compromise but the approach that actually leads to understanding and well-being. Letting go itself can fall into extremes: gripping the goal of letting go, or using it as an excuse for avoidance.

In Aṅguttara Nikāya 6.55, the Buddha asked the exhausted monk Soṇa whether a lute plays well when its strings are too tight or too loose, and advised him to keep his effort balanced like a well-tuned instrument. Strings too tight bring restlessness, exhaustion and harshness; strings too loose bring drifting and avoidance. Finding the right tuning means listening, adjusting in small steps, retuning often and then turning our attention to the music. The middle way applies to how we hold others and ourselves as well.

In the next chapter, we turn to the things we own, and to how we might hold our possessions more lightly.