Wise Effort

Weekly wisdom to level up your creative life in 3 minutes, for free.

A SHORT STORY

As we approach the final stretch of work before a well-deserved holiday break, I imagine many of you, like me, are staring at a long to-do list. In the midst of it, I found myself reflecting on a story about the Buddha and a sitar player—a tale that has always stayed with me.

The story teaches a simple yet profound lesson: in both meditation and life, harmony lies in the middle path between effort and ease.

In the story, a sitar player struggles to meditate, and the Buddha compares his challenges to tuning a sitar. He gently advises:
“If the strings are too tight, they will snap. If they are too loose, they won’t produce sound. It’s the same in life—you need to find the balance.”

This wisdom resonates deeply with me, especially during stressful times. When I reflect on it, two guiding questions come to mind:

• Where can I loosen the strings?
  Am I holding on too tightly to a project, relationship, or self-imposed standard? Could trust, flexibility, or letting go help bring balance?

• Where can I tighten the strings?
  Have I become too relaxed in some areas? Am I avoiding the effort or discipline needed to grow, learn, or move forward?

Life constantly tests the tension of our strings. I’m always learning that the key isn’t to avoid these moments but to adjust—to reflect, recalibrate, and retune. When we do, we create something extraordinary: harmony.

It’s a powerful reminder that even in challenging moments, we can still play beautiful music.

As you approach the end of this year, where in your life might you need to loosen or tighten the strings to create more harmony?

A POEM

“What the Living Do” by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

Grateful,

Michael