Stephen Mitchell

“Hold on to the center.”

—Stephen Mitchell, Tao Te Ching, Harper Perennial Modern

Classics, 1988

This is the last line in a rather short Verse 5. It follows a series of descriptions of what the Tao is like. It’s like someone who doesn’t take sides; it’s like something that gives birth to both good and evil; it’s like a bellows but very useful. It’s like something you can use but never use up. It’s like something you understand less the more you talk about it.

And then, after this recitation about what the Tao is like, the last line stands alone, apart from the rest of the verse, seemingly unconnected.

“Hold on to the center.”

On a whim, I open another translation of the Tao Te Ching to read this verse—a beautifully illustrated one by Gia-Fu Fen and Jane English. Their verse five bears almost no resemblance to Stephen Mitchell’s. It talks about the ruthlessness of the wise, and of people as dummies. It calls the Tao the “space between heaven and earth,” but it bears some similarity to Mitchell’s translation with its sparse second-to-last line: “More words count less.”

However, the last line is virtually the same: “Hold fast to the center.”

I pull out a third and last translation by Witter Bynner. He uses the word Universe instead of Tao, says men come to their wits’ end arguing about it, but finally counsels entering the “marrow” of things; the essential part, the core—the center!

I’ve decided that comparative study of Tao Te Ching texts is not my cup of tea, and I’m not going to get caught up in it going forward, but I’m captivated by the sameness of the message in the last line across such diverse translations.

What is the center? Why am I admonished to hold on to it?

Is the center physical? Do I feel that my center is in my solar plexus—in the center of my torso, just above my belly button? Or is it in my heart, in the center of my chest? Or my abdomen? Is my mind the center—my consciousness or awareness?

Or is the center I am told to clasp something external to me? Some universal center, the center of life? Is it the Tao, the Way, the Source, God? Are my center and the universal center the same thing? Am I within it, and is it within me?

Did Lao Tzu have something particular in mind as the “center” when he admonished us to hold on to it? Or was he seeking to conjure in us a feeling of centeredness, focus, or mindfulness? Is the center he writes about common or intensely personal and individual? And why does the center matter? It seems to be crucial, especially in times of uncertainty, fear, change, or transformation. What purpose does it serve?

When I close my eyes and ask myself, “What is my center?” I find a place of warm darkness in the middle of my chest, a still place at the core of my being that grounds and steadies me. I call it my awareness. You may call it something different and find it elsewhere.

So, close your eyes now. “Where is your center?

Whatever you find there, may you hold onto it, and may it calm and anchor you.

“All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape separation from them.”

The Fourth Remembrance would appear, at first glance, to contradict a core Buddhist principle, the concept of interbeing: the interconnectedness and interdependence of all things. The notion that we inter-are with everything seems difficult to reconcile with this remembrance’s stark prediction that we will inevitably be separated from the things and people we hold dear.

While the Fourth Remembrance purports to be about the core Buddhist principle of impermanence, or constant change, it speaks to me of the fundamental paradox at the heart of the human experience—love and loss. We remain essentially unbreakably interconnected and interdependent despite change and separation.

The paradox becomes more accessible when viewed through the lens of letting go. The first four remembrances are all about letting go. The first three, letting go of youth, health, and life itself. The fourth, letting go of everything we hold dear and often cling to: people, relationships, situations, possessions, habits, and ideas.

So, why must we let go? Why must we suffer separation? Because everything changes, including me. For instance, relationships change. The person I met and fell in love with last year is different this year, and I don’t love him as much or at all. Or I’m different, and he doesn’t love me.

Possessions deteriorate. The house I bought six months ago has been invaded by carpenter ants and is disintegrating, the lawn has weeds now, and the basement is damp when it rains. Time to consider selling?

Circumstances evolve or devolve. The job I thought was a perfect fit for my talents has turned into a nightmare since the new supervisor arrived.

Habits intensify and may become unhealthy. The glass of wine each evening to relax has become two, then three, then four, and it is no longer helping me to relax; now I can’t sleep.

Beliefs and ideas harden and narrow our perspective. My creative idea for solving a problem in my community has become an obsession, and I can’t see the situation from any other perspective. My mind is closed. I’ve become part of the problem instead of the solution.

Letting go is difficult, often painful. Feelings of sadness and loss linger, sometimes forever. Letting go can cause or contribute to a wound that may stubbornly resist healing. Holding on, though, can also cause suffering. The choice can seem like a no-win proposition. We can feel trapped between the pain of holding on and the sadness of letting go.

If, indeed, loss is unavoidable, how do we live with that reality? Are we meant to love at all? If so, how do we love when everything we love is constantly changing? By accepting that loss is inherent in love?

The Tao Te Ching offers some profound but practical advice.

If you open yourself to loss,

you are at one with loss,

and you can accept it completely.

(Verse 23, Stephen Mitchell translation)

To open to loss, one must open to risk—the risk of loving, valuing, or holding dear. One must be open to caring, vulnerability, and desire. These emotions are big risks. They carry the potential for getting hurt. You cannot let go of something you are not holding on to. You cannot lose something you have not gained, or at the very least desired. Holding something dear—even lightly or slightly—must inevitably lead to letting go. If it doesn’t, it will lead to suffering. The Fourth Remembrance does not recommend loving less; rather, it recommends accepting change and loss. The Tao speaks of loss as something worth opening to, worth accepting, becoming one with.

Why might that be so? Like the other remembrances, the Fourth is not a belief, but an observable or experienced truth. Change, and therefore separation or loss, happens to everyone. We know this from personal experience. Accepting it unites us with reality and with all other sentient beings. Therefore, loss is one way our interbeing, our connection to others, is revealed.

Losing or letting go also creates an opening for something new. As terrifying as this opening may appear, as sad as it may feel, it is the way forward, the only way. While letting go might provide an opportunity for something better, more importantly, it allows us to remain responsive to reality. The Fourth Remembrance does not ask us to stop loving, but to love without expecting permanence, to let what we hold dear rest in open hands, to receive what comes, accept the loss of what goes, and be fully present to what is here now.

Questions for reflection: Is the price of love loss? Can we love deeply without clinging? Does knowing something is temporary make it more or less precious? Am I being asked to let go of something or someone?

81 Days with the Tao: Verse 5

Change and Loss