可以給，但不給到底
給予從來是一個難題。
給多少出去，到甚麼時候該停，分寸常常要到傷了自己之後才知道。
這棵灌木的香，全部收在樹皮那一層。在巴哈馬東南的島上，採香苦木的人剪下枝條，因為能用的皮長在枝上。剪下來的枝泡上幾天，樹皮鬆開了，曬乾，再敲下來。
枝剪掉了會再長出來，所以同一株過一年後可以再被採收。但剪得太盡，它就長不回來。島上至今沒有規管，甚麼時候該停，一直是採的人自己決定。
香苦木的氣味，是一陣乾燥的辛香。
就像打開了一個擱置已久的香料盒，裡面帶著一點肉豆蔻的影子；到了後段，會浮出一絲微甜，最後安靜地收在淡淡的草本氣息裡。
面對生活與關係，我們卻有時不懂得控制多與少。
要麼甚麼都給出去，直到自己空了，然後開始怨；要麼索性一句都不應，把人遠遠推開。好像人與人之間，只有這兩種做法。
但其實還有第三種。
不是不給，而是給的時候留一點給自己，這樣才給得久。
可以給，但不給到底。
以香為語，安在當下。
Give without giving everything.
Giving has always been a difficult thing.
How much to give, and when to stop: the measure of it is something we usually only learn after we have hurt ourselves.
The scent of this shrub is held entirely in that one layer of bark. On the islands of the southern Bahamas, those who gather cascarilla cut the branches, because the usable bark grows on them. The cut branches are left to soak for a few days until the bark loosens, then dried, and beaten off.
A branch that is cut will grow again, so the same plant can be harvested once more a year later. But cut back too hard and it will not come back. There is still no regulation on the islands; when to stop has always been the harvester's own decision.
The scent of cascarilla is a dry spice.
It is like opening a spice box that has stood unused for a long time, with the shadow of nutmeg somewhere inside it; later on a thread of sweetness comes up, and settles quietly at last into a faint herbal note.
In our own lives, and with the people in them, we are not always able to tell how much is too much, and how much is too little.
Either we give everything away until there is nothing left in us, and then begin to resent it; or we answer nothing at all, and hold people well away. As though there were only these two ways between people.
But there is a third.
It is not that you do not give; it is that you keep a little for yourself as you give, and that is what lets you keep giving.
Give without giving everything.
𝘽𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩.