在一次假期的老街巡禮中，一對夫妻走在我前方。妻子主動地用雙手挽住丈夫的單手，那個畫面，讓我停下腳步，也喚起了一段久遠的回憶。

我曾經也熟悉這樣的情景，每當出遊放鬆時，我的妻子總會自然地挽著我的手，那是一種發自內心的親密連結。

但忽然之間，我意識到，這樣的片刻已從我的生命中消失許久了。

我與自己展開了一段對話。我責備自己不懂珍惜，卻又忍不住自問：「那一刻，那些曾經，我真的沒有珍惜嗎？」

我與「自己」長期相容，但也總會在某些時刻出現岔路，總會有那些不懂得珍惜的時候，那是一種「我」與「自己」模糊不清的時刻。

我終於明白，自己確實沒有珍惜，因為我少了那個「珍惜的動作」。我接受了妻子的疼惜，卻從未回應相同的主動與力量。

 

那不是語言上的疏忽，而是行動上的缺席。確定自己沒有做到對等的珍惜，心中浮現的，是一種理所當然的心態。

我默默享受她的付出，卻未曾給予相同的珍惜。

當她的人生走向圓滿、離我而去，一切都不再一樣。那種「子欲養而親不在」的遺憾，如浪潮般襲來。

此刻的我，已不只是理解「珍惜」這個詞，更是進入了與生命深度對話的階段。生命給了我這麼多，我為什麼沒能珍惜？她那麼好，我為什麼沒有珍惜？

我找到了答案：因為太容易得到，因為想要得太多，因為把焦點放錯了位置。

上蒼為每個人安排不同的劇本，順遂也好，艱困也罷，都是為了讓我們體會一件事：人，總是在不懂得珍惜之中錯過了最重要的東西。

 

我提醒自己，還有努力的空間，還有可以做得更好的地方。這段反思讓我明白：「珍惜是動詞」，它不是一個感覺，而是一個需要實踐的動作，它的力道可以無限提升。

珍惜很難嗎？也許是，因為我們常常做不好。但我們又確實能夠對特定人事物展現高度的珍惜。這是為什麼？

我看見有人將寵物視為孩子，細心照料；也想起自己年輕時收藏唱片的狂熱，還有那位每天帶著不同相機出門、用鏡頭觀看世界的朋友。

我們能夠珍惜，也常常不珍惜；我們樂於獲得，卻總想要更多。

我們擁有許多，最終卻只能拍賣、轉送；我們忽視身體的負擔，把自己弄得疲憊不堪。

我從這些行為中，看見了人性，也看見了身而為人必須學會的章節。

 

我與自己共處，這便是「自己與自己的關係」。然而在與自己展開深層對話的過程中，我竟忽略了生活中那位本該深度交流的伴侶。

我體悟到：珍惜，還必須考慮平衡；珍惜，也必須經營對等。

對等，是彼此平等的立場；是你站在我這一邊的同時，我也站在你那一邊。

我從「不對等」看到「不珍惜」，再從「不珍惜」投射回「不對等」。這樣的關係，發生在人與人之間，也發生在我們與自己的身體之間。

永遠不要以為自己已經做得夠多了，我們應該時常檢視自己對工作的態度、對伴侶的關係，更該回頭看看：我們是否真正懂得與自己的身體和平共處。

 

失去之後才發現沒有珍惜；破壞殆盡之時才知道，原來自己從未理解什麼是珍惜。

回首過往，看見了自己的固執，也看見了自己的傲慢。

就是那個「珍惜的動作」，我沒有做出那個動作，才沒能平等回應妻子的愛。如今領悟雖已深刻，但未來的生命該如何承載這份領悟，我仍誠惶誠恐。

因為，行動比語言更重要；實踐，總比學習更有意義。

珍惜，不是名詞，它只能是動詞。要珍惜，就得從一個動作開始，從檢視自己那些「理所當然」的心態開始。

 

（珍惜你內在的事物，排除外在的干擾，因為過多的知識是一種詛咒。）

 

That One Act of Cherishing

During a leisurely stroll through an old street on a holiday, I saw a couple walking ahead of me. The wife gently held her husband’s single arm with both of her hands. That simple gesture made me pause—it stirred a distant memory in me.

I used to be familiar with scenes like that. Whenever we traveled, my wife would naturally take my hand in hers. It was a sincere, intimate gesture, born from a place of ease and affection.
But suddenly, I realized—it had been a long time since that moment existed in my life.

I began a quiet dialogue with myself. I blamed myself for not cherishing what I had. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder: “Back then, in those moments—did I really not cherish her?”
I’ve lived in harmony with myself for a long time, but even so, there are times when we drift apart. There are moments when I forget how to cherish. Those are the moments when the lines between “me” and “myself” blur.

And now I see it clearly: I didn’t cherish her—not truly. Because I missed that one act of cherishing.
I accepted her affection, but I never offered the same initiative, the same strength in return.

It wasn’t a failure of words—it was a failure of action. I realized I never offered equal cherishing. What lingered in my heart was an unspoken sense of entitlement.
I silently received her devotion, yet never truly gave back the same level of care.

And when her life reached its wholeness and she left me—everything changed. The sorrow of “a child wanting to care, but the parent no longer there” came crashing down like a tide.

Now, I no longer merely understand the word cherish—I’ve entered a stage where I have to confront it deeply, soulfully. Life gave me so much. Why didn’t I cherish it? She was so good. Why didn’t I cherish her?

I found the answer: because it came too easily, because I wanted too much, because my focus was all wrong.
Heaven writes different scripts for every person—some smooth, some turbulent. But all scripts share a common theme: we often fail to cherish the most important things.

I remind myself: there is still room to grow, still more I can do better.
This reflection revealed a truth: cherish is a verb. It’s not just a feeling—it’s something that must be done. And its force can be infinitely strengthened.

Is cherishing difficult? Perhaps. We often fail at it. But curiously, we’re still capable of deeply cherishing certain people or things. Why is that?

I see people treating their pets like their children, offering them such tender care.
I recall my own obsessive record collecting when I was younger, or a friend who owns a dozen cameras and brings a different one each day just to see the world anew.

We can cherish—and we often don’t. We enjoy having, but always want more.
We collect so much, only to eventually sell or give it away. We burden our bodies, push them to exhaustion. And through these behaviors, I saw human nature—and the unlearned lessons of being human.

I live with myself—that is the relationship between “me” and “myself.”
But in my pursuit of self-understanding, I neglected the one person who most deserved deep conversation—my life partner.

I came to understand that cherishing requires balance. It also demands mutuality.
To cherish equally is to meet on level ground. It’s when I stand in your shoes, and you stand in mine.

From imbalance, I recognized neglect; from neglect, I traced the path back to imbalance.
These patterns don’t just exist between people—they also reflect how we treat our own bodies.

Never assume you’ve done enough.
Re-examine your work ethic, your relationship with your partner—and most importantly, your relationship with your own body.

It’s only after loss that we realize what we didn’t cherish.
It’s only after destruction that we realize we never truly understood what cherishing meant.

Looking back, I see my stubbornness. I see my pride.
It was that one act of cherishing I failed to perform—that one gesture I didn’t return—that left me unable to match her love with equal devotion.

Now that I understand, I feel both humbled and afraid: how will I carry this realization into the future?
Because action matters more than words. Practice holds more value than knowledge.

Cherishing is not a noun—it can only be a verb.
To cherish is to begin with a single act—to begin by examining every place in our lives where we’ve taken things for granted.