Imagine a plate holding two strawberries, identical in appearance. One came from a supermarket, meaning it was probably harvested when it was still unripe. By the time it reached the plate, it may have been off the vine for weeks. The other strawberry was picked from a garden minutes before being eaten.

The first one will probably taste soft and sour. The second is likely to be sweet and the flavor will linger in the mouth. The two berries differ from each other in the same way that hearing Bach’s music in a concert hall differs from listening to it on an old recorder. The home-grown fruit is an edible (可食用的) case for cultivating a home garden.

Those who long consider gardening a waste of time argue that it seems ridiculous. Convenient, well-stocked supermarket shelves are available all week. But the same could be said of cooking: Cheap and decent restaurants abound. So why bother to make your own meals?

That attitude thinks wrongly of the final appeal of gardening: It mistakes the product for the purpose. It is true that a garden can yield peas that taste like the green essence of spring, and tomatoes and carrots of incomparable sweetness. Finding the produce in the shops can take some time, effort and expense; growing your own vegetables insures a reliable supply.

On the other hand, a garden, especially in the early years, can also yield little but frustration. New gardeners may plant the wrong crops for their soil. Squirrels always take single bites of vegetables, and then leave the rest part to rot. And even expert gardeners can lose a season’s harvest to uncooperative weather.

No matter what, the real joy of gardening is the time spent doing it. The deepest pleasure—as with cooking, writing etc. —is in the work itself. A gardener’s memories revolve not around the food produced, but around long summer afternoons with hands in the dirt, surrounded by families. To garden is to patiently, lovingly help life flourish, in the ground and above it.

“Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention,” Frank Sinatra chanted in his 1969 hit “My Way”. The song’s idea is attractive: that anyone can just declare what’s done is done and move on. Some take the declaration a step further and claim they have no regrets at all. Whether a boast or an actual attitude, “no regrets” suggests that life can and should be lived without looking through the rear-view mirror.

Easier said than done, though. In 2020, author Daniel H. Pink launched the World Regret Survey, the largest ever survey on the topic. With his research team, Pink asked more than 15,000 people in 105 countries, “How often do you look back on your life and wish you had done things differently?” 82% said regret is at least an occasional part of their life; roughly 21% said they feel regret “all the time.” Only 1% said they never feel regret.

If you are of the “no regrets” type, you might think that all this regret is a recipe for unhappiness. But that isn’t the case. True, being overwhelmed(不知所措) by regret is indeed bad for you. But going to the other extreme may be even worse. To rid yourself of regrets doesn’t free you from shame or sorrow; it leads you to make the same mistakes again and again. To truly get over our guilt requires that we put regret in its proper place.

As uncomfortable as it is, regret is an amazing cognitive(认知的)achievement. If today your relationship with your partner has worsened, your regret might mentally take you back to last year. You would remember your being mean and sensitive, and then imagine yourself showing more patience, being kind instead of hurtful at key moments. Then you would fast-forward to today and see how your relationship could be progressing instead of languishing.

But regret doesn’t have to be left unmanaged. The trick is to acknowledge it and use it for learning and improvement. You can be honest with yourself about what went wrong and use that knowledge to enjoy better relationships in the future.

It was New Year’s Night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised his mournful (悲哀的) eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies (百合花) on the surface of a clear calm lake. He had already passed sixty and brought from his journey nothing but errors (错误) and regrets. Now his health was poor, his mind vacant and his heart sorrowful (悲伤的).

The days of his youth appeared like dreams before him, and he recalled the serious moment when his father placed him at the entrance of the two roads—one leading to a peaceful, sunny place, covered with flowers, fruits and filled with soft, sweet songs; the other leading to a deep, dark cave, which was endless, where poison flowed instead of water and devils and poisonous snake hissed (发撕嘶声) and crawled (爬行).

He saw the lights flowing away in the darkness. These were the days of his wasted life; he saw a star fall from the sky and disappeared, and this was the symbol (象征) of himself. His regret like a sharp arrow (箭) struck deeply into his heart. Then he remembered his friends in his childhood. But they had made their way to success and were now honoured and happy on this night.

The high church clock struck and the sound made him remember his parents’ early love for him. They had taught him and prayed for his good. But he chose the wrong way. With shame and grief he dared no longer look towards that heaven. His darkened eyes were full of tears, and with a despairing (绝望的) effort, he burst out a cry: "Come back, my early days!"

His youth did return, for all this was only a dream which he had on New Year Night. He was still young though his faults were real; he had not yet entered the deep, dark cave, and he was still free to walk on the road which leads to the peaceful and sunny land.

Those who still wander (徘徊) on the entrance of life, hesitating (犹豫) to choose the bright road, remember that when years are passed and your feet stumble (绊脚) on the dark mountains, you will cry bitterly, but in vain (徒劳): "Oh youth, return! Oh give me back my early days!"