She turned up at the doorstep of my house in Cornwall. No way could I have sent her away. No way, not me anyway. Maybe someone had kicked her out of their car the night before. “We're moving house.” “No space for her any more with the baby coming.” “We never really wanted her, but what could we have done? She was a present.” People find all sorts of excuses for abandoning an animal. And she was one of the most beautiful dogs I had ever seen.

I called her Goldie. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have given her a more creative name. She was so unsettled during those first few days. She hardly ate anything and had such an air of sadness about her. There was nothing I could do to make her happy, it seemed. Heaven knows what had happened to her at her previous owner’s. But eventually at the end of the first week she calmed down. Always by my side, whether we were out on one of our long walks or sitting by the fire.

That’s why it was such a shock when she pulled away from me one day when we were out for a walk. We were a long way from home, when she started barking and getting very restless. Eventually I couldn’t hold her any longer and she raced off down the road towards a farmhouse in the distance as fast as she could.

By the time I reached the farm I was very tired and upset with Goldie. But when I saw her licking （舔) the four puppies I started to feel sympathy towards them. “We didn't know what had happened to her,” said the woman at the door. “I took her for a walk one day, soon after the puppies were born, and she just disappeared.” “She must have tried to come back to them and got lost,” added a boy from behind her.

I must admit I do miss Goldie, but I’ve got Nugget now, and she looks just like her mother. And I’ve learnt a good lesson: not to judge people.

As a child, there was nothing I liked better than Sunday afternoons at my grandfather’s farm in western Pennsylvania. Surrounded by miles of stone walls, the house and field provided endless hours of fun for a city kid like me.

Since my first visit to the farm, I had wanted more than anything to be allowed to climb the stone walls surrounding the houses. My parents would never agree because the walls were so old that some stones were loose and falling. However, my idea to climb across those walls grew so strong that finally I had all my courage to enter the living room, where the adults had gathered after Sunday dinner.

“I want to climb the stone walls.” I said. “Heavens, no! You’ll hurt yourself!” The response was just as I’d expected. But before I left the room, I was stopped by my grandfather’s loud voice. “Now hold on just a minute.” I heard him say. “Let the boy climb the stone walls. He has to learn to do things for himself.”

“Go,” he said to me, “and come and see me when you get back.” For the next two and a half hours I climbed those old walls — and had the time of my life. Later I met with my grandfather to tell him about my adventures. I’ll never forget what he said. “Fred,” he said, smiling, “you made this day a special day just by being yourself. Always remember, there’s only one person in this whole world like you, and I like you exactly as you are.”

Many years have passed since then, and today I host the television program Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, seen by millions of children throughout America. There have been changes over the years, but one thing remains the same: my message to children at the end of almost every visit. “There’s only one person in this whole world like you,” the kids will hear me say, “and people can like you exactly as you are.”

If you live in America in the 21^st century you’ll probably have to listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they are. It’s become the default response when you ask anyone how they are doing: “Busy!” “Crazy busy!”. It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a complaint. And the common response is a kind of congratulation: “That’s a good problem to have,” or “Better than the opposite.”

Notice it isn’t generally people pulling back-to-back shifts in the ICU or commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs who tell you how busy they are. What those people are is not busy but tired. Exhausted! Dead on their feet. It’s almost always people whose busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve “encouraged” their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and dread that they might have to face in its absence.

Almost everyone I know is busy. They feel anxious and guilty when they aren’t either working or doing something to promote their work. It’s something they have chosen. Busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a measure against emptiness, obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or tiny or meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every hour of the day.

Idleness is not just a vacation. It is as necessary to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental affliction as ugly as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration. “Idle dreaming is often the essence of what we do,” wrote Thomas Pynchon. Archimedes’ “Eureka” in the bath, Newton’s apple :history is full of stories of inspirations that come in idle moments.