The Ancient Tree and the Afternoon That Was Wasted
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Friday’s Forest Fable
The Ancient Tree and the Afternoon That Was Wasted
The Ancient Whispering Tree had been standing in the same spot for four hundred and eighty-three years.
Possibly four hundred and eighty-four.
He had stopped counting after a squirrel stole the stone he’d been using to keep track.
The squirrel maintained that it had simply borrowed it.
The Ancient Tree maintained that three hundred and twelve years was quite long enough to constitute theft.
Either way, he had been there a very long time.
Long enough to know that some of the best things in life happened when nobody was trying particularly hard to make them happen.
It was a golden September afternoon Down Whimsy Way.
The sort of afternoon that seemed undecided whether it belonged to summer or autumn.
The sun was warm.
The breeze was cool.
And every so often, a leaf spiralled lazily down from the trees.
The Ancient Tree was enjoying himself enormously.
Then the Clockmaker Rabbit came rushing along the woodland path.
He had a notebook beneath one arm.
A pocket watch in one paw.
And the expression of someone who had already decided there weren’t enough hours in the day.
“Good afternoon,” whispered the Ancient Tree.
“Can’t stop!”
The Rabbit hurried past.
Three seconds later, he hurried backwards.
“Actually, have you seen Mr Bramble?”
“He passed this way earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“Some time after breakfast.”
The Clockmaker Rabbit stared at him.
“Could you be more specific?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Well?”
“I could.”
The Rabbit closed his eyes.
“Never mind.”
And hurried away.
The Ancient Tree chuckled quietly to himself.
A little while later, Mr Bramble appeared.
He was carrying two parcels, seven letters and a clipboard.
“Afternoon,” whispered the Tree.
“Busy!” called Mr Bramble.
And disappeared down the lane.
Then came the Key Keeper carrying a basket.
“Good afternoon.”
“Hello! Can’t stop. I’ve got orders to pack.”
Then Bartholomew Snailsworth appeared.
He was moving at exactly the same speed he always did.
“Busy afternoon?” asked the Tree.
“Apparently,” said Bartholomew. “Everyone keeps telling me so.”
“Are you busy?”
Bartholomew considered this.
“No.”
“Excellent.”
And continued on his way.
By three o’clock, the village had become very industrious indeed.
Windows were being cleaned.
Herbs were being dried.
Parcels were being delivered.
Clocks were being adjusted.
The Crow Sisters had even announced that they were extremely busy.
Nobody knew what they were busy doing.
Including the Crow Sisters.
But they said it with such confidence that nobody questioned them.
Then a young rabbit appeared beneath the Ancient Tree.
She carried no basket.
No notebook.
No parcels.
Nothing at all.
She sat down amongst his roots.
And sighed happily.
The Ancient Tree rustled his leaves.
“Good afternoon.”
The rabbit looked up.
“Hello.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah.”
She picked a daisy growing beside her.
“Is that all right?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Mum says I should make good use of the afternoon.”
The Ancient Tree thought about this.
“And what would constitute good use?”
“I don’t know.”
The rabbit looked towards the village.
“Something useful, I suppose.”
So she tried.
First, she gathered sticks.
After twelve sticks, she realised she had absolutely no need for sticks.
She put them back.
Then she collected acorns.
Same problem.
She attempted to tidy the leaves beneath the Ancient Tree.
A breeze immediately dropped six more.
She frowned.
The Tree tried not to laugh.
Eventually she sat down again.
“I don’t think I’m very good at being useful.”
“Perhaps,” whispered the Tree, “you’re doing the wrong thing.”
“What should I be doing?”
“What would you like to do?”
The rabbit thought.
“I’d like to lie here and look at the clouds.”
“Then perhaps you should.”
“But that’s wasting time.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
“I don’t know.”
So the rabbit lay down.
Above her, the Ancient Tree’s branches stretched across the blue September sky.
Clouds drifted between them.
“That one looks like a teapot,” she said.
The Tree looked.
“I think it looks like a duck.”
“It hasn’t got a beak.”
“It hasn’t got a handle either.”
They watched until the cloud became neither a duck nor a teapot.
A butterfly landed on the rabbit’s shoe.
She discovered that if she closed one eye, she could make the moon-shaped gap between two branches disappear.
She found a feather.
She listened to the leaves.
She ate an apple she’d forgotten was in her pocket.
At some point, she fell asleep.
The Ancient Tree stood quietly above her.
Doing absolutely nothing.
He was very good at it.
An hour later, the Clockmaker Rabbit returned.
He stopped when he saw her.
“There you are!”
The young rabbit sat up.
“Oh.”
“What have you been doing?”
She looked around.
The feather lay beside her.
The apple core sat on a root.
The butterfly had gone.
“Nothing.”
The Clockmaker Rabbit looked horrified.
“Nothing? All afternoon?”
She nodded.
“Oh dear. You’ve wasted it.”
The young rabbit’s ears dropped.
And that was when the Ancient Tree spoke.
“Has she?”
The Clockmaker Rabbit looked up.
“Well… yes.”
“She watched clouds become teapots.”
“Ducks,” said the young rabbit.
“We have agreed to disagree.”
The Tree continued.
“She watched a butterfly. She listened to the wind. She ate an apple. She slept beneath my branches.”
The Clockmaker Rabbit waited.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did she accomplish?”
The Ancient Tree rustled thoughtfully.
“An afternoon.”
The Clockmaker Rabbit looked at his pocket watch.
Then at the young rabbit.
Then at the sunlight spilling through the trees.
He seemed about to say something.
Instead, he slowly sat down.
“Just for five minutes,” he said.
“Of course.”
The young rabbit lay back.
After a moment, the Clockmaker Rabbit did too.
They looked upwards.
A cloud drifted overhead.
“Dragon,” said the young rabbit.
“Definitely a kettle,” said the Clockmaker Rabbit.
The Ancient Tree sighed.
“Finally. Someone sensible.”
Five minutes became ten.
Ten became twenty.
Nobody checked.
Eventually Mr Bramble passed.
Then the Key Keeper.
Then Bartholomew.
And, because very little stays secret Down Whimsy Way for long, the Crow Sisters arrived shortly afterwards.
“What are they doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Should we join them?”
“We’re very busy.”
“Doing what?”
There was a pause.
“Good point.”
Three black shapes fluttered down into the grass.
By early evening, there were eleven villagers beneath the Ancient Tree.
Nobody had planned it.
Nobody had organised it.
Nobody had put it on the village noticeboard.
Mr Tea Toad appeared carrying a teapot because he believed all gatherings became legitimate once refreshments arrived.
The Moss Witch brought blackberry biscuits.
Lantern Fox arrived just as the light began turning gold.
Someone told a story.
Someone else laughed so hard they snorted tea.
The Crow Sisters attempted to identify constellations before the stars had actually appeared.
And absolutely nothing useful was accomplished.
It was, everyone agreed later…
a wonderful afternoon.
We live in a world that likes usefulness.
Productivity.
Lists.
Progress.
Things completed, achieved, improved or crossed off.
And there is nothing wrong with any of those things.
But somewhere along the way, many of us learned that time spent simply enjoying ourselves needs to be justified.
We tell ourselves we’ll read when everything is done.
Sit in the garden when the house is tidy.
Take the walk when we’ve finished the work.
Rest when we’ve earned it.
Play when there is nothing more important waiting.
Except…
there is nearly always something waiting.
And if we’re not careful, we can spend our lives preparing to enjoy them.
Not every hour needs to produce something.
Not every hobby needs to become a skill.
Not every walk needs a destination.
Not every book needs to teach us something.
And you don’t have to turn the things you love into something useful before they’re allowed to matter.
Sometimes an afternoon can simply be an afternoon.
A cup of tea can simply be a cup of tea.
And watching clouds beneath an old tree can be a perfectly good use of a life.
The Ancient Whispering Tree had stood for nearly five centuries.
He had watched generations come and go.
And if all those years had taught him anything, perhaps it was this:
Time you enjoyed was never time you wasted.
Until next Friday’s Forest Fable…
May you find little pockets of time that ask nothing of you, things you love simply because you love them, and the freedom to occasionally spend an afternoon accomplishing absolutely nothing.
If you’d enjoy a little surprise during an afternoon of your own, our mystery scoops are waiting Down Whimsy Way. Choose your scoop, put the kettle on when your parcel arrives, and take your time discovering the treasures inside. Nothing to accomplish, just something lovely to enjoy.
With warm wishes,
Becky
The Key Keeper
Down Whimsy Way