Resting with the Talking Tree

Reflections from the Open Days, written in real time

I’m writing this on the morning of Day Two. The open days are happening right now. It’s half-term, and yet here we are — children’s voices echoing around the space, teachers arriving with calm energy and creative ideas, and artwork already pinned and drying in the breeze.

I’m feeling it all — the aliveness, the gratitude, the fullness of this moment.

Yesterday was Day One, and it still sits with me, deep in my chest. The support from the schools has been astonishing, especially considering it’s the holiday break. It speaks volumes about the commitment of these educators and the resonance this project holds. The six founding schools are not just attending — they are shaping this. And now, three — maybe even four — more schools are poised to join. That would bring us to nearly 10, halfway to the visioned 20.

Twenty schools was always the imagined threshold. Not an end point, but a beginning — the moment where outreach gives way to depth. Where we begin to collect not just memories, but meaning. The data collection stage will begin soon, and I hope it will be supported by a new research partner. We’re calling this phase Postcards to the Butterfly Farmer — because what’s emerging here deserves to be recorded, shared, and honoured.

Yesterday, after everyone had gone and the artwork had been admired and gently tidied, I walked alone to the Talking Tree. It has become something of a sacred site. I sat beneath it, then reclined. And then, as if guided by the poem itself, I slept. It was unplanned. But completely right.

“The skies above the farmer fill with the soft sound of butterfly wings.
He falls back resting against the assurance of the talking tree.
Knowing it is done,
lungs full and heart happy.
This is what he always wanted.
A space of safety for the fragile, beautiful butterflies.”

Reading that line again, in the very place it speaks of, I realised: it has been made. The space is real. Now, it is ready to be filled. But not with noise — with sound. The sound of butterfly wings. The sound of happy children. That’s what comes next.

The first school to use the space officially will be Blean. We’re currently preparing templates and toolkits to help other schools take part with ease. The site itself is ideal for two minibuses — which means an entire class can come and not be split. This matters. Inclusion matters.

The activities are being shaped in collaboration with both schools and the Enchanted Garden specialists. There’s such a beautiful mix: creative writing, poetry, sketching, seed potting, wildflower and butterfly counting. It’s slow education. Seasonal learning. Gentle invitation. It complements Ofsted’s creativity goals and gives forest school practice a poetic, purposeful edge.

We’re building slowly. We’re building with care. And most of all, we’re building with others. That’s the joy — and it is unparalleled. I can barely put it into words, but I’ll try.

It feels like something I’ve long carried inside me is now outside, rooted in the ground, open to the wind. The Talking Tree is no longer just a metaphor — it’s a real place of rest and witnessing. And the butterflies are coming.

So this is today. Right now. And soon, I’ll head back to the tree — maybe with a new child’s poem in my hand, or a teacher’s smile in my mind. Maybe with a little paint on my sleeves. And I’ll sit, again.

We’re nearly there. And it’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.