To my mother

For all those remembering or mourning their mothers today.

Photo by Thibaut Charp on Unsplash

I remember you playing piano in the evenings, in the moments before sleep. I was curled up in bed, in the swaddling grip of cool cotton sheets, and two woollen blankets that you had pulled tight in the making. Before I moved to my own room—after Mama moved out—I shared a room with Julie and Sue. It was a monster-sized room—a converted garage—with ceiling to floor windows on either side, and bookshelves and desks arranged to make three discrete bedrooms. My window looked across the front garden. I would look out, mesmerised as evening bled the colour from the garden, and illumed the interior of the Forster house next door. Through a gap in the trees, I would watch Mr and Mrs Forster washing the dishes at their kitchen window. It was a whole other world out there.

Each night you came to our room and bid us good night. You sat on my bed and tucked me in. You stroked my hair, kissed my forehead, and turned off the light, hovering at the switch to say one last goodnight. As soon as you left, I wiggled my legs to warm the sheets and extend the boundaries of my confinement. As they surrendered the last of their chill, your playing began from the living room. You’d warm up your fingers with a couple of scales and arpeggios, up and down the keyboard. And then there was silence. And my fear that you’d alighted the piano and moved elsewhere in the house.

And then I heard it; you played the first notes, and I relaxed, and the piano carried me to the threshold of sleep. The delight of Chopin’s Nocturne No 2, the aching beauty of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 14 in C-sharp Minor, the grace of Schubert’s Impromptu in G-Flat Major. I turned over and drew my pillow to me. My world was safe, and warm, and dreamy. And you were close, present, beautiful.

To all those remembering their mothers today.

Mum in her coat with Dad and Glenys (r) Photo Credit: Peter Harms

My Mothers Coat

My mother had a favourite coat. An orchid pink trench coat bought from a tiny boutique in Collins Street. That coat was like an extension of her. It accentuated her dark hair, her refined features and petite figure. You couldn’t see the coat without seeing her in it. And so, it looked achingly remote and out of place, hanging in a wardrobe she’d never again open. One afternoon, after a day packing up the family home, I decided to take it home with me.

I loved that coat. I wore it day and night. Each day in the early months I would pull it from the wardrobe and wrap it around me. It did not suit me. I was too tall and too young. Nor was it my style. I’d only recently grown out of ripped stockings and opshop black. To the eye it looked all wrong.

But I didn’t wrap that coat around me to look good. I didn’t wrap it around me to look like my mother. Nor to remind me of her. I wore it to find her. Her love in the lining. Her assurance in its weight. Her presence wrapped around my sorrow. And every time I put on that coat, I found her waiting for me.

Her Mothers Coat - Rob Snarski

Cherished Australian musician, Rob Snarski, wrote this stunning song Her Mother’s Coat, adapted from the above reminiscence of my mother. The tenderness of his vocals still smart my eyes. The song was gifted to me by friend Billie Giles Corti.

The Stillness Room

The Stillness Room is a space I’ve created so that we might each explore the nature of grief and what it is to be human. It’s a search for meaning through literature, poetry, writing, music, art, philosophy, contemplation and connection, that I’ll share through regular (fortnightly) posts, inspirations, recordings and interviews. I’ll explore themes including how we experience grief, the need for witnessing, how to listen, the healing power of art, poetry and music, the search for meaning after loss, the inner stillness found in nature. I’ve created this space so you can attend quietly to your story, and if you wish to, join the community.

A space created, where you can attend quietly to your story.

I’ll launch the Stillness Writers Room retreat, a 2-day virtual writing program for people who wish to put words to their grief. See below for more details and a link to register an EOI. Maximum 15 attendees.

I hope to build community here and invite you to reach out with your own story or to ask a question about grief or loss and anything you’d like me to address through this platform.

If it’s too early to contemplate paid subscription, you may like to spot me a coffee. Every morsel of support will be deeply appreciated and will help me dedicate more time to this space.

Thank you for being here. And welcome.

Robynne x

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Community Question on Mothers

Feel welcome to share an anecdote or story of your mother than that honours her.

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The Stillness Writers Room is a retreat for people who wish to put words to their grief. It’s a place for all writers—non-writers, emerging or professional—to work with self-enquiry and storytelling prompts to craft a written work to honour a grief— or other loss—and transform it into beauty.

The Stillness Writers Room retreat is a 2.5 day livestream writing program (via zoom). This is an intimate group with a maximum of 15 attendees. Alumni are then invited to join the SWR community.

The program will help you travel deep into the heart your story to develop your narrative and craft it into a piece of work whether an essay, memoir, short story, poem, prose, lyrics or journal.

Expressions of interest are currently open for the following dates.

• Friday 20 June - Sunday 22 June, 2025

• Friday 22 August - Sunday 24 August, 2025

(NB: discounts for paid subscribers).

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