Love like Stringybark

Mothering in the bush doesn’t always follow a script. It’s shaped by dust and silence, hard ground and glaring light. Out here, care can look like many things – waiting for the tank to fill, watching for snakes, making do when things run out. There’s a toughness to it, but not the kind that yells. It’s quieter than that. More weathered.

The land teaches a different kind of parenting. One that respects timing. You don’t force a eucalypt to bloom and you can’t coax a storm. You just prepare, watch the skies and learn to hold space for whatever comes next. Maybe that’s what bush mothering really is – showing up, again and again, even when the weather turns.

It’s in the routines that stretch beyond the obvious: sweeping verandahs while magpies warble, plucking burrs from socks, the scent of gum smoke on a jacket hung near the door. These aren’t grand gestures. But they matter. They form the rhythm of a home that holds.

Some mothers grow things – children, yes – but also beans, dahlias, stories. Some pass down recipes or the ability to read the sky. Others simply stay. That too is its own kind of magic.

For some of us, it's the act of standing beside someone during a stretch of life too wild to navigate alone. My own mother did just that. After my partner Matt died, she stayed. She sat with me in the silence. She let the dogs lean against her legs. She didn’t try to fix the grief or offer answers. She just held the line, like an old stringybark weathering the seasons. Steady. Present. Unmoving.

There’s no one way to mother. But if the land teaches anything, it’s that resilience doesn’t have to be loud. That strength often looks like sitting still beside someone until the storm passes. That love can be a long game – dry spells, late rains, and all.

Tania x