Limonella
How the Moon Got Her Light
Long ago, before stories had names and stars had numbers, the Moon drifted through the sky in silence.
She was not yet the Moon we know—glowing, full of light and mystery. Back then, she was dark and unseen, a quiet watcher with no glow of her own. She moved gently across the sky each night, circling the Earth like a shy guardian, unnoticed by most. But her heart ached with longing.
“I want to be of use,” she whispered one evening to the empty sky. “I want to shine, not just wander unseen.”
But the stars, proud and sparkling, said nothing. The sun, blazing and bright, was too busy to notice. Even the planets, grand in their colours and rings, seemed to spin right past her without a second glance.
And so, the Moon drifted on, quiet and dim, carrying her unlit dreams like a lantern with no flame.
But Earth… Earth had been listening.
She felt the Moon’s yearning in the tide’s quiet pull and the hush of shadow on forest leaves. She heard it in the silence between owl calls and in the sigh of tall mountains under night skies.
So one dusk, when the world was tipping from day into night, Earth gathered her oldest beings. She summoned the Ancient Ones: the trees who had seen ice ages, the rivers who had carved valleys, the wolves and wombats and tiny silver fish who remembered the first firefly.
They met in a hidden valley where moonlight *should* have fallen.
“She longs to shine,” Earth said. “She wishes to be more than a watcher.”
The Ancient Ones were quiet for a long time. Then the Great Eucalyptus creaked his limbs and said,
“Let us give her what she seeks—not by force, but as a gift.”
“But we are only earth and leaf and fur and bone,” said the Owl. “We do not shine.”
“Not yet,” whispered the Stars, who had arrived without sound. “But together… you just might.”
One by one, each Ancient Being stepped forward, offering a piece of their quiet magic.
The old trees gave their stillness—rooted strength, deep and calm.
The rivers offered their rhythm, the ebb and flow that never ends.
The mountains gave her patience, and the wind gave her movement.
Even the stars loosened pinpricks of their own light, dropping them like breadcrumbs into the Moon’s path.
The animals came too. The kangaroo gave her resilience. The possum, her playfulness. The magpie offered song. Even the shy echidna gave a small hum of inner wisdom.
And then, something unexpected happened.
The Moon—dark and quiet, far above—began to glow. Not brightly, not like the Sun. Her light was soft, like a whisper of silver, like a breath on water. It was not the kind of light to dazzle or command attention.
But it was exactly enough.
When the creatures looked up, their hearts softened. The night felt less lonely. Shadows became gentler. Sleep came more easily.
The Moon felt it too—something ancient kindling within her. Her darkness was not a curse, she realised. It was the very reason her light could be so comforting. It didn’t blind or burn. It *soothed.*
“I shine because of you,” she whispered down to Earth.
And in that moment, a quiet promise was made.
> “For those who walk beneath me,
who sit in silence, or dream with open hearts—
I will share the gifts I was given.
I will fill them with stillness, wrap them in calm,
and remind them they are never truly alone.”
>
Since that night, when the Moon rose full and silver for the very first time, people have gathered under her glow. Not to *see*, but to *feel*. To let her light wash over their tired skin. To let their thoughts settle like leaves on still water. To be reminded that even quiet things can shine, in their own beautiful way.
Even now, if you walk outside on a full moon night and tilt your head toward the sky, you may feel it—a shimmer on your skin, a hush in your heart. That’s the Moon, keeping her promise.
So next time your worries feel too heavy, or your path feels too dark, step outside and let the Moon wrap her light around you like a silken shawl.
She carries the wisdom of trees and the music of rivers.
She knows what it means to feel unseen.
And she will never let you forget: **even in the quiet, you matter.**
Sleep now.
Let her light find you.
Let it soften the edges of the day.
Let it fill you with silver dreams, until the morning comes.