Limonella
Little Stepping Stone
The dawn was only a pale shimmer when She reached the edge of the bush, silver mist coiling between ghost-gums and tea-tree like breath from a sleeping giant. Seasons had passed with her shoulders bowed beneath other people’s plans—collecting, mending, giving until her own fire flickered low. Yet on this quiet morning an ancient ember stirred behind her ribs.
A breeze, warm with eucalyptus, threaded through the leaves: *Come in, sister. The path remembers you.*
The track looked nothing more than a tangle of fern and fallen bark. Familiar thoughts crowded in—*No time… not ready… the world needs me.* Then a hush rose from her inner hearth: *One foot. One breath. A little stepping stone is all a river asks.*
So she stepped.
Bush-light spilled green and gold, stippling the ground with lace. She moved the way water moves—slow, curious, listening. Kookaburras laughed overhead, magpies sent soft chorales through the canopy, and every note seemed to murmur: *Grow in your own rhythm.* A scribbly-gum, scarred by lightning, stood unashamed; a banksia cone, blackened by last summer’s fire, pushed out brave new shoots. None of them apologised for surviving, and none rushed their becoming.
At a creek she paused. Sun-flecks waltzed on dark water; flat stones shone like pocket-moons. Kneeling, she let the story of the stream cool her palms, and in its mirror she met her own gaze—tired, yes, but sparking with a wild remember-me. Between heart-beat and birdsong she owned a truth: she had bartered her inner flame for borrowed approval. The debt was done.
She closed her eyes and took three slow breaths:
*In*—the scent of wattle and damp earth.
*Hold*—the ember brightening.
*Out*—the weight sliding away like shed bark.
Forgiveness drifted in, soft as possum-fur—pardon for every yes that should have been a no, for dreams folded into desk drawers, for believing rest had to be earned. The forest whispered again: *Begin where you stand.*
When sunset brushed the horizon bush-fire pink, she turned for home. Each footfall on the leaf-litter sounded lighter, a drum tapped with hope. She carried nothing grand: only the courage to choose—pebble-small, diamond-strong.
So she walked out beneath the rising full moon, a single spark glowing warm at her core. Tomorrow she would place that spark upon her hearth, tend it gently, and let it bloom. Step by gentle step, ember by ember, she was already on her way home to herself.