The Hermit holds his lantern high, an apple in the sky, take a bite. The wisdom between us, within us. And sometimes it just takes an outsider to see in. The Hermit’s white hair hangs down, drips off his shoulders like clouds, he carries his staff, his cloak and invisibility–he can blend into the scenery.
From the pure open of Strength, descending from the stamina of Chariot down onto barefoot soil, she matures and ages into Crone, into Hermit. She carries the lantern of essence, here, look, see your divinity, let it shine from the beveled darkness, the clouds, the high clean air of perspective. Strength walks deep into Hermit, down into her interior crags, the mountains of doubt, then courage, then deeper still into what lies beneath the daylight.
Hermit stands at the crossroads, owlish, St. Francis of the wild, an aged and sage Artemis, band of wild boiled down into seer, knower, the one who stands quietly, unassuming, not needing the drive and action, the Mars of Emperor. Hermit quietly cultivates, gathers berries to live, makes the lightest possible footprint, you wouldn’t even know he’s there, and you must seek him out.
The seekers will always seek him out. Pilgrims come from all around, unsettling the boulders, digging expensive leather boots into the mountain path, making a god-awful racket, clamoring for wisdom. The hermit knows and sees. He did the same, searching for answers, calling out for masters, for teachers, when all along the light’s inside. The Truth’s inside.
The Hermit sits back and chuckles, weathered knuckles wrapped around her walking stick, propping up her chin. The fire sparks in her eyes, crackles around her cloak deep in the cave. They will learn. The climb is what it took to get here. The mirror shows the answers. The deer nibble at the edges, accustomed to the silences. The Hermit never really dines alone.