Tarot Card Meanings: The Hermit

‘Day after day, alone on a hill
The man with the foolish grin
Is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him
They can see that he’s just a fool
And he never gives an answer

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning round’

‘The Fool On The Hill’ by The Beatles (Lennon/McCartney)

Welcome to my wheel of solitude!

The Hermit is one of the most iconic cards in the Tarot. Often seen as a symbol of solitude, wisdom, and introspection, the Hermit invites us to step away from the noise of everyday life and follow the quiet glow of inner guidance. In this deep dive, we’ll explore Hermit symbolism, history, astrology, shadow work, and the many animal archetypes that walk beside him, from owls to snakes. Whether you’re a Tarot beginner or a seasoned reader, this card has much to teach us about walking alone, but never being truly lost.

I thought this song was particularly relevant to the Hermit, as some interpretations of the Tarot have him as the Fool grown old. With his staff (intuition and spirit) to support him, and his lantern to shine a light to show the way (for both himself and others), he has walked a tough path to get to where he is. Having experienced adversity and hardship, picked himself up and righted himself each time he’s fallen down or gone astray, he has now reached the top of the mountain where he is able to look down on his life with clarity and perspective. This is a time to withdraw and reflect, to judge how you are doing in your life, and decide where to go next. You own perspective can grant you wisdom.

In Wild Card, Jen Cownie and Fiona Lensvelt write about the restorative power of turning your gaze inward, reminding us that “sometimes you can get so focused on chasing the brightness and dazzle of others, that you forget your own light.” The Hermit’s energy is exactly this: an invitation to step back, to withdraw for a moment into your own shell: not in avoidance, but in intentional solitude. To sit with your thoughts and feelings, to notice them, to be nourished by them.

Like a butterfly in its chrysalis, this retreat offers more than just rest. It offers the possibility of transformation. But also like a chrysalis, it isn’t meant to be permanent. There comes a point where the shell becomes too tight, and you’re meant to emerge again. Changed, yes, but also ready to return. The trick is not to get stuck in your cocoon. It’s a fine line. As the theologian Paul Tillich once wrote, “Language has created the word ‘loneliness’ to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word ‘solitude’ to express the glory of being alone.” The Hermit invites you into the sanctuary of solitude, but reminds you not to stray too far into the realm of loneliness.

‘Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self’

Mary Sarton

Symbolism in the Hermit Tarot Card

But whereas Gemini (also ruled by Mercury) is somewhat scatty, Virgo is practical, detail-orientated, and grounded. It’s a sign long associated with helping and healing, as well as with perfecting. Virgo = being of use (sometimes to a fault!) In this way, the Hermit’s lantern makes him less about retreat and more about purposeful solitude in service of others. The Hermit lights the way not to be alone forever, but to guide others forward. As Paul Foster Case explains, “although the Hermit seems to be alone, he is really the Way-Shower, lighting the path for climbing multitudes below.” Case goes on to explain that the Hermit stands in darkness, because the true nature of the Divine (or: whatever lies behind our ideas and images of it) is something our minds can’t fully comprehend; “yet he himself carries his own light, and holds it aloft for the benefit of those who toil upward toward him.” 

The source of light is a six-pointed star inside the lantern. Stars can be navigational aids, so this reinforces the idea that the Hermit is lighting the way for others to follow in his footsteps. It’s worth noting: the star in the lantern doesn’t light the whole path, it only shows the next step. This echoes the Hermit’s role in Tarot: not giving all the answers, but helping you see what you need to know right now.

The six points of the star symbolise the union of opposites: Upward triangle: fire, spirit, action. Downward triangle: water, matter, receptivity. Together, they represent balance, wholeness, and the integration of the spiritual and material. The Hermit holds that synthesis within himself. In this way, the star isn’t just about guiding others, it’s also about self-reclamation. Finding your inner light. Realising that your truest “soulmate” is already within. That’s the work of any spiritual quest worth its salt: learning to love and accept yourself, flaws and all, and using that acceptance to become a better human. Community is vital, love and romance are wonderful, but first: find your own light. Be steady in yourself.

“I am out with lanterns, looking for myself”

Emily Dickinson

Many Hermits also feature a staff. The staff is traditionally a tool of balance and stability, especially on uneven terrain. It reminds us that even the most enlightened seeker still needs support, and that spiritual insight is nothing without practical footing. Symbolically, we can also see the staff as wisdom earned through experience, something that keeps you upright when you’re tired, uncertain, or walking alone. It links the Hermit to Moses, Merlin (who we can see above in Le Tarot Arthurien), and the archetypal wise wanderer or prophet who channels divine will into grounded action. The lantern shows why he walks. The staff shows how he keeps walking.

There’s also another link here with the Hermit’s astrological sign, Virgo. In classical depictions of the constellation, Virgo holds a staff or rod in her right hand and an ear of wheat in her left (the wheat representing Spica, the brightest star in Virgo). The Latin root virga means a young shoot or twig, and gives rise to words like virgatus (made of twigs), verge (a rod of authority or a measuring staff), and virgate (an old English unit of land measurement, around thirty acres). The same root also underlies the contemporary verge, the strip of land that borders a road, preserving the original sense of demarcation and transition from one space into another.

These etymologies hint at order and the act of measuring out; the staff is thus both a symbol of authority and of boundary-setting. If we remember the Hermit is also aligned with Saturn, the planetary ruler of time and structure, the staff becomes not just a walking aid but a symbol of structure, boundary, and the discipline that supports spiritual maturity.

The Hermit is often depicted wrapped in a cloak. Symbolically, it echoes the idea of turning inward, wrapping oneself in contemplation. It’s also often in a plain, un-showy colour (sea blue, stone fog, winter sky grey). Notice how the Hermits in the cards above almost blend into the landscape. This helps foreground the lantern and its symbolism: the light matters more than the man who carries it. The Hermit himself is, in some ways, beside the point. Like the faceless, windswept figure in the oceanic Mary-El Tarot, his personal identity is secondary. What matters is his wisdom, his learning, the light he shares with the world.

Cloaks are also associated with archetypal wise figures: wizards, monks, sages. It’s a visual shorthand for ‘the guide’ or ‘mentor’. But a cloak doesn’t just protect, it also conceals. It hides more than it reveals. Like all good teachers, the Hermit won’t lay everything out for you. His gift is the invitation to mystery. It’s up to you to follow, to look closer, to lift the veil for yourself.

The Hermit figure is frequently positioned on top of a mountain, representing not only spiritual elevation but also deepening this card’s link to the Fool. Both are alone on craggy heights – but where the Fool is about to leap, the Hermit stands still. Mountains, in our collective imaginary, are places of revelation and mysticism. They evoke inner stillness as well as holiness. Think: Moses on Sinai, Jesus on the Mount, or Buddhist monks on remote Himalayan peaks. “Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent,” writes Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. “You can heave your spirits into a mountain, and the mountain will keep it folded and will not throw it back.”

Mountains are the highest places on Earth, the closest places to ‘heaven’, a liminal space where, according to Paul Foster Case, we can find the “union of the personal consciousness with the Cosmic Will.” The Hermit on the mountain top has reached the heights by climbing there (presumably!), reminding us that there are no shortcuts to wisdom – it’s a slow, steep journey inward and upward. Unlike the Fool, the Hermit isn’t poised to jump off his rocky ledge, he’s standing still, contemplating. Standing on a summit symbolises having a broader view: seeing the bigger picture, rising above emotion or ego. But it also suggests a moment of pause before descent (careful descent, not the Fool’s flying leap, lol). The Hermit doesn’t stay there forever. He climbs to gain wisdom, then returns to the world to guide others (if they’re ready).

In The Literary Tarot, the Hermit is depicted as Frankenstein’s Monster. The accompanying guidebook notes, “You may be compelled to flee from the world you seek to know… What wonders might you discover in your solitary seeking? Might you yet find a way to share them?”

I love how the Hermit in the Interim Tarot looks like he’s partially hewn from the rock itself. He stands with his lamp like a beacon to guide ships through the dark, a reminder that the Hermit isn’t just a seeker, but also a teacher or mentor. The artist and creator Linda Benjamin writes that the practice of self-reflection is “an ageless, ancient practice of spelunking. Sometimes it takes deep solitude to quiet the mind enough to hear the… answers of the soul.”

And one of my favourite Hermit cards from the Sasuraibito Tarot. The creator Stasia Burrington writes, “The Hermit withdraws from society to better know herself. She then must return from isolation to share her new-found knowledge… My Hermit is a lone hiker, probably somewhere in the beautiful Pacific Northwest”.

Jen Cownie & Fiona Lensvelt write poignantly of the role of the mountain in ‘Hermit-work’ in their book Wild Card. They draw on the writings of Scottish poet Anna ‘Nan’ Shepherd, who spent much of her life walking in the Cairngorms. Shepherd didn’t treat the mountain as something to be conquered, she sought to be with the mountain, to know what she called the “total mountain.” In one poem, she describes the “strange gifts of pleasure [of] the mind” that come when one is “de-formed, annulled, unmade” by immersion in the mountain:

“She feels the whole creation drown,
The ache of form allayed.
The streaming seas, the ocean gulf,
The rocks dissolve away.
Now she may re-create herself.
Now is the primal day.”

From ‘Lux Perpetua’ by Nan Shepherd

In another book, The Living Mountain, Shepherd, writes, “I believe that I now understand in some small measure why the Buddhist goes on pilgrimage to a mountain. The journey is itself part of the technique by which the god is sought. It is a journey into Being; for as I penetrate more deeply into the mountain’s life, I penetrate also into my own. For an hour I am beyond desire. It is not ecstasy, that leap out of the self that makes man like a god. I am not out of myself, but in myself. I am. To know Being, this is the final grace accorded from the mountain.”

Cownie and Lensvelt conclude that : “one of the greatest joys of time spent alone is the moment of returning to the world – grounded, restored, even renewed – and seeing it differently.”

Finally, many Hermits are shown standing in snow, or with snow-capped mountains behind them. Snow is clean, crisp, and quiet: a blank canvas for introspection. It suggests the Hermit’s mind is free from the noise of the world, stripped back to stillness. Snow is also cold, lol! The Hermit has stepped away from the warmth of relationships and passions, not because he lacks feeling, but because he knows that wisdom often requires a retreat from the heat of entanglement.

Snow also lends Hermit cards a particular hush, the kind of muffled, expectant silence you get when you wake up on a morning after heavy snow in the night. Everything is slowed, softened, paused – and you can sense it even before you open the curtains, look out the window, and see. A moment between worlds.

The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.

From ‘Snow’ by Archibald Lampman

Who is the Hermit? From Time to Truth-Seeker

In the earliest Tarot decks, like the Visconti-Sforza and the Minchiate, the card we now know as The Hermit was usually called: Il Vecchio (“The Old Man”), Il Tempo or Il Vecchio Tempo (“Old Time” or just “Time”). Instead of a lantern, he often held an hourglass or clock – a symbol of mortality and the passage of time, and instead of a sturdy staff he often leaned on crutches, reflecting his great age. So the Hermit wasn’t originally a mystic, instead he was Father Time, and represented the inevitable march of age and decay. (YAY! He reminds me of those dark birthday cards that are like: ‘congratulations on being another year closer to your own inevitable death’, lol). The ‘Hermit’ card was once a memento mori, a reminder that life is fleeting, but that ageing brings perspective – if not serenity!

This old man of the Tarot is also deeply tied to the Greco-Roman god Kronos (Greek) or Saturn (Roman). Saturn/Kronos was the god of time, agriculture, and death, and was often shown as a mature man with a scythe, reflecting his role as a harvester of life (not to be confused with the Grim Reaper, though they’re definitely cousins!)

Saturn rules the planet associated with discipline, structure, and limits. In astrology and esotericism, he’s the teacher of hard lessons: boundaries, solitude, consequences, long-term thinking, and inner maturity.

In myth, Kronos devoured his own children to stop them from overthrowing him, a gruesome metaphor for how time consumes all things. There’s a clear symbolic kinship between Saturn and Death (XIII), too. Death reflects the inevitable Saturnian transformation, not literal death necessarily, but a cycle closing. Both the Hermit and Death draw from the same archetypal source: time as the slow scythe that cuts us free from what we once were. I’m minded also of the Wheel of Fortune spinning inbetween them – time in solitude, time in motion, time as harvest.

When the occultists of the 18th and 19th centuries (like Éliphas Lévi, Mathers, and later Waite) reinterpreted the Tarot through the lens of Kabbalah, astrology, and Hermeticism, they reimagined the Old Man/Time figure as a spiritual seeker. The lantern became a symbol of inner light and gnosis, the hourglass faded out in favour of the staff and mountain, the mood shifted from “time is running out” to “it’s time to look within”. Our present day Hermit still carries Saturn’s influence: restraint, solitude, ageing, and serious reflection. However, he’s no longer a reminder of death, but rather a guide for the living. A shadow-worker. A lantern bearer on the inner path.

Charlie Claire Burgess writes that, just as the High Priestess is connected to intuition, and the Hierophant to teaching, learning, and study, the Hermit may represent a third path to knowledge, one that begins when we “embark on a wild and solitary adventure to seek self-defined meaning. We might call this the path of philosophy”. Burgess references Robert M. Place’s idea that the Hermit draws inspiration from old woodcuts of philosophers searching for the Anima Mundi – the World Soul.

The Anima Mundi is the invisible thread that links all things, and refers to the idea that the entire universe is alive, interconnected, and animated by a single, unifying spirit. It’s basically the philosophy that James Cameron employs in the Avatar films! In other words: everything has soul – not just people, but animals, plants, stones, rivers, stars. The Anima Mundi is the energy that hums beneath all things – the trees, the stars, your skin. The world dreaming itself into being.

The Anima Mundi is sometimes personified as a woman holding a six-pointed star, just like the one the Hermit holds in his lantern. Place observes that “the Anima Mundi is invisible but in his wisdom the Hermit knows he can find her by the evidence that she leaves. Although she leads him away from town, the crowd, or from popular opinion, the Hermit follows his invisible guide.” The Hermit is not only a philosopher then, but a “kind of spiritual detective, resolutely investigating every clue to discover some greater truth” (Burgess). Burgess concludes that “the Hermit departs society for the wilderness not to get away from other people but to get closer to the Anima Mundi, the stuff of life. The Hermit doesn’t want to be alone; they simply thirst for a different kind of intimacy – a spiritual intimacy with their gods, with the World Soul, with their own soul.”

Many writers have also made a link between the Hermit and Diogenes. Diogenes of Sinope (c. 412–323 BCE) was an ancient Greek philosopher and one of the founders of Cynicism. He rejected social conventions, lived in a barrel, and embraced radical simplicity and shamelessness to expose the hypocrisy of Greek society. Famously, he wandered the streets of Athens in broad daylight carrying a lantern, claiming to be “looking for an honest man.” It was a critique of hypocrisy and corruption – and also a dry, philosophical prank.

Both figures use the lantern as a symbol, but the Hermit’s is turned inward, while Diogenes’ is used to expose the illusions of society. Both are truth-seekers, but in different directions. Likewise, the Hermit on his mountain and Diogenes in his barrel, have rejected worldly distractions to focus on something more essential – whether that’s spiritual truth (the Hermit) or philosophical integrity (Diogenes).

It’s also worth noting that Diogenes was often called “the Dog” (that’s what the “Cynic” in Cynicsm actually means – from kynikos, Greek for “dog-like”). He embraced this insult, seeing dogs as free from shame, hunger, and pride and instead living in accordance with nature. It’s a beautiful point of overlap: in Tarot, the dog often follows the Fool – but perhaps he also walks beside the Hermit. The Fool, the Hermit and Diogenes all accept their outsider status: they don’t chase approval. They live simply, seek truth fiercely, and are often mistaken for madmen.

I think it’s this rich and varied range of archetypes that makes the Hermit such an iconic card, one whose imagery, like the Tower’s, is deeply ingrained in our collective subconscious. The image of the solitary sage, staff in hand and light held aloft, recurs again and again across our stories and cultural imagination: from ancient myth to modern fantasy, from Yoda to Gandalf to the gatefold of Led Zeppelin IV. Whether he’s guiding others or walking alone, we know this figure. We’ve seen him before. We recognise the glow of his lantern in the dark.

‘The Star on the ground’: Positive aspects of the Hermit in Tarot

I’ve already talked about the Hermit’s links to the Fool and Death, but he also shares something quietly powerful with the Star. Both are guiding lights – beacons that shine in the dark. The difference lies in how and where they shine. The Star is celestial, aspirational, far-off. The Hermit’s light is local, humble, immediate – a small star inside a lantern held close to the earth. One invites us to dream; the other to take the next step.

Jen Cownie and Fiona Lensvelt point out that hermits weren’t historically outcasts, but were often respected by their communities, precisely because their solitude yielded insights. The Hermit turns inward not to escape the world, but to bring something back. His light may be smaller than the Star’s, but it’s focused, practical, and meant to guide others.

I love how this plays out in Jessica Hayworth’s deck, where the Hermit offers his light directly to you, the reader, and in the Far-Out Tarot, where his lantern almost becomes a star inside the moon. Angus-West calls him “the night watchman of dreams” – a Star figure who walks the land (also, look at all the other Hermits on their ledges in the background – even in isolation we are never truly alone, as other people are always going through the same thing at the same time). In the Modern Love Tarot, even amid the bustle of the city, the Hermit finds a still place to observe. Her own light twinkles gently among the lights of others.

This pairing also plays out astrologically. The Hermit is ruled by Virgo (earth), the Star by Aquarius (air). Virgo brings detail, humility, service: the kind of wisdom that comes from close observation. Aquarius is visionary, future-facing, collective. The Star wants to lift us toward a better tomorrow. The Hermit, meanwhile, just wants to make sure you don’t trip up in the dark today 😂. He doesn’t ask you to hold onto hope, just to stay with yourself.

As in the two cards below, when you’re in the energy of the Hermit you can supply your own guiding light.

Thomas Witholt from the Hermit’s Mirror describes The Lightseer’s Hemit as “a point of calm and serenity to which others might aspire. In this way, she is the Star on the ground, one of my favourite metaphors for the Hermit”. In Chris-Anne’s drawing she still has her traditional lantern but she’s also glowing with her own internal brightness. As the guidebook explains: “I witness my brightly lit heart”. Witholt also draws our attention to the similarities and differences between Chris-Anne’s Hermit card and her Hierophant card. We can see that the Hierophant stands before a staircase that climbs straight up into the heavens: a clear, structured path toward spiritual wholeness, rooted in tradition and community. But in the Hermit, we see a different kind of ascent. Here, the stairs wind up from crashing waters below, leading to the high cliff the Hermit has already climbed. As Witholt points out, “the Hermit has walked the path opened by the Hierophant, but she has taken her own detours rather than the direct path.”

What stands out in many Hermit cards is that the Hermit is almost always shown on the move. He’s never hiding away in his cave. Rather, he’s out wandering, searching, shining his lantern into dark and forgotten places. Jessica Dore describes this as a metaphor for being at peace with life’s flux: “changing and being stuck, expanding and contracting, evolving and devolving.” Similarly, the anonymous author of Meditations on the Tarot writes on the Hermit: “It is the heart which is simultaneously active and contemplative, untiringly and unceasingly. It walks. It walks day and night, and we listen day and night to the steps of its incessant walking. This is why if we want to represent a man who lives the law of the heart… we present him as walking, steadily and without haste.” In the Stunning Tarot (below), this sense of restless yet steady movement is made beautifully literal.

He walks apart from society, illuminating what others overlook. As Charlie Claire Burgess puts it, “the Hermit invites us to depart the well-trodden paths in life and be brave enough, faithful enough, and strange enough to enter the wilderness and carve out our own.”

The Hermit from the Carnival at the End of the World Tarot captures this beautifully – a huge hooded eye, holding an eyed lantern, doubling down on the theme of seeing, seeking, watching.

I love how Ana Tourian’s Hermit card makes the internal nature of his journey so clear. As she explains, “he needs to get to know himself… look deep within and learn from his mistakes.” The endlessly repeating image inside his lantern suggests that what guides him is his own hard-won knowledge – earned through deep, difficult introspection.

Meg Jones Wall echoes this: “Our hidden places sometimes hold our most magical aspects, and in taking the time to get to know them, we find a new sense of self, a new belief in our own power, a new feeling of empowerment around our magic.”

The Hermit cards from the Bon Sequitur Tarot and The Black Tarot make it clear that solitude isn’t about isolation, it’s about reflection. Like a form of meditation, the Hermit’s withdrawal is intentional: a space for self-examination. Know thyself, as the Temple of Apollo declared – a motto echoed by Socrates, and embodied here. The Hermit doesn’t turn inward to escape the world, but to understand himself more deeply before returning to it.

In the Black Tarot, the Hermit’s lantern becomes a kind of third eye – a light that illuminates not just the path ahead, but the terrain within. It even resembles the sun, suggesting that the light of our own perception can guide us through solitude: not just towards truth, but towards contentment, and ultimately the joy and integration we find in the Sun.

As Meg Jones Wall writes, this kind of self-examination takes “patience, bravery, and honesty. In the pursuit of truth, in interrogating our own motives and desires and fears, we need to become comfortable with mystery. We need to be willing to slow down and feel our feelings. The Hermit reminds us that not every question will be answered, but that in asking, we can develop sharper, more precise insights, uncover new internal layers, and dig more deeply into our own secrets.”

I love how The Unveiled Tarot reimagines the Hermit’s lantern as a streetlamp; a reminder that mindfulness and peace can be found even in the heart of the rat race. Contemplation is a state of mind, not a geographical location. James Sturzaker makes a similar point in Qabalistic Aphorisms, writing:

“Although named the Hermit, this is not the path of a recluse but of stepping out into the world… being alone in the madding crowd, with a calm peace and quiet within in spite of the noise without.”

In the Grounded Wisdom Tarot, the Hermit becomes The Mulch, a symbol of “regeneration, introspection, protection, [and] recycling of life.” Like mulch, the Hermit does his best work unseen. Solitude isn’t always sterile. Sometimes it’s fertile. What looks like stillness may actually be slow alchemy, the composting of old ideas into something richer and more alive.

As Meg Jones Wall writes, “there’s a gentle care within both the Hermit and Virgo, a desire to understand fully, to not make changes or move forward until we are confident of what our next steps should be.” That energy is reflected in the three bookish Hermits below, each one waiting until their insight is ready, holding their light until it’s time to return to the world.

I began this section by emphasising the Hermit as a walker. But these cards remind us: growth doesn’t always look like movement. Sometimes, it looks like stillness.

Sometimes, the only light we need is the one we already carry within.

“The quieter you become, the more you can hear”

Ram Dass

Solitude vs. Loneliness: The Hermit in Shadow Work

A lot of Tarot writers describe The Hermit as one of the more confronting cards in the deck. Because, if we’re being honest, an attempt to look within – to be truly alone with ourselves and our thoughts – can be a lot. To sit in stillness. To ask hard questions. To listen for answers we might not want to hear. It’s not always pleasant. It’s not always peaceful. As Bakara Wintner explains, “I don’t sit well in quiet. The Hermit exhibits a discipline that many of us avoid or deem unnecessary or say we’ll get to later.”

The Hermit’s lantern is often said to represent his power to illuminate the dark, to shine light on hidden things, to guide the way. But in the LeGrande Circus Tarot, the lantern mostly shines on him. He’s lit up in stark contrast to the shadows around him. The message is clear: when we go seeking truth, what we most often find is the truth about ourselves.

That’s what makes the Hermit such a powerful card for shadow work. When we hold up the light, it doesn’t just show us what’s outside, it also throws our own shape against the wall. It reveals our insecurities, our pain, our contradictions, our darkest desires. But it also offers us clarity, compassion, and the chance to integrate what’s been hidden.

The Hermit reminds us that the journey inward is the journey forward. You don’t find truth by avoiding the dark, you find it by walking straight into it, lantern raised, heart open. As Meg Jones Wall explains, “healing is not always a sweet, gentle process – sometimes it requires deep meditation, intense scrutiny, going over our souls with a fine-toothed comb… [Yet] in our isolation, we have nothing to prove, nothing to hide – we can be completely, brutally honest with ourselves; we can ask the hard questions and gather the courage to answer them truthfully.”

As Bakara Wintner goes on to observe, “what a revelation it would be to enter into the cave of self-study and discover that you actually like what you find… So many of us believe that we are bad, or wrong, or fundamentally broken in some way. No one can be talked out of this by another. The only tonic is seeing ourselves for ourselves”. Once we see our own light shining brightly in the darkness it can never be taken by someone else, “because it was not given by someone else. When we access this internal light, we are never lost again”. That idea is captured beautifully in the Twice Told Tarot, where the Hermit’s lantern isn’t just a guiding light, it’s used to scare away the monsters of self-doubt, fear, and closed-mindedness.

However, shadow work with the Hermit shows the card doesn’t always mean noble solitude or high-minded self-reflection. Sometimes, the Hermit shows up to point out a less healthy impulse, the kind of withdrawal that’s rooted not in discernment, but in fear, shame, or self-deception. We can end up locked inside our own heads, like the Hermit in the Tarot Restless. There are times when we tell ourselves we’re “working on ourselves” or “protecting our peace,” when really, we’re just pushing people away. Not every cave is sacred. Sometimes it’s a hiding place.

In reverse or shadow form, the Hermit can indicate isolation disguised as wisdom. As The Alleyman’s Tarot puts it:

“Removing people from our lives that love us for the purpose of changing for them is rarely the right move. Thinking that we can make things better for ourselves, or for them, without them, is a lie we tell ourselves to make it make sense… Stop keeping everyone away. It helps to talk to people you think you’re helping, or fixing things for… And come home.”

This theme is cleverly visualised in the Figuratively Speaking Mermaid Tarot, where the Hermit’s traditional lantern is replaced by the eerie lure of an anglerfish. I love this twist, it’s beautifully unsettling. The guidebook explains, “she is a solitary sort of mermaid who lives in the crushing depths of the sea. With only herself and the dark for company, she comes to a deep understanding of both.” But there’s a flip side: the anglerfish’s light is not a beacon. It’s a trap. A false light that draws others in – only to devour them.

So, too, can the Hermit’s path become murky. That quiet space of reflection can curdle into resentment, cynicism, or a sense of superiority. When the Hermit turns inward not to grow, but to retreat from the vulnerability of connection, the lantern flickers. The wisdom turns brittle. And the “truth” they think they’re protecting may just be a carefully lit illusion.

Rather unsurprisingly, a lot of my nature/nautical themed decks portray the Hermit as a hermit crab! And while hermit crabs are super cute, I think the imagery is also ripe for shadow work. Hermit crabs don’t just retreat into their shell for solitude, but for safety. Like them, we often carry our protection with us. We build little shells – emotional, intellectual, spiritual – where we can feel safe from scrutiny, rejection, or failure. And sometimes, that shell is necessary. Caution can be wise. Solitude can be healing. But eventually, that same protective structure can become cramped, restrictive, even harmful. Hermit crabs have to change shells as they grow, or risk getting stuck. Shadow work with the Hermit often means asking: Have I outgrown this shell? Is this solitude still serving me, or is it just keeping the world at bay?

And here’s the best part: in the wild, hermit crabs don’t just grow silently in isolation. When a group of them all need new homes, they’ll sometimes form a “vacancy chain” – an amazing and weird little shell-swapping circle where each crab lines up in size order and, one by one, moves into a slightly bigger shell. No one crab is left behind, and the swap allows everyone to grow.

I really love this metaphor. Even the most solitary creatures sometimes need a little help to grow. We don’t always have to go it alone. Sometimes the Hermit’s wisdom is knowing when to return, when to reach out, when to share what we’ve learned – and when to hand our lantern on to someone else.

Animal symbolism in the Hermit: Wisdom in feather and scale

One thing that really struck me when I started my Hermit deep dive was how many decks featured snakes in some form – either as (or engraved on) the Hermit’s staff, or slithering alongside him. It makes sense though: in many traditions, snakes represent secret or sacred knowledge. The Hermit is a wisdom figure, but not an orator or a leader, rather someone who has earned their insight in silence. The snake can symbolise initiation, the kind of wisdom that comes from moving through the dark alone. The snake is not the teacher at the lectern. It’s the whispering guide in the underbrush. Hermetic philosophy (from Hermes Trismegistus, not just the card!) is filled with serpentine imagery, especially the Ouroboros (snake eating its own tail), symbolising eternity, self-reflection, and cyclical knowledge. The kundalini in yoga and esoteric philosophy (which I wrote about in my Strength deep dive) is a coiled serpent at the base of the spine, representing latent spiritual power awakened through deep inner work: very Hermit-coded.

The Hermit’s staff-as-snake, as in the Tarot Of The Abyss, also echoes the serpent-entwined rod of Asclepius, a symbol of healing and initiation. This Hermit has the wisdom of one who knows the wild. Like the snake, she moves through darkness, sheds what no longer serves, and grows wise in the silence.

The other animal that crops up a lot on Hermit cards is the owl. Which also makes sense. “If anyone knows anything about anything,” Winnie-the-Pooh famously remarked, “it’s Owl who knows something about something.” Cynthia Bereger notes that owls have long been associated with knowledge and wisdom (at least in European cultures), from Athena’s owl in Greek mythology, to the phrase “wise as an owl”. Just like the Hermit, owls are not only wise but also silent, watchful, and often alone. They’re creatures of the edge, not quite domestic, not quite wild, just like the Hermit. The Hermit carries a lantern to see what others can’t. Similarly, owls have exceptional night vision, “lean owls hunkering with their lamp-eyes” as Mary Oliver once wrote. They thrive in darkness. They hunt by sound and intuition. Symbolically, this makes the owl a perfect companion or emblem for the Hermit, who navigates the unseen realms of the psyche or spirit.

“[The] owl seemed like a messenger from another time and place, like starlight. Being near her somehow made me feel smaller in my body and bigger in my soul.”

From ‘What An Owl Knows’ by Jennifer Ackerman

In folklore, owls are often omens, messengers, or threshold creatures, linked with the dead, with fate, or with hidden knowledge. This ties in with the Hermit’s association with Saturn and the Anima Mundi: the sense that he walks between worlds, holding the light of what we’re finally ready to see. As Jen Cownie and Fiona Lensvelt write in Wild Card, the energy of the Hermit is “an invitation to retreat within your shell for a moment, to sit with your thoughts and feelings, to notice and be nourished by them”, and so it seems fitting that in Crusca’s image the Hermit’s head has become a literal shell. Emerging from that ‘shell’ – that period of retreat from the world – is a wise old owl.

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

‘The Journey’ by Mary Oliver

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Works Cited

Ackerman, J. (2023). What an Owl Knows: The New Science of the World’s Most Enigmatic Birds. Penguin Press.
Anonymous. (1985). Meditations on the Tarot: A Journey into Christian Hermeticism (R. Powell, Trans.). Tarcher/Putnam.
Berger, C. (2005). Owls. Stackpole Books.
Burgess, C. C. (2023). Radical Tarot: Queer the Cards, Liberate Your Practice and Create the Future. Hay House.
Case, P.F. (1947). The Tarot: A Key to the Wisdom of the Ages. Macoy Publishing.
Cownie, J. & Lensvelt, F. (2022). Wild Card: Let the Tarot Tell Your Story. Bluebird.
Dillard, A. (1974). Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Harper’s Magazine Press.
Dore, J. (2021). Tarot for Change. Hay House.
Jones Wall, M. (2023). Finding the Fool: A Tarot Journey to Radical Transformation. Weiser.
Place, R. M. (2010). Tarot, Magic, Alchemy, Hermeticism, and Neoplatonism. Hermes Publications.
Shepherd, N. (1977). The Living Mountain: A celebration of the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland. Aberdeen University Press.
Sturzaker, J. (1971). Kabbalistic Aphorisms. Theosophical Publishing House.
Tillich, P. (1963). The Eternal Now. Scribner.
Wintner, B. (2017). WTF is Tarot? And How Do I Do It? Page Street Publishing.