Lately, I’ve been living in the quiet light of The Hermit. Maybe you know this place—the one where you retreat without fully meaning to, but something deep in your spirit says pause. So you do. You go inward. You take fewer calls, fewer classes, fewer outward-facing steps, and more long walks with yourself. You begin to see things again—tiny things, like how your breath moves when no one’s watching, or how the silence after a long cry can feel oddly holy.

The Hermit isn’t lonely. At least, not always. He’s just… spacious. Still. Patient. He walks slowly, carrying a lantern, illuminating the inner forest trail only one step at a time. He teaches you that your shadows aren’t monsters, just parts of you that were never held gently. He doesn’t demand that you change. He just invites you to see.

And then one morning—you open your eyes, and something has shifted.

You’re ready to come back. Not all at once, not dramatically, but softly. You make eye contact with someone at the coffee shop. You say yes to a dinner invite. You catch yourself laughing, really laughing, for the first time in a while. It’s subtle, but it’s The World card whispering at your edges.

The World energy often comes after The Hermit one. It comes after the deep work. After the cocooning. It doesn’t say, “You’re done.” It says, “You’re more whole.” Not perfect. Not finished. Just more you.

You start feeling the pull—not toward a specific person or place, but toward life. Toward participating again. Being seen. Exploring. Creating. Belonging. You may not know what exactly you're stepping into, but you’re not scared of not-knowing anymore. In fact, you're kind of in love with it.

This curiosity—the kind that doesn't rush, doesn’t strive—it’s the most sacred kind. It’s born from having met yourself fully. And now you are ready to meet the world, not to prove anything, but to live.

And that’s when Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese always finds me. Her words speak to that bridge between The Hermit and The World—between solitude and belonging. Between introspection and expression. Between pain and aliveness.

“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves…”

That line gets me every time. Because that’s what it feels like now. Less about pushing. More about allowing. Less about perfection. More about presence.

Maybe you’re somewhere in this cycle too. Maybe you’re still in the cave. Or maybe you’re already stretching your wings. Either way, you’re not behind. You’re just where you are.

So here I am. Whole in a way I wasn’t before. A little quieter. A little wiser. And wildly curious about what’s next.

And when I hear the geese above me, I’ll remember—they’re not flying toward perfection. They’re flying home.