The Hermit turns away from a consumerist, materialistic society to seek answers that arise in quiet solitude. He teaches us to honor timeless inner wisdom. The Hermit understands the myriad of paths that people choose and  helps us with compassionate detachment.

I draw one last card from this deck before I send it away to its new home. The Hermit. Why do I let this deck go so easily? Perhaps because I do not realize its value. Perhaps because I realize value is not intrinsic to an object, but rather given to it by others. Perhaps because it makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps because I know it will be adored in its new home. Most likely I let it go because I am afraid of becoming like my mother in her vast house full of curiosities and wonders. For example, there is a room built specially to house reels and skeins of yarn whose twisted fibers will never touch one of the dozens of knitting machines that lounge about the house, each one purchased in state of disrepair and fixed to perfect working order. They are for sale, if only some one would ask.

Last weekend I asked to borrow my mother’s button collection. I haven’t looked through it in years. I remember three large tins of buttons. They arrived with my sister last weekend, eleven tins of fasteners, each tin averaging 5”x8”x8” in size. One tin contains old coat buttons, hundreds of buttons in muted hues of grays and browns. Another contains white buttons, no mother-of-pearl. Another contains mother-of-pearl buttons only. Another contains antique cards of buttons once sold at 27¢ each. There are buttons to be covered, wooden buttons, woven leather buttons, sequined buttons, glass buttons, silver buttons, and more. Any button, any button. Thousands of buttons— myriads.

I am in the process of having my tarot deck printed. It is a long process because I am learning about papers and bleed and color and layout and nursing all at the same time. The local printer does not have a tuck box die, so I am going to design a card sleeve and then make a box decorated with ribbon and an antique button— hence the buttons— if I ever have two hands free.

There is always an idea. There is always material to carry out the project. There is often not enough time. Even less often is there enough will. The house is full of possibilities. A room of yarn. A room of fabrics. Dozens of sewing and knitting machines, fixed to perfect working order. Paints. Papers. Inks. Rooms full of books. Where is my mother amongst this? It is springtime. She is in the garden, weeding, building fences, moving rocks, planting seeds. Everything in the house can burn, as far as she is concerned. These curious items are nothing. The earth is everything.

The Hermit turns away from a consumerist, materialistic society to seek answers that arise in quiet solitude. He teaches us to honor timeless inner wisdom. The Hermit understands the myriad of paths that people choose and  helps us with compassionate detachment.