Hermitage through the ages: A journey to the heart of solitude
“A man is rich in proportion to what he can do without.”
This narrative delves deeply into hermitage across ages and cultures, tracing its roots from early Christian traditions with Saint Anthony and the Desert Fathers to the Eastern hermits such as Bodhidharma, Lao Tzu, and the Japanese ascetics. Each era redefines solitude, transforming it into a path of self-discovery and inner wisdom.
Drawing on profound accounts—Milarepa’s retreat in the Tibetan mountains, Thoreau’s experience at Walden, and the reflections of philosophers like Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Rousseau, and Simone Weil—the text highlights how voluntary isolation has always been a universal quest for truth and freedom. Finally, it emphasizes that even in our hyper-connected world, the spirit of hermitage endures through retreats, mindfulness practices, and modern initiatives like those of Hermity, inviting each individual to find, within silence, the path to their true essence.
Detailed article – Get ready for an in-depth read.
“These hours of solitude and meditation are the only moments of the day when I am truly myself, without distraction or obstacle, and when I can truly say that I am what nature intended me to be.” – Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The origins of hermitage: The desert pioneers
At the edge of a sun-drenched desert, bathed in the golden hues of dusk, an old man with a white beard finds shelter in a cave. The silence is absolute, broken only by the warm breath of the wind and distant echoes. This man is Anthony the Great, often considered the first hermit of Christianity.
In the late 3rd century, Anthony fled the bustling Roman world to retreat into the Egyptian desert. There, in the scorching solitude of Thebaid, he faced his inner demons. Legend tells that Satan sent terrifying visions to tempt and frighten him—monstrous creatures, illusions of wealth—but Anthony, anchored in his faith, withstood every trial. His refuge was austere: a cave or an abandoned fortress, a bare space where only the song of silence echoed. Each dawn found him in prayer, each dusk saw him at peace, victorious over another day without succumbing to temptation.
Before long, Anthony’s reputation for holiness attracted other souls in search of the absolute. Despite his desire for solitude, he became a spiritual guide: near his cave, disciples settled, laying the foundations of the first monastic communities. Though Anthony sought isolation, he unwittingly passed on a legacy— that of the desert fathers, the early Christian hermits who chose the harsh life of solitude to draw closer to God.
The historian Athanasius of Alexandria, in The life of Anthony, describes how Anthony lived far from men, sustaining himself on bread and water, leading a life of continuous prayer. Others would follow his path: Paul of Thebes, said to be an even earlier hermit, dwelling in a hidden oasis, and Mary of Egypt, a repentant sinner who chose to live alone in the Judean desert.
In medieval Europe, Anthony’s example inspired the anchorites (from the Greek anachôrêtês, “one who withdraws”). Everywhere, men and women sought the quiet of isolation. Some became voluntary recluses, known as stylites when they lived atop columns, or anchorites when they were walled into a cell near a church. More often, hermits settled in forests or on mountain slopes. Their goal remained the same: to escape the turmoil of the world and, in the solitude of self-confrontation, seek a path to inner truth.
In the dimness of his stone refuge, Anthony the Great embodied radical renunciation. His retreat was not mere flight—it was a spiritual battle. The desert, in its harsh austerity, became a mirror of his soul. Stripped of society’s distractions, the hermit turned inward, facing his fears, desires, and doubts. Each grain of sand carried the memory of silence. Over the years, Anthony attained a deep wisdom and unshakable peace. When visitors came seeking his guidance, they were struck by the serenity radiating from the gaunt old man with piercing eyes. The desert had stripped him of the unnecessary and taught him the essential.
Solitude, for these early hermits, is an alchemy: it transforms the soul just as fire purifies gold.
Sages of the East: Buddhist and Taoist hermits
While Christian hermits shaped the Western tradition, the East was no exception. In the 5th century, a Buddhist monk from India crossed the high passes of the Himalayas in search of a land where wisdom could take root. His name was Bodhidharma, and his journey led him to China, to the Shaolin Monastery. According to legend, finding the monks too distracted, he chose to meditate alone. For nine years (at Hermity, we have a fondness for this number 9!), Bodhidharma sat facing a stone wall, immersed in silent contemplation.
It is said that to prevent himself from dozing off during meditation, Bodhidharma cut off his eyelids—and from where they fell to the ground, the first tea plants sprouted, offering a natural aid to stay awake. His piercing gaze, immortalized in bold ink portraits in Zen art, reflects an unshakable determination. Known as Daruma in Japan, Bodhidharma became the patriarch of Zen. His teaching was simple yet profound: “Look within yourself to find your Buddha nature.” This radical introspection is the very essence of Buddhist hermitage. In the mountain caves of China, Chan monks (precursors of Zen) lived the same austere life, cut off from the world, seeking enlightenment through solitude and silence.
At the same time, the Taoist tradition in China also embraced retreat from the world. Since antiquity, Taoist sages had ventured into sacred mountains to live in harmony with nature and the Tao. They were known as xinshi (the hidden men) or the immortals in Chinese mythology. According to legend, the old master Lao Tzu himself ended his days as a hermit, a guardian of imperial archives who rode westward on the back of an ox toward the unknown. In the misty heights of China’s mountains, one can imagine solitary figures meditating by rushing streams, gathering medicinal herbs, and composing poetry. The Taoist mountain was both a refuge and a spiritual crucible.
A famous Chinese tale, The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, tells of 3rd-century scholars who withdrew far from a corrupt court to drink wine, write poetry, and philosophize in nature. Though not hermits in the strictest sense, as they lived in a small group, they embodied the same ideal: fleeing the vanity of the world to rediscover authenticity through self-reflection and communion with the elements.
In the Korean Peninsula and neighboring Japan, the combined influence of Buddhism and Taoism also gave rise to hermits. In Japan, the figure of the wandering or reclusive monk was deeply respected. Known as yamabushi (mountain ascetics) in the syncretic traditions of Shinto and Buddhism, these Japanese hermits, dressed in animal skins or simple robes, retreated into cedar forests, climbing the slopes of Mount Kōya or Mount Hiei in search of communion with the spirits of nature. Solitude was seen as a path to purification: far from the villages, the Japanese hermit prayed to the kami (spirits), meditated beneath freezing waterfalls, and at times composed haiku to celebrate the fleeting moment.
The mountain hermit: Milarepa, the yogi of Tibet
On the high plateaus of Tibet, among the snow-capped peaks and wind-swept caves, the echo of a singing voice can still be imagined. It is the voice of Milarepa, the most famous of Tibet’s hermit yogis.
In the 11th century, Milarepa first led a troubled life. As an apprentice sorcerer, he used black magic to take revenge for injustices suffered by his family. Consumed by remorse, he sought a spiritual master and became the disciple of the sage Marpa. His teacher subjected him to harsh trials to atone for his past—legend tells that Marpa made him build and then tear down several stone towers, again and again, to test his resolve.
After years of penance, Milarepa is finally initiated into esoteric teachings. He then chooses to isolate himself in the mountains to practice meditation. Dressed in a simple cotton cloth, he braves the extreme cold of the Himalayan caves. Tradition tells that he lived so frugally (mainly feeding on wild plants like nettles) that his body took on a greenish hue! He is often depicted with his right hand cupped behind his ear, a posture symbolizing deep listening to inner silence. Around him, the demons of temptation and fear may lurk, but Milarepa tames them with his serenity. He sings to the mountains and the spirits, melodies of spiritual realization, spontaneous poems that would later become famous as the Melodies of Milarepa.
His songs are imbued with the nature that surrounds him. In one of them, he describes the bliss of solitude: “I dwell in the cave of the snowy mountain; my only companion is the celestial clearing, and my confidant, the echo of my voice. The wandering clouds are my friends, the moon my night lamp. What could I envy from the world?” For Milarepa, every natural element becomes an ally on the path to awakening. Far from the bustle of Tibetan villages, he attains a profound understanding of the mind. At the end of his life, it is said that he had achieved complete enlightenment, thus becoming an accomplished master while remaining a humble hermit clad in rags.
Milarepa perfectly embodies the figure of the mystical hermit of the East. His isolation is not a bitter retreat, but a joyful conquest: he embraces solitude like a lover, drawing from it a flourishing spiritual creativity. His disciples had to climb endless trails to reach his cave and receive his teaching. When they found him, they often encountered only a thin man sitting on an animal skin, smiling kindly, his gaze lost in contemplation of the sky. For Milarepa was conversing with the invisible. In the tradition of great Buddhist hermits, he had understood that “the ultimate truth resides in the silence of the mind.” His austere and poetic life continues to inspire many Tibetan Buddhist practitioners today, who retreat into solitude for months or even years, hoping to experience that same state of grace.
Hermits and poets of Japan: the art of solitude
In Japan, the ideal of hermitage takes on a unique character, tinged with aesthetics and poetry. In the 13th century, a scholar named Kamo no Chōmei renounced the world after witnessing Kyoto devastated by disasters—fires, earthquakes, famines. He withdrew deep into the mountains, settling in a modest three-square-meter hut, where he wrote a short text that became a classic: the Hōjōki (Notes from My Hut—a must-read, easily found). “The flow of the river never ceases, yet the water is never the same,” observes Chōmei at the opening of his account, contemplating a nearby stream. Through the description of his tiny retreat and the peace he finds there, he meditates on the impermanence of all things. His hut is fragile, yet his mind flourishes freely. In the song of the wind through the pines and the patter of rain on the thatched roof, Chōmei discovers an inner music.
A century later, a poet-monk named Yoshida Kenkō embraced a similar retreat and composed Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa), in which he celebrated the simple pleasures of a secluded life: admiring the moon, arranging a few wildflowers in a rudimentary vase, observing the shadows of bamboo on the ground. For these poet-hermits, solitude is fertile. It allows them to cultivate attention to small things, to the fleeting beauties of the world. The Japanese aesthetic concept of wabi-sabi (see the article on Medium) is never far: finding beauty in rustic simplicity, in the imperfect and the ephemeral. The hermit’s hut is the very expression of wabi-sabi—a humble, dilapidated shelter can hold more truth than an opulent palace, for it reflects the true nature of life, fragile and transient.
In the Japanese mountains, some hermits combine Buddhist and Shintō practices. The yamabushi, ascetics of the peaks, wander from shrines to summits, living in the forests. Others choose a settled existence, like the monk Ryōkan (1758–1831), famous for his candor and poetry. Ryōkan lived as a hermit in a small hut but delighted in playing with the children from the nearby village and composing haikus of exquisite delicacy. “So joyful am I, dancing alone beneath the autumn moon,” he writes in essence. His spirit remains free and light, precisely because he has embraced a life without material attachments.
Japan even saw the emergence of “urban hermits” during the Edo period— aesthetes who, while residing in the city, recreated a symbolic hermitage within their homes or gardens. Some built faux hermitages in their gardens, where a “garden monk” (often an actor hired for the role) would live temporarily to entertain and inspire the owners. This strange trend of ornamental hermitages, found both in the West and in Japan, reveals that the figure of the hermit fascinates even those who cannot fully commit to such a life. There is a dreamlike element in the collective imagination tied to the isolated hut in the woods or the cave hidden behind a waterfall. The Japanese hermit, dwelling in his secluded retreat, embodies an ideal of purity and harmony with nature—an ideal reflected in the arts, from landscape painting and haiku poetry to Nō theater, which often portrays famous recluses.
Ultimately, from Taoist China to Buddhist Japan, the East has fostered a rich tradition of hermits. Each, in their own way, has explored solitude not as an emptiness but as a fullness—full of unseen presences, full of inner truth. The mountains and forests of Asia have sheltered these silent quests. Their stories, often passed down through writings or legends, transcend centuries to remind us that beyond cultural and religious differences, the path of voluntary solitude leads to a universal encounter: that of the human soul with itself.
The transcendental solitude: Henry David Thoreau and life in the woods
One summer morning in 1845, by the edge of a quiet lake in Massachusetts, a 28-year-old man decides to begin a new life. Henry David Thoreau has just built himself a wooden cabin near Walden Pond, away from the village of Concord. He has planted beans and potatoes, crafted his modest furniture, and is preparing to live there, almost as a hermit, to “confront the essentials of life.” In his journal, he writes: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.” Thoreau is not a religious hermit but a naturalist philosopher. For two years and two months, he lives in his Walden Pond cabin in near self-sufficiency, observing the seasons, the wildlife, the plants, and most of all, himself in this simplified environment.
He will record this experience in a book that becomes a masterpiece of literature: Walden, or Life in the Woods. In it, he describes his solitary days, marked by chopping wood, swimming in the pond, baking cornbread, reading a few books, and taking long walks in the surrounding area. Far from being bored, Thoreau savors every moment. He discovers that solitude can be far more companionable than superficial company: “I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude,” he writes in Walden. This famous phrase illustrates how, paradoxically, one can feel a friendly presence in silence itself. Nature becomes his interlocutor: the birdsong at dawn, the croaking of frogs in the evening, the dance of the stars above his roof—all become inner dialogues for him.
Thoreau is not so isolated from the world as to be unaware of it. He occasionally visits the village and receives a few guests, including a poor Canadian woodcutter with whom he shares tea and simple conversations. Yet the spirit of Walden is undeniably that of hermitage. Thoreau practices a form of material simplicity inspired by transcendentalism, an American philosophical movement that values spiritual intuition in nature. His approach anticipates modern ecological and minimalist reflections. “As one simplifies life, the laws of the universe become less complex,” he notes, emphasizing the link between simplicity, mental clarity, and cosmic harmony.
In his small cabin, Thoreau meditates by the fireplace in winter, follows a fox’s tracks in the snow, and listens to the loons (common loons) letting out their melancholic calls over the lake. He experiences deep joy in realizing how little is needed to be happy. “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone,” he remarks playfully. His voluntary hermitage is not austere like that of an ascetic monk—Thoreau enjoys the taste of wild berries, the reading of Homer—but it serves the same purpose: to know oneself by shedding artifice. This self-knowledge comes through immersion in nature. The forest becomes a mirror of the soul.
Thoreau emerges transformed from his time at Walden. Though he eventually reintegrates into society (while keeping his nonconformist spirit), his book inspires entire generations to seek a return to nature and a more authentic life. He becomes, in a way, the secular patron saint of modern hermits. His influence is evident in back-to-the-land movements, in intentional communities that later flourish, and even in solitary writers who follow his path into the woods. Today, when we look at the replica of his cabin at Walden Pond, we can imagine a thin wisp of smoke rising from the chimney on a November evening in 1845, and Thoreau sitting at his table, writing by the light of a candle. Outside, the night is deep, the lake motionless. Inside, the mind is free.
Thoreau proved that hermitage is not reserved for Eastern mystics or desert saints. He showed that within each of us resides a potential hermit, longing for silence and simplicity, waiting for us to offer it a cabin, a garden, perhaps a small pond, so it may awaken and teach us how to live fully.
Solitude and self-knowledge: philosophical perspectives
Throughout the ages, many thinkers have praised solitude as a privileged means of self-discovery and elevation. “All our misfortune comes from not being able to be alone,” wrote the moralist La Bruyère in the 17th century. Blaise Pascal, in his Pensées, observed that the ceaseless agitation of mankind is merely a strategy to avoid facing oneself: “The sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he cannot stay quietly in his room.” Solitude, feared by many, appears instead to the wise as both a remedy and a path to liberation.
The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, in the 19th century, had a naturally solitary temperament. Disdainful of a society he deemed frivolous, he stated a now-famous maxim: “One can only be truly oneself as long as one is alone; whoever does not love solitude does not love freedom, for one is only free when alone.”
For Schopenhauer, the exceptional individual—the thinker or the artist—needs isolation to preserve their intellectual independence. Too much exposure to the world risks diverting them from their own thoughts. Thus, solitude becomes the fertile ground for creativity and deep reflection. He even suggests that a person’s worth can be measured by how much solitude they can endure—and appreciate. However, Schopenhauer acknowledges that absolute solitude is not for everyone: “In solitude, the mind soars or it strays; it becomes better or worse.” He warns that those plagued by inner demons may be overwhelmed without the distractions of company. But for a man of value, solitude will always be preferable to the compromises of social life.
Friedrich Nietzsche, another German philosopher at the end of the 19th century, also extolled solitude, though in a more heroic manner. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, he portrays a prophet who lives alone in the mountains, descending among men only to deliver his message before returning to his summit. Nietzsche himself often retreated to the Swiss Alps (in Sils-Maria) or the Ligurian coast to write, far from the cities. He saw solitude as the natural state of the free and rebellious thinker. “I hate those who steal my solitude without offering me true company in return,” he notes with his characteristic sharpness.
He urges everyone to “choose the right solitude,” the kind that elevates the soul and allows one to remain true to oneself, as opposed to false sociability that burdens us with the judgment of others. For Nietzsche, becoming who one truly is requires a break from the world: “You will only truly bloom once you have detached yourself from the world,” he suggests. Yet, once strengthened by solitude, the individual may return to others—not out of need, but out of an abundance of inner richness.
In France, great minds have also praised the virtues of a withdrawn life. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in his later years, embraced an almost total solitude, devoting himself to botany and reverie. His Reveries of the Solitary Walker is a poetic testimony of a soul at peace in isolation. Persecuted by his contemporaries, Rousseau found refuge in nature, wandering alone for hours. “I am a hundred times happier in my solitude than I could ever be living among them (men),” he confesses.
He describes how, alone by the water or lying in the grass, he feels a fulfillment that society has always denied him. For him, solitude is the state in which one can truly be oneself, without masks: “These hours of solitude… are the only ones in which I am truly myself, without diversion, without obstacle…”
And he adds, with bitterness toward human malice: “I am called unsociable and misanthropic because I prefer the most savage solitude to the company of the wicked.”
His words reveal how isolation became, for Rousseau, a balm after the wounds of public life. Solitude became his inner kingdom, a space of absolute freedom where no one could judge or harm him.
A more modern voice, that of Simone Weil in the 20th century, links solitude to attention and truth. A mystic and philosopher, Weil experienced an intense sense of solitude even in the midst of people, as her uncompromising quest for truth set her apart. She writes: “The value of solitude is that it makes greater attention possible.” For her, withdrawing from social noise allows one to focus entirely on the essential—whether it be God, whom she longed for with an absolute thirst, or the raw reality of things. She even asserts: “To flee solitude is an act of cowardice,” meaning that many desperately seek company out of fear of facing themselves in silence. Simone Weil, on the contrary, sees solitude as a school of courage and pure love. “It is good to love solitude,” she notes, for it is in solitude that one learns to love without expectation, without dependency, allowing the soul the time to open to the divine. Her thoughts echo those of Pascal: keeping oneself constantly distracted is a form of escape, while solitude places us before the truth of our existence—a void that many fear, but one that can be filled with grace if embraced.
Thus, from Rousseau to Nietzsche, from Schopenhauer to Simone Weil, philosophy and literature have explored the psychological and spiritual dimensions of solitude. All agree on one point: chosen solitude, far from being an absence, is a presence to oneself. It is a mirror held up to the soul—sometimes unforgiving, but potentially revelatory. Of course, they acknowledge its possible dangers—melancholy, eccentricity, even despair—but they exalt its immense rewards: freedom, creativity, and peace of mind.
In solitude, a person has no other interlocutor than themselves (and perhaps God or Nature, depending on their beliefs). This situation, uncomfortable for most, can become profoundly fertile for those who accept it. The hermits of old understood this instinctively; modern thinkers have articulated it in words. In a sense, these philosophers are hermits of thought—withdrawn from the noise of the world to better probe its meaning. And their writings invite us, as readers, to experience solitude in our own way. A simple moment alone, without a phone or distractions, sitting in the quiet of an evening, can become a small experience of inner hermitage. In that silence, a luminous idea may emerge, a sudden clarification of our troubles, or simply a sense of reconnection with ourselves. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke writes: “Solitude is like rain. It rises from the sea to meet the evening.”
Modern hermits: solitude in the connected age
In today’s hyper-connected and densely populated world, the ideal of hermitage might seem anachronistic. And yet, the quest for solitude has never been more present, though it now takes new forms. Some, rejecting the frantic pace of society, have chosen to abandon everything to live as modern hermits. Figures like Christopher Knight, known as the North Pond Hermit, come to mind—he lived entirely alone for 27 years in the forests of Maine, so discreet that no one noticed his presence until his arrest for stealing food. His extreme case reveals the extent to which a human being can fiercely long for absolute solitude, willing to endure freezing winters and illegality just to find peace, far from any social interaction. In his own way, Christopher Knight evokes a modern-day Anthony the Great—without a declared spiritual motivation, but with the same unwavering determination to remain alone at all costs.
There are also better-known, more integrated contemporary hermits. For example, Italian writer and sculptor Mauro Corona lives almost as a hermit in the Dolomites, alternating between hunting, craftsmanship, and writing, drawing his philosophy from a simple mountain life. In France, the past decades have seen the rise of urban hermits, akin to the hikikomori phenomenon in Japan—individuals, often young, who cut themselves off from the world and remain confined at home for months on end. However, these cases often stem from suffering rather than a fulfilling choice of solitude: forced isolation is fundamentally different from the voluntary solitude of the hermit. The modern hermit seeks isolation out of conviction, to rediscover themselves or to live differently—not out of social anxiety.
Occasionally, newspapers feature stories of contemporary hermits: a former engineer turned shepherd in a remote Pyrenean valley, a woman living alone on a windswept island off the coast of Brittany, or a Western Buddhist monk who built his monastery in the Canadian forest. These stories fascinate us because they offer an alternative to the prevailing norm. At a time when hyper-communication, networking, and constant sharing on social media are celebrated, the hermit stands as a deliberate antihero. They remind us that one can live with very little, that happiness can be found in a quiet, repetitive, and frugal daily life—contrary to the values of consumption and competition.
There are also still spiritual hermits today. Some Christian monks continue the anachoretic tradition. The Catholic Church officially recognizes the status of hermit for religious individuals living alone in prayer. In Greece, on Mount Athos, Orthodox monks isolate themselves in sketes (small hermitages) on cliff sides, continuing a tradition over a thousand years old. In Tibet and India, yogis retreat for several years in high-altitude hermitages—intensive meditative retreats remain a vital practice in tantric Buddhism. These examples illustrate the continuity of a lineage of traditional hermits, integrated into a structured spiritual quest.
But one does not have to belong to a religious order to be a hermit. The cabin phenomenon reflects a widespread hermitic fantasy—how many city dwellers dream of abandoning everything to live in a secluded cabin deep in the woods? This longing has inspired works of fiction, from Into the Wild, which recounts the solitary quest of Alexander Supertramp, to numerous essays on simple living. Some turn this dream into reality, building or restoring small houses far from civilization, attempting self-sufficiency, escaping the internet and the monotony of urban life. New Thoreaus emerge, crafting a partial hermit existence—perhaps not forever, but for a season, a sabbatical year, or even several years.
There are also digital hermits—an increasing number of people feel the need to disconnect from the relentless flow of information and notifications. Some practice prolonged digital detoxes, while others escape to white zones with no network coverage. Ironically, mobile applications have emerged… to encourage us to put our phones away and embrace silence! This reflects a deep thirst for stillness in our noisy civilization. Voluntary isolation in a connected world has become a rare luxury. Taking the time to be truly alone, without notifications, without news updates, is almost an act of resistance.
The echo of hermitage in the modern world
Far from being forgotten, the wisdom of hermitage is experiencing a revival in forms adapted to our era. Rather than permanently fleeing society as in the past, many now seek to integrate moments of hermitage into their lives. This is seen in the rise of spiritual retreats, silent meditation retreats, and solitary pilgrimages. The widespread practice of mindfulness—meditation centered on full awareness—can be seen as a way to recreate inner silence without necessarily retreating to the desert. Vipassana retreats (ten days of complete silence), yoga stays in remote ashrams, or solo treks along mystical routes like Compostela or the Himalayan trails all offer ways for modern individuals to reconnect with themselves by disconnecting from the world.
Hermity.com ultimately serves as a messenger for this call to silence. It offers aspiring hermits immersive experiences inspired by different traditions, allowing them to taste contemplative solitude without having to renounce modern life entirely. Hermity invites individuals to spend a few days in a secluded mountain cabin or to join a small hermitage run by a monk, sharing in their silent daily routine. Through such initiatives, hermitage becomes accessible as a rejuvenating pause. A stressed urban dweller can take a week-long retreat in a contemporary hermitage: no electricity, no artificial noise—just nature, a few books, a place to write and think, and the opportunity to rediscover their inner self.
It is striking to see how the teachings of ancient hermits resonate with today’s approaches to well-being. Mindfulness meditation, widely praised for reducing anxiety, is nothing more than a practice of focusing on the present moment, akin to the contemplative traditions of Zen and Christian monks. Psychologists emphasize the importance of knowing how to be alone, of practicing positive solitude to prevent burnout and better manage emotions. What ancient wisdom understood intuitively, modern science is now confirming: the brain needs silence to regenerate, attention is strengthened in solitude, and creativity flourishes when freed from constant stimulation. In this way, hermitage finds an unexpected echo in neuroscience and positive psychology.
At the same time, environmental awareness also aligns with the hermit ideal. In response to climate challenges, some advocate for degrowth and a return to simpler, self-sufficient lifestyles. The image of the self-reliant hermit—growing their own food, drawing water from a natural source, using solar energy—inspires new forms of living (tiny houses, eco-communities). Solitude in nature appears as a way to mend the broken bond with the Earth. Many who experience a near-hermitic lifestyle report feeling a renewed sense of harmony with the environment, a shedding of the unnecessary, and a refocusing on the essential. Perhaps this is the greatest contribution of rediscovering hermitage in the modern age: a reminder that happiness is not necessarily found in accumulation and constant activity but in chosen simplicity and contemplation.
Paradoxically, technology itself can help promote the practice of solitude. Thanks to the internet, we can read about hermits around the world, as we aim to do on Hermity, drawing inspiration from their insights and discovering retreat locations. Online communities are forming around slow living, minimalism, and silence. The digital world is being used as a tool—to better disconnect from it later. Hermity.com and similar initiatives serve as bridges, using technology to guide individuals toward transformative, non-digital experiences.
Thus, the spirit of hermitage endures and evolves. One no longer needs to spend twenty years in an inaccessible cave. Through small, intermittent steps, anyone can infuse their life with the wisdom of solitude. Whether by meditating for a few minutes each morning, taking a solo walk in the forest on weekends, or embarking on a week-long retreat, the legacy of hermits remains within reach. They teach us the value of slowing down, of embracing the fertile void, of facing ourselves. In a world saturated with stimuli, the hermit reminds us of the vital importance of silence—the silence that nourishes the soul.
Listening to silence, an inner truth
From the deserts of Egypt to the forests of New England, from Tibetan caves to Japanese gardens, we have followed the footsteps of hermits through time and space. Each era, each culture reinvents in its own way this timeless figure of the soul in search of the absolute through solitude. Behind the diversity of these accounts—Christian saints battling demons, Chinese sages conversing with the clouds, poet-hermits writing by candlelight, philosophers finding inspiration in their isolated rooms—lies a shared intuition: solitude, when chosen and embraced, is a teacher of truth.
It is often said that inner truth speaks in silence. The hermit is the one who, having silenced the noise of the world, can finally hear that subtle voice deep within their heart. They listen to silence as one listens to a precious friend, for clarity is born from stillness. In the cool solitude of dawn or beneath a star-filled sky, the veil of illusion may lift, revealing what truly matters. Saint Anthony discovers God in the desert as a tangible presence. Bodhidharma attains enlightenment staring at a wall. Milarepa hears nature sing the law of karma. Thoreau grasps the joy of simplicity. Nietzsche forges the Übermensch in his mountain solitude. Each, in their own way, has uncovered unsuspected inner worlds by stepping away from the common path.
We too can be moved by these stories and feel within us the call of hermitage, even if only in a symbolic sense. Perhaps we will not live as recluses, but we can invite more chosen solitude into our lives. Taking the time to sit in silence, to watch a sunset alone, to write a journal away from the distractions of the world—these simple acts extend the wisdom of the hermits within us. “Become who you are,” Nietzsche once said. And to do so, we must sometimes step away from the herd and walk alone for a while along the steep path of the inner mountain.
At the end of this journey, the image that remains is that of a humble cabin at the edge of a forest or a cave overlooking the valley. Inside, a small flame flickers, illuminating the silhouette of a peaceful figure. Outside, the wind may howl, storms may rage, or the sun may blaze—it matters little. The hermit has found their refuge not in the stone or wood of their dwelling, but within their heart. In listening to silence, they have learned the melody of the soul. At times, they may wish to share it, yet words often prove inadequate. So, they smile, contemplative, and allow silence to speak. And thus, from century to century, the hermit passes on, without a sound, the secret of an inner truth—one that blossoms in solitude, when the gaze turns inward and the mind, freed from distractions, finally opens to the infinite.
