The Psychology of the Restless Wanderer

Often alone, every first light of dawn,

I have had to speak my sorrows. There is no one living

to whom I would dare to reveal clearly

my deepest thoughts.

…

The weary mind cannot withstand wyrd [fate],

The troubled heart can offer no help.

…

He who has come to know

how cruel a companion is sorrow

To one who has few dear protectors, will understand this:

The path of exile claims him, not patterned gold,

A frost-bound spirit, not the solace of earth.

He remembers hall-holders and treasure-taking

How in his youth his gold-giving lord

Accustomed him to the feast—that joy all fades.

…

When sorrow and sleep both together

Often bind up the wretched exile,

It seems in his mind that he clasps and kisses

His lord of men, and on his knee lays

Hands and head, as he sometimes long ago

In earlier days enjoyed the gift throne.

But when the friendless man awakens again

And sees before him the fallow waves

Seabirds bathing, spreading their feathers

Frost falling and snow, mingled with hail,

Then the heart’s wounds are that much heavier,

Pain after pleasure.

…

Where have the horses gone? Where are the riders? Where is the giver of gold?

Where are the seats of the feast? Where are the joys of the hall?

…

How the time passed away,

slipped into nightfall as if it had never been!

Anonymous, The Wanderer (Exeter Book)

Table of contents

Introduction

In the Old English poem The Wanderer, composed anonymously in the late 10^th century, an exiled warrior mourns the death of his lord and kinsmen. He wanders alone across the cold seas, winter-sad and hall-sick, lamenting the destruction of his people and the passing of the joyful, and youthful days once spent in the mead hall—a place that offered warmth, community, and belonging. The hall that once rang with merriment now lies silent. It is more than just a building; it stands as a symbol of the centre of meaning, now left empty.

The Wanderer treads the path of exile, “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief,” cut off from his homeland and kin. He reflects that no one can escape wyrd (fate, or more accurately, “that which comes to pass”), which is inexorable.

The archetype of the Wanderer appears as a figure of profound loneliness both outwardly and inwardly. His thoughts dwell on the “good old days” and the impermanence of worldly life. But he carries his pain silently, and despite his melancholy, he stresses the importance of wisdom and patience, for endurance in the face of loss. Ultimately, he concludes that true stability is found not in the fleeting world, but in God. For everything passes, but God does not change.

Wandering, as a basic pattern of behaviour, goes back to our oldest ancestors. But when survival is sufficiently secured for the psyche to turn inward, the Wanderer archetype is constellated, bringing something more existential and psychological than mere biological survival. Archetypes do not disappear, their form remains the same, but their content may shift, shaped by new conscious experiences.

Lack of Belonging

We evolved within small, interdependent groups in which each person played a vital role in securing food and safety. Days were spent wandering, foraging and hunting; nights were spent around the bonfire. The fire was not just essential for warmth, cooking and protection—it was the gathering place for social and cultural life, the centre of meaning. Here our ancestors shared food, planned for the coming day, and exchanged stories, dreams and spiritual beliefs beneath the vast night sky, where the Milky Way and stars shone brightly, untouched by artificial light.

Human genetic evolution has not kept pace with the rapid transformations of the modern era. Our biology remains fundamentally aligned with the simpler, more stable rhythms of hunter-gatherer life. Despite its hardships, it carried a profound sense of belonging. As social beings, we are wired to belong to communities where our contributions are recognised and valued. When that is lost, many sink into meaninglessness.

Anthropologists have long known that when a tribe of people lose their feeling that their way of life is worthwhile they may stop reproducing, or in large numbers simply lie down and die beside streams full of fish: food is not the primary nourishment of man.

Ernest Becker, The Birth and Death of Meaning

The Meaning of Wanderer

Landscape with Wanderer – Thomas Fearnley

The word wanderer comes from the Old English wandrian which means “to move about aimlessly.” Such a person drifts through life without a fixed home or direction, restless in the search for purpose and belonging, often with the urge to pack a bag and simply leave, to an unknown destination.

Ronin

In Japan a samurai became a ronin, a wanderer, upon the death of his master. A samurai was expected to commit seppuku after such a loss, for his identity was tied to loyalty to a lord. Those who failed to follow the tradition were socially dishonoured, and marginalised. The ronin drifted from place to place, some became mercenaries or rebels, while others managed to find a new master. In contemporary Japan, ronin is also used to describe students who have failed university entrance exams or unemployed individuals, reflecting the societal pressure and expectations surrounding academic and professional success.

Far-Sickness

The term wanderlust, rooted in German Romanticism, conveys a light-hearted desire to wander. In contemporary German, however, the word Fernweh (far-sickness) has become more common, carrying a melancholic undertone: a deep longing for distant places and the hope of eventually finding a place on earth where one truly feels at home.

Such people feel nostalgia for the “good old days” or the warmth of childhood, and sometimes experience an uncanny sense of déjà vu, as though certain moments have been lived before, or new places already seen.

The Wanderer longs for home, yet feels at home nowhere, dwelling in a liminal space between past and present, the familiar and the unknown. He is in this world, but not of this world, echoing what Lovecraft wrote:

I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.

H.P. Lovecraft, The Outsider

Restlessness and Insatiable Desire

In Scripture, the archetype of the Wanderer is reflected in Cain, who, jealous of God’s favour towards Abel, commits the first murder and is cursed to be “a restless wanderer”, exiled to the land of Nod, whose name in Hebrew means “to wander.” In the 13^th century, the legend of the eternally Wandering Jew arose: as Christ carried the cross, a man mocked Him, telling Him to hurry. The unrecognised Saviour turned and said, “I go, but you shall be waiting here for me when I return.”

If there is one key characteristic of the Wanderer, it is restlessness, which appears as a constant need to chase the next thing, whether it be in the outer world (new places, careers, or relationships) or in the inner world (memories, dreams, and reflections).

One is tired of living in the country, one moves to the city; one is tired of one’s native land, one moves abroad; one is tired of Europe, one goes to America, and so on; finally, one indulges in a dream of endless travel from star to star. Or the movement is different but still in extension. One is tired of dining off porcelain, one dines off silver; one tires of that, one dines off gold; one burns half of Rome to get an idea of the conflagration at Troy. This method defeats itself, it is the bad infinite [endless progression].

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or

Once something is achieved, the Wanderer is no longer satisfied, and seeks something else, ad infinitum. This insatiable desire is the cause of much of our suffering. One could say that the Wanderer cannot commit to anything, but he is certainly committed to wandering. The Wanderer is always in search of something, but once he finds it, he quickly sets it aside and continues his restless pursuit.

The outer Wanderer is caught in a paradox: when he stops moving, he feels imprisoned; when he moves, he feels momentarily free. He is condemned to wander for the sake of wandering, yet unable to find rest without feeling trapped. This may lead him to embrace a kind of romantic fatalism, accepting his seemingly inescapable condition.

We also wander within our own minds, conjuring imagined scenarios to escape reality, or become trapped in rumination, caught in a loop of negative emotions, past regrets, and perceived failures. In this way, we suffer more in imagination than in reality. The inner Wanderer may daydream, watching an endless stream of fantasies unfold like a movie, while ignoring the emotions hidden within these inner images, emerging exhausted, drained, and unfulfilled. This is passive fantasy. The unconscious figures remain locked up, crying out for freedom, and one is unable to nourish the part of oneself that is starving.

As Carl Jung stated, “We have been so busy with the question of what we think that we entirely forgot to ask what the unconscious psyche thinks about us.” In contrast to passive fantasy, active imagination allows the “I” to fully enter into the unconscious, experiencing it with the same intensity and presence as one would in a physical, external situation. Here, the ego does not impose its own meaning but instead surrenders to forces beyond its control, serving as an anchor between the outer and inner realms.

Similarly, in meditation, one observes emotions without judgment, acknowledges them, and allows them to be integrated into consciousness. In this way, our inner figures are nourished and brought to life—like a skilled sculptor who envisions the form hidden within a block of marble and carefully chisels away what is superfluous, freeing the figure from its “prison.”

Boredom: Our Worst Enemy

For Kierkegaard, the unreflective aesthete or pleasure-seeker sees boredom as his worst enemy, the root of all evil. Strangely, those who don’t bore themselves usually bore others, while those who do bore themselves amuse others. The people incapable of boredom are typically those who are busy in the world, but that is precisely why they are the most boring, the most insufferable of all. To wander without end is, eventually, to arrive at a dead end.

The 2014 study Just Think: The Challenges of the Disengaged Mind found that people would rather administer electric shocks to themselves than spend 6 to 15 minutes alone in a room with nothing to do but think. As Milton writes, “The mind is its own place and, in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven”, and as Pascal famously stated, “Man’s unhappiness comes from one single thing: not knowing how to stay quietly in a room.”

We often convince ourselves that boredom is bad, but the opposite is true. You need to be bored. When we are not focused on external tasks or goals and are left alone with our thoughts, the brain’s Default Mode Network “lights up”, and our minds begin to wander. We reflect on ourselves and on life, and begin to feel uneasy or think that something is wrong with us. But if we distract ourselves every time we feel even slightly bored, we make it harder to find meaning and stunt our creativity.

Digital Wanderer

Modern life is dominated by an unrelenting cycle of work and financial pressures, often sedentary and confined to a desk. In the few breaks we get, we instinctively reach for online content, numbing ourselves with short-term pleasures at the cost of long-term fulfilment. Too many drift into mediocrity, lost in distractions and shallow entertainment, until years pass and one realises that nothing meaningful has been built.

Despite constant connectivity through technology and social media, loneliness has increased. Superficial interactions and the lack of genuine belonging leave many feeling isolated. We compare ourselves to the highlights of others’ lives, mistake them for the whole truth, and grow increasingly alienated, creating unrealistic expectations for our ideal self while despising our real self.

To fill this inner void, some become digital wanderers, creating online personas and seeking attention. In real life they may go unnoticed, but online they can appear as heroes, until they return to daily life, when reality feels dull by comparison. Others become anonymous internet trolls, posting deliberately offensive or provocative messages to elicit strong emotional responses. Like Dostoevsky’s Underground Man, they are alienated, resentful and rebellious, attempting to assert control or influence in a world they feel powerless.

Silence and stillness make us uneasy, so we reach for more noise, more stimulation. We feel a constant need to “kill time”, treating it as an enemy in our pursuit of progress. But this only brings more suffering, more stress, shorter attention spans, poor sleep, and heightened anxiety and depression. Many endure unpleasant states of mind by distracting themselves, even if it means living in misery most of the time.

When one steps back and looks at life, it almost seems like a grand, tragic joke. Always running, running, running. What are you running for? Or better yet, what are you running from? Is it not, perhaps, yourself? Until one honestly confronts oneself, life as Schopenhauer writes, “swings like a pendulum backward and forward between pain and ennui.” Ennui is a deeper, more existential form of boredom, encompassing a profound dissatisfaction and weariness with life.

The Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Preta (Hungry Ghost) from the 12th century Hungry Ghosts Scroll. Kyoto National Museum

In Tibetan Buddhism, there are six realms into which consciousness can enter during the bardo, the liminal state between death and rebirth. These realms are part of samsara, the cycle of birth, death and rebirth, and reflect the karma and mental patterns we carry through life, shaped by our experiences and attachments.

The Wanderer’s insatiable desire can be compared to the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, where one experiences both poverty and fullness at the same time. Whatever you want you do not have to look for, but you find yourself possessing it. Yet this makes us more deprived, because we get satisfaction not from possessing alone but from searching. There is a fundamental insatiable hunger based on the realisation that we already have everything we desire yet we cannot enjoy it. Once you hold what you desire, the joy of having it fades, yet you cannot bring yourself to let it go.

It is as though you are completely full, but you love to eat, and so you begin to have hallucinations of the flavour of food and the pleasure of eating it, tasting it, chewing it, swallowing it and digesting it. The whole process seems luxurious, and you feel extremely envious of other people who can really be hungry and eat. This is symbolised by the image of a person with a gigantic belly and extremely thin neck and tiny mouth.

Lukewarm Souls and Limbo

The Damned Being Plunged into Hell (detail). Vestibule of Hell – Luca Signorelli

In Dante’s Inferno, after passing the gate of Hell, which bears the inscription, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter”, one first encounters the Vestibule of Hell. Here dwell the “neutrals” or “opportunists”, lukewarm souls who took no sides in life, neither good nor evil, concerned only with themselves. Guilty of moral indecision, they endure a punishment that mirrors their wasted lives—endlessly pursuing a shifting banner, a restless futility that reflects their spiritual stagnation. By contrast, Limbo, the First Circle of Hell, is home to the virtuous but unredeemed. These souls endure no physical torment, yet wander without hope, in perpetual longing, eternally separated from God.

Colloquially, we say we are in a limbo when we are unsure what to do next, caught in a liminal state which is neither here nor there. Perhaps you have finished a project, but the next step is unclear; or you have lost your job, and the future feels uncertain; or you have ended a relationship and you do not know what comes next. It is as if life has paused, and you are waiting for something to happen, but it hasn’t yet. One experiences simultaneously stagnation, but also anxiety about what the future might bring.

Inner Yearning, Existential Crisis, Lifelessness

The Wanderer’s quest begins with a deep inner yearning, driven by existential angst and the desire to make sense of one’s life, as if one lacks something eternally firm within oneself. Often, we do not even have a name for what is missing, but we long for that mysterious something.

Fate leads the willing and drags along the reluctant. Each must fulfil the purpose for which one was born, willy-nilly, and that is unique to each individual. What seems meaningless to one, may be meaningful to another. There’s no recipe for living that suits all cases.

Perhaps one longs to discover one’s meaning but cannot, even after years or decades of wandering. The pain may become so great that one convinces oneself that life is meaningless, simply to escape the struggle. But the inner yearning does not disappear. Eventually, the Wanderer faces an existential crisis and begins to question the meaning of life.

Where am I? What is this thing called the world? … Who is it that has lured me into the world? Who am I? How came I here? Why was I not consulted, why not made acquainted with its manners and customs instead of throwing me into the ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality? Why should I have an interest in it? Is it not a voluntary concern? And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the director? I should like to make a remark to him. Is there no director? Whither shall I turn with my complaint?

Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition: A Venture in Experimental Psychology

Even when outward appearances suggest all is well, inwardly one may feel lifeless. This emptiness drains the world of colour, making it seem desolate and barren. As within, so without: the external dullness mirrors one’s inner life. How can one perceive the beauty of the world if one is dead inside? In such a state, deserted places feel more like home, reflecting one’s inner landscape. Lord Byron writes:

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar;

I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

Outwardly, nothing changes—the trees, birds, and landscapes remain the same—but one cannot take pleasure in them. This inability to enjoy life, known as anhedonia, is often accompanied by depersonalisation, a sense of detachment from oneself and reality. In extreme cases, this can resemble Cotard’s syndrome, a rare condition in which a person believes he is already dead or does not exist.

We cannot hope to heal the desolation around us if we do not first confront the desolation within. We worry endlessly about the state of the world, yet neglect to put our own inner lands in order.

The Grey Life: Inner Death

Dante’s Inferno. Plate XIV. Canto V – Gustave Doré

Not the Black Death, this time; the Grey Life.

Aldous Huxley, Island

While the Black Death was a sudden and catastrophic plague that caused death, the Grey Life points to a modern affliction that brings inner death: a pervasive dullness, a lifeless and meaningless existence marked by spiritual malaise.

Jung writes:

“I went into the inner death and saw that outer dying is better than inner death. And I decided to die outside and to live within. For that reason I turned away and sought the place of the inner life.

Carl Jung, The Red Book

The Archetype of the Zombie

Inner death is exemplified in the archetype of the zombie, which can be seen as a modern reflection of the restless Wanderer archetype. When we use the word “zombie” colloquially, we usually refer to someone who is mindless, exhausted, or going through motions without thinking, as if sleepwalking through life. The zombie is dull, lifeless, and decaying, reflecting the emptiness within.

In the book Zombies in Western Culture, John Vervaeke and colleagues explore the rise of zombieism as emblematic of the 21^st-century zeitgeist. The zombie has become an enduring symbol for the crisis in meaning. We are the walking dead. Zombies are a distorted reflection of modern humanity, representing the collapse of what is meaningful to us. They do not speak, they have nothing to say, showing their empty-headedness. They move in groups, yet remain utterly alone, without any sense of belonging. They have no home, and wander absently from place to place.

Zombies have an insatiable appetite. They eat brains (the seat of intelligibility), but no matter how many they devour, they remain brain-dead, demonstrating how one can take in knowledge without true understanding. Their endless hunger represents the existential state of being unable to make sense of the world. Zombies are not evil but driven by an instinctive craving. They act heedlessly, giving no thought to their own survival; in their pursuit of consumption, they will ultimately destroy themselves. If you come into close contact with a zombie, infection inevitably follows, and you become part of the horde, increasing their numbers—symbolising the contagion of mindlessness.

The Path of Exile and Loneliness

Tolkien wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost.” You became lost in order to find yourself. The Wanderer walks on the path of exile, isolated from others. He is a lonewolf because he feels lonelier being with other people than with himself. Social interaction does not equal belongingness.

I stood

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

The Wanderer may feel terribly lonely, lacking social acceptance or the temporary comfort of being liked by others. However, this acceptance often comes at the cost of one’s individuality. It is through developing the inner self that one can face loneliness constructively. Jung writes:

If a man knows more than others, he becomes lonely. But loneliness is not necessarily inimical to companionship, for no one is more sensitive to companionship than the lonely man, and companionship thrives only when each individual remembers his individuality and does not identify himself with others.

Carl Jung: Memories, Dreams, Reflections

The Wanderer must compensate for his one-sidedness by learning to remain still, to sit in silence, and to observe his thoughts. He must turn towards his neglected emotions and dreams, and write them down or paint them, making the intangible tangible. Through this practice, the unconscious contents become conscious, allowing for the neglected parts of oneself to become integrated. In this way, one gives birth to the true self, moving from fragmentation to wholeness.

By first connecting with oneself, one can build meaningful relationships with others. One must not try to escape from loneliness, but instead accept it as part of oneself. Krishnamurti writes:

We will do anything to escape from loneliness, to cover it up. Our conscious and unconscious preoccupation seems to be to avoid it or to overcome it. Avoiding and overcoming loneliness are equally futile; though suppressed or neglected, the pain, the problem, is still there. You may lose yourself in a crowd, and yet be utterly lonely; you may be intensely active, but loneliness silently creeps upon you; put the book down, and it is there. Amusements and drinks cannot drown loneliness; you may temporarily evade it, but when the laughter and the effects of alcohol are over, the fear of loneliness returns… The entity who tries to fill or run away from emptiness, incompleteness, loneliness, is not different from that which he is avoiding; he is it. He cannot run away from himself; all that he can do is to understand himself. He is his loneliness, his emptiness; and as long as he regards it as something separate from himself, he will be in illusion and endless conflict. When he directly experiences that he is his own loneliness, then only can there be freedom from fear.

Jiddu Krishnamurthi, Commentaries on Living: Series I

Buddha: The Awakened One

The Four Sights of Buddha, from a Laotian Temple

The young prince Siddhartha Gautama was sheltered by his father from all knowledge of suffering, for a prophecy had foretold he would become either a great king or a Buddha. Surrounded by a life of luxury and entertainment, he lived a life of pleasure until the age of 29, when he ventured outside the palace. There he encountered an old man, a sick person, a corpse, and finally a monk devoted to understanding suffering.

Deeply troubled by the suffering he witnessed, and inspired by the monk’s example, Siddhartha renounced his princely life to seek a path that might end human suffering. After years of meditation and asceticism, he attained enlightenment and became the Buddha, the “Awakened One.” He taught the First Noble Truth: that life is dukkha, arising from insatiable desire and attachment. While often translated as “suffering”, its meaning is broader. It encompasses physical and psychological pain (dukkha-dukkha), the suffering caused by change: ageing, illness, and death (viparinama-dukkha), and a subtler, persistent restlessness that remains even when desires and goals are fulfilled (sankhara-dukkha).

The Seeker Archetype: In Search of the Soul

Illustration from the Red Book – Carl Jung

While the Buddha realised and taught that true change comes from within, many Wanderers tragically spend their lives attempting to fill their inner void through external means. Jung writes:

I early arrived at the insight that when no answer comes from within to the problems and complexities of life, they ultimately mean very little. Outward circumstances are no substitute for inner experience.

Carl Jung: Memories, Dreams, Reflections

After a long period of aimless wandering, one may finally commit to the inner journey, and the archetype of the Seeker becomes constellated, beginning the search for one’s soul.

My soul, my soul, where are you? Do you hear me? I speak, I call you – are you there? I have returned, I am here again. I have shaken the dust of all the lands from my feet, and I have come to you, I am with you. After long years of long wandering, I have come to you again… the one thing I have learned is that one must live this life… Give me your hand, my almost forgotten soul. How warm the joy at seeing you again… Life has led me back to you. Let us thank the life I have lived for all the happy and all the sad hours… My soul, my journey should continue with you. I will wander with you and ascend to my solitude… I am weary, my soul, my wandering has lasted too long, my search for myself outside of myself… Like a tired wanderer who had sought nothing in the world apart from her, shall I come closer to my soul. I shall learn that my soul finally lies behind everything, and if I cross the world, I am ultimately doing this to find my soul.

Carl Jung, The Red Book

Jung stated that he had to accept that what he previously called his soul was not at all his soul, but a dead system. Therefore, he had to speak to his soul as something which did not exist through him, but through whom he existed.

The focus of life shifts from external achievements and aimless wandering to the pursuit of self-realisation and theosis (union with God). In the Grail myths, the Seeker appears as the knight in search of the Holy Grail, a symbol of the Self or total personality. Many embark on the quest, but only the pure and pious succeed in finding it.

The Wanderer wanders for the sake of it, while the Seeker roams with purpose, guided by a goal. The Wanderer may only reflect on his inner life, whereas the Seeker actively does inner work. The Wanderer carries an inner void; the Seeker builds upon an inner foundation.

Throughout life, we move between being a Wanderer and a Seeker, two recurring patterns of behaviours that emerge at different moments. The soul’s journey is not static; it is not a one-time thing that can be completed and resolve all difficulties. The greatest problems of life can never be solved but only outgrown. The journey unfolds through one’s daily duties, and there is meaning in every journey that is unknown to us.

Suffering is inescapable. But one can suffer meaningfully or not. Neurosis arises when we flee from the meaningful suffering that comes from knowing oneself. A neurosis is an offended god, or, as James Hillman writes in Re-Visioning Psychology, “our pathologies are calls from the gods.” In other words, when we repress a part of ourselves that seeks expression in the world, or prevent Nature from fulfilling her role through us, we are, in a sense, offending the gods. The Wanderer suffers neurotically, escaping from himself, while the Seeker suffers authentically, confronting himself. Few burdens are heavier than blind suffering.

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.

Gospel of Thomas, Saying 70

The vast majority of problems arise from within. That which we deny in ourselves is unconsciously projected onto others. We are always projecting both our good and the bad qualities, so that the world appears filled with the fragmented parts of our personality. Some people seem to hold our inner gold and we become instantly consumed by them, as if the very meaning of our lives depended on them. Others become “hooks” for our shadow, evoking anger, fear or disgust in us. It is essential to recognise these projections, withdraw them, and integrate them, for they are simply aspects of ourselves. Only then can we move towards wholeness.

We should not depend on others for our self-worth, for the most important relationship we have is with ourselves. We must not ignore ourselves, but learn to value, forgive and love ourselves just as we do others. By helping oneself, one is better equipped to help others. Hence the saying, “Love your neighbour as yourself.” Humility consists in knowing our limitations and getting the help we need.

The Seeker listens to his conscience, the inner voice that expresses the soul’s intent. The ancient Greeks personified this guiding force as the daimon, which remembers what is in one’s image, belongs to one’s pattern, and thus carries the essence of one’s destiny. Amoral and a force of nature, the daimon guides our actions in ways we may not fully understand. Even when others advise us against a path, we feel an inner conviction that it is the right one to take, something we cannot fully explain to ourselves, let alone to others.

Like the author of Ecclesiastes, the Seeker realises that power, fame, wealth, and pleasure are nothing more than a chasing after the wind. All these things vanish into thin air, leaving no lasting mark. Only the fruits of our work—the acts of love, wisdom, and service—endure. As Christ said, “By their fruits you shall know them.” The fruit serves as a symbol of the culmination of the individuation process: the ultimate goal and completion of existence, the fulfilment of one’s soul essence. Consciously lived suffering seems to have a redeeming effect on the past and on the future of humanity’s collective consciousness.

Jung writes:

The problem of crucifixion is the beginning of individuation, there is the secret meaning of the Christian symbolism, a path of blood and suffering–like any other step forward on the road of the evolution of human consciousness.

Carl Jung, Unpublished Letter (1936). From Gerhard Adler’s Dynamics of the Self

As Seekers, we may come to understand the meaning and purpose of our lives, yet this does not come without restlessness. It is the spiritual journey of the pilgrim, the cross we must carry on our individual journey towards consciousness, walking the path of the eternally alone. But as Jung wrote in a letter, “No matter how isolated you are and how lonely you feel, if you do your work truly and conscientiously, unknown friends will come and seek you.”

Every step forward along the path of individuation is achieved only at the cost of suffering. This is why, when we come into conscious contact with the individuation process, we experience it as being painful, even deadly.

More precisely, however, it is not the ego but the Self which seems at first to be wounded, and it is only when the Self is realised in a human being that the person begins to share in the suffering. Individuation is a heroic and often tragic task, the most difficult of all, it involves the suffering of the ego: the ordinary person we once were becomes burdened with the fate of losing himself in a greater dimension and being robbed of his fancied freedom of will. He suffers, so to speak, from the violence done to him by the Self.

For Jung, the Self is a God-image, or at least cannot be distinguished from one. The early Christian spirit was not ignorant of this, as the Church Father Clement of Alexandria writes:

Therefore, as it seems, it is the greatest of all disciplines to know oneself; for when a man knows himself, he knows God.

Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus: Book III

Acedia: Spiritual Restlessness

Monk in a Monastic Cell – Egron Lundgren

The Seeker suffers from acedia, a word meaning “without care” in Latin. It is often translated as sloth, but it is more than mere laziness. Early Christian monks described it as a state of spiritual restlessness. In the Praktikos, Evagrius Ponticus, a Desert Father, names acedia one of the “eight tempting thoughts”, and calls it the “noonday demon” because it strikes during the day’s hottest and most exhausting hours, when body and soul are most vulnerable to weariness.

It is as if the demon causes the sun to slow down—or even stop—so that the day seems endless. It distracts the monk, tempting him to pace his cell, gaze repeatedly out the window, and scan every direction for the other brothers. It fills him with resentment towards his surroundings and the life he has chosen, while making him long for easier places where his needs could be obtained without effort. At the same time, it shows him visions of a long life and the many hardships of the ascetic path, intensifying the test of his spiritual discipline. The demon employs every possible means to make the monk abandon the ascetic life. Evagrius considers this the greatest trial in the monk’s daily spiritual struggle—no other demon comes after this one. Once endured, the soul has faced its most intense temptation, and one enters a state of peace and unspeakable joy.

Shadow Seeker

One who is constantly seeking meaning, may, paradoxically, fail to find it. The shadow Seeker manifests itself as an obsessive need for spiritual growth and perfection, sacrificing instinct to ideals, health to work, and the earthly to the lofty. Such self-destructive behaviour often results in physical and psychological illness, ultimately cutting life short and preventing the very goals one hoped to achieve.

It is important to step back in order to get a bird’s eye view. In doing so, one may discover Ariadne’s thread and find a way out of the maze of the mind.

Who sits in utter Idleness

Shall come much sooner to the goal

Than he who runneth after God

With sweat of body and of soul.

Angelus Silesius, The Cherubinic Wanderer

This quote captures the paradox of mystical experience: spiritual progress is not achieved through frantic effort, but through inner stillness and surrender. An obsession with achieving spiritual goals causes the ego to get in the way of grace. Like watering a plant, growth must happen naturally; it cannot be forced.

The shadow Seeker’s excessive ambition makes him resemble Lucifer, who attempted to usurp God’s throne and was cast down into hell, or Icarus, who ignored his father’s warning not to fly too close to the sun and so plunged to his death. Both myths stand as warnings against hubris.

The shadow Seeker worships the idea of God, rather than cultivating a personal relationship with God. Religion becomes a label or cultural identity rather than a lived, existential commitment. One prays mechanically without conviction, gives charity to be applauded, wears sacred objects for aesthetic purposes, and treats these outward acts and appearances as the truth itself. When the representations of religion replace the reality of faith, it creates what Baudrillard calls hyperreality: outward behaviour is treated as the essence of faith, even though the underlying relationship with the divine is absent. The shadow Seeker engages with a mere copy of religion, yet believes it to be true.

In Filth It Will Be Found

We often search far and wide for treasure, unaware that it lies at home, within ourselves. This is a common motif worldwide. A man dreams of treasure in a distant place. He travels there but finds nothing. He tells another man about his dream. The second man realises that the treasure is actually at the first man’s home. The first man returns and finds it buried in a familiar spot.

As the alchemists stated, in sterquiliniis invenitur (in filth it will be found). What you need most is often found where you least want to look. But this is easier said than done. We resist confronting the despised or terrifying aspects of ourselves, and when we neglect or run away from the filth in ourselves, the unconscious responds accordingly by presenting us with nightmares, grotesque visions, or unknown figures chasing us down. These visions, however, are nothing more than fragments of our own psyche, carrying urgent messages we desperately need. Until we acknowledge them, we remain in misery, no matter how convincingly we pretend that all is well. Jung writes:

We know that the mask of the unconscious is not rigid—it reflects the face we turn towards it. Hostility lends it a threatening aspect, friendliness softens its features.

Carl Jung, C.W. Vol. 12: Psychology and Alchemy

The Monster You Fear Becomes the Saviour You Need

The monster you fear becomes the saviour you need. The archetype of the saviour typically comes from the place where we least expect, and he is frequently despised and rejected by others. It is precisely that which we repress that assumes the role of the saviour. This is the principle of psychic compensation: the repressed aspect carries the most energy—or libido—and therefore the greatest potential for growth. When the ego is exhausted, when one’s convictions and ideas are depleted, the psyche naturally overturns. Then up comes the other side, which is full of life, that which one has never seen, accepted, or lived—fresh and green as spring. But that is precisely what makes it terrifying, and also attractive, since it means a complete reversal of the whole personality.

Individualism and Individuation (The Self)

Some Seekers choose to dedicate themselves entirely to their inner journey, becoming yogis, hermits, or ascetics, in order to avoid the distractions of the world that hinder the growth of the soul. However, if taken to an extreme, it can become overly one-sided, reflecting another aspect of the shadow Seeker.

For Jung, individuation and individualism are mutually exclusive. To isolate oneself on a mountain and meditate alone is to be visited only by one’s own ghosts, and that is not individuation. The Self does not arise in isolation but in relationship. It manifests through our deeds, each of which forms a bridge between ourselves and the world around us. The Self is therefore fundamentally relatedness; it comes into being through connection with others and with life itself.

Jung writes:

One cannot individuate without being with other human beings. One cannot individuate on top of Mount Everest or in a cave somewhere where one doesn’t see people for seventy years: one only can individuate with or against something or somebody… Individuation is only possible with people, through people. You must realise that you are a link in a chain, that you are not an electron suspended somewhere in space or aimlessly drifting through the cosmos.

Carl Jung, Notes From the Seminar Given in 1934-1939: Nietzsche’s Zarathustra

Balancing Inner and Outer World

Procopius the Righteous Praying for Unknown Travellers – Nicolas Roerich

In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, after spending ten years alone in the mountains, Zarathustra grows weary of his wisdom. Wisdom becomes a burden if it is not shared. Thus, like the evening sun that descends to give light to the underworld, Zarathustra begins his down-going into mankind.

The patron saint of Switzerland, Nicholas of Flüe, also known as Brother Klaus, lived with his wife for twenty years, and together they raised ten children. At the age of 50, however, he was seized by periods of inner restlessness and depression. In Volume 6 of her Collected Works, Marie-Louise von Franz describes his visions. In one, he saw four bright lights descending from heaven, revealing the place where a hut and a chapel should be built, and it was carried out according to his vision. His wife and children gave their consent for him to withdraw in this way, and they remained at peace with the decision, often visiting him at his hermitage. Brother Klaus never moved back with them.

From that point onward, he undertook a regimen of total fasting, sustained solely by the Eucharist, which he mysteriously maintained until his death, lasting twenty years. Despite his isolation, Brother Klaus remained connected to the world. Visitors described him as being in good physical condition, affable and content. He went barefoot and wore a grey robe, stood tall, and spoke with a manly but charming voice. He often kept his mouth half open, perhaps reflecting an attitude of awe-inspired inner contemplation.

We should not liken the saint to an eccentric who had misanthropically crept away and gone into hiding. Rather, his inner experiences were of more value to him than ordinary human existence. Jung remarked that Brother Klaus should be named the patron saint of psychotherapy.

On the brink of civil war, a pastor hurried to the well-respected hermit for help. Bound by his vow never to leave his cell, he entrusted the pastor with a message for the delegates, effectively averting the conflict. The contents of that message remain a mystery.

The shamanic calling often follows a spiritual crisis, marked by visions, dreams, or trance, and a need for solitude. This “illness” signals that one has been chosen for a sacred role. By descending into the Underworld and overcoming trials, the initiate undergoes a symbolic death and rebirth, gains wisdom, and ascends to the Sky Realm, becoming one who has awakened. The real work, however, begins in the return from Paradise to society, for the shaman’s mission is to serve and protect his people.

In Buddhism, monks withdraw from society to live an ascetic and contemplative life, yet they remain connected to the lay community. In the East, the word “monk” derives from the Sanskrit bhiksu, meaning “one who lives on alms.” By receiving food from the laity, monks practise humility, while in return offering blessings, guidance, and wisdom. This relationship is regarded as a sacred duty.

The Hero’s journey mirrors these patterns: it begins with a call to adventure, leaving the ordinary world behind. Separation brings anxiety, and in the special world the hero faces the dragon, a symbol of one’s deepest fears. By defeating the dragon, the hero experiences a symbolic death and rebirth, gaining insight and life experience. The journey continues with a return home, facing further trials, and bringing back the elixir—wisdom, love, or knowledge to share with others. Eventually, another call to adventure comes, and the cycle begins again.

This movement from the ordinary world of consciousness to the special world of the unconscious, and back again, expresses an ancient truth:

That which is below is like that which is above, and that which is above is like that which is below, to accomplish the miracle of one only thing… It ascends from the earth to the heaven, and descends again to the earth, and receives the power of the above and below. Thus you will have the glory of the whole world. Therefore all darkness will flee from you.

Hermes Trismegistus, Emerald Tablet

To ascend from earth to heaven alone is to remain too lofty, too one-sided. True wholeness requires a return to earth—to fulfil one’s duties and share one’s insights with fellow suffering beings. Like Kierkegaard’s knight of faith, such a person participates fully in worldly affairs, yet at every step makes the invisible movement of infinity, appreciating the beauty of existence and the simple joys of life.

The Ultimate Union of Opposites: Physical and Spiritual

Paradise in the Divine Comedy (The Empyrean) – Gustave Doré

Mystics across the world seek theosis, and a return back to our “true home” after our temporary exile in this world. They recognise that, despite the apparent differences of our physical forms, we are fundamentally one. To harm another is therefore ultimately to harm ourselves. Hence the golden rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”, a principle found in practically all the world religions.

The longing for theosis makes the Seeker feel consumed by a fire that does not burn, captive in a prison from which there seems no escape, yearning for God and yet unable to find Him. Saint Teresa of Ávila writes:

I live without living in me,
and so great a life I hope for,
that I die because I do not die.

I now live outside myself
after dying of love,
because I live in the Lord,
who chose me for Himself;
when I gave Him my heart,
He put this sign on me:
That I die because I do not die.

This divine union,
and the love with which I live,
makes my God captive to me
and my heart free;
and it causes in me such passion
to see my God imprisoned,
that I die because I do not die.

Ah, how long this life is!
How harsh this exile,
this prison and these chains
in which the soul is enclosed!
Only waiting for the release
causes me such fierce pain,
that I die because I do not die.

Come to an end, life,
do not be a burden to me;
for by dying, what remains
but to live and delight in myself?
Do not cease to console me,
death, for so I ask you;
for I die because I do not die.

Poem by St. Teresa of Ávila

Like King Solomon, the Seeker knows that with much wisdom comes much sorrow. Yet the Seeker sometimes experiences a joy so profound that it surpasses anything the world has to offer. The greatest pain is often accompanied by the greatest bliss.

In the Enneads, the Neoplatonist Plotinus reflects on his experiences of mystical union with the One, expressing astonishment at having to return to his human body and everyday reality after such transcendent experiences. The physical world appears heavy, harsh, and limiting, while the spiritual world is light, gentle, and boundless. The difficulty lies in uniting these opposites harmoniously. This is the Great Work.

How, then, can these two opposites be reconciled? We might find a hint of this when Lord Jesus, fully God and fully man, suffers in the Garden of Gethsemane, falling to the ground and sweating drops of blood in anticipation of the passion that awaits him. He prays: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” These words mark one of the most profound moments in Christianity, the struggle to unite human suffering with the divine will. This tension reaches its climax on the cross, expressed in one of Christ’s final words—the opening line of Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

The Seeker is willing to sacrifice the most valued relationships and accomplishments in order to surrender to the divine will, shifting the centre of life from ego or others to God—who alone quenches all insatiable desire, and in whom the weary and burdened heart may find rest.

The most powerful prayer, one well-nigh omnipotent to gain all things, and the noblest work of all is that which proceeds from a quiet mind. The more quiet it is, the more powerful, worthy, useful, praiseworthy and perfect the prayer and the work. To the quiet mind all things are possible. What is a quiet mind? A quiet mind is one which nothing weighs on, nothing worries, which, free from ties and from all self-seeking, is wholly merged into the will of God and dead to its own.

Meister Eckhart, The Talks of Instruction: Of the Most Powerful Prayer and the Highest Activity

The Psychology of The Restless Wanderer

The archetype of the Wanderer appears as a figure of profound loneliness, who drifts through life without a fixed home or direction, restless in the search for purpose and belonging. He has far-sickness, a deep longing for distant places and the hope of eventually finding a place on earth where he truly feels at home.