I educate myself, but I haven't got the time or patience to

Hear the voice of Toni Garrn, who declares with honesty and fire: “I educate myself, but I haven’t got the time or patience to enlist myself in a degree course. The world is my school.” In these words is woven an eternal truth: that wisdom is not confined to walls of stone, nor to scrolls sealed with authority, but may be gathered beneath the sky itself, in the streets of men, in the toil of daily life. She proclaims herself a student not of institution but of existence, and this is a philosophy older than any university.

For before there were halls of learning, before degrees were invented, men and women sought their knowledge in the world itself. The hunter learned the ways of the forest by watching the tracks of beasts. The sailor learned the secrets of the sea by feeling the pull of the wind. The philosopher, before ever pen touched parchment, gazed at the heavens and found meaning in the stars. The world has always been the first school, and experience the first master. Garrn reminds us that this truth has not faded.

She also speaks of patience, or rather of its absence, in matters of formal training. This is not weakness, but recognition of her path. Not all are called to the long journey of structured study. Some souls burn too fiercely to be confined to the rhythm of classrooms; they thirst to learn by doing, to grow by wandering, to shape their wisdom from the rough clay of lived experience. To such as these, the degree is but a garment too tight, while the world offers robes vast enough to contain their spirit.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who had no formal schooling in letters. He called himself “an unlettered man,” yet he became the master of invention, painting, anatomy, and philosophy. His education was drawn from rivers, from birds in flight, from bones of men and beasts, from the very fabric of the world. Or think of Benjamin Franklin, who taught himself through books borrowed, trades practiced, and travels endured, rising from the press of a printer to the table of kings. These were souls who proved, as Garrn declares, that the world is a school large enough for those willing to learn with open eyes.

Yet let us not despise the degree. The path of formal learning is noble, and for many it brings structure, depth, and clarity. But Garrn’s words remind us that knowledge is not owned by institutions. It is breathed in daily, in conversations, in mistakes, in journeys, in the long patience of living. Those who lack a parchment need not lack wisdom. Those who walk without classrooms need not walk without teachers, for every man, every moment, every place can become a lesson if the heart is open.

The lesson is thus: do not limit your education to the narrow walls of expectation. If life calls you into the world, let the world teach you. Seek truth in people, in travels, in failure, in triumph. Let curiosity be your guide, and discipline your companion. But if you are in the halls of study, remember that your real school begins when you step beyond them, when you test theory against life itself. Both paths may lead to wisdom if pursued with sincerity.

The practical counsel is this: each day, ask yourself what the world has taught you. Reflect upon conversations, upon struggles, upon the beauty and hardship of the day. Keep a journal of lessons not from books alone, but from living. Treat every person as a potential teacher, every obstacle as a hidden classroom. In this way, whether or not you hold a degree, you will graduate continually from the greater university of life.

So let Garrn’s words echo as a call to courage: “The world is my school.” Do not wait for permission to learn, do not believe wisdom is chained to parchment. Step boldly into the open halls of existence, and gather knowledge with your own hands, for the true scholar is not the one who sits, but the one who sees.