A lesson from the earth and Bilbo Baggins
The earth doesn’t beg permission to grow. Think of the roots, right now as we speak, prying dry stones apart, silently, relentlessly, as they get what they need in the dark.
There is a characterization of learning as a gift handed down in classrooms with maps drawn by someone else, someone you don’t even know.
I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunities of elementary school through high school, despite some teachers not quite enjoying me. For all of us, it represents a small percentage of the real, relentless need to learn that will continue all our lives. If all we get is what is handed to us by others, we are malnourished at best. We need to forage, and sometimes burgle, to round out our diet.
I wouldn’t say the system failed me, although it has some. I would say it left me hungry, not well-fed.
Think about this: One of our most well-known and respected cultural stories connects gaining knowledge with stealing a fruit from a tree. I do not by any means claim to know all the deep meaning in that story, but I can’t help noticing that the story features a burglar as a strong female lead.
Bilbo Baggins didn’t set out to be a burglar. He was a hobbit of comfort, of tea and second breakfasts, until his story nudged him out the door and the Shire. His newly emerging community needed a thief to get something from a dragon. Bilbo didn’t study burglary in the Shire. He learned it by doing, fumbling and muddling through shadows, pocketing the Arkenstone with trembling hands.
Some learning happens not in the middle of a lesson plan but in the middle of a heist. For some of us, school was supposed to be a key, but it felt more like a lock. If, for you, it meant sitting staring at walls that didn’t care, what matters now is that you don’t need permission and you can start breaking in, or out.
The earth knows this trick.
A seed doesn’t ask the soil if it’s ready. It burrows, claims its space, drinks deep. Bilbo didn’t ask Smaug for a tutorial. He crept into the dragon’s lair and took what he needed.
Yes, as much as I liked school, I remember the hours of teaching myself what no classroom could. It wasn’t neat, certainly not “the best use of my time,” some would say. I’d scour books that weren’t assigned, chase questions no one asked me to answer, piece together scraps of meaning like stolen gold.
I think I was a late-blooming burglar.
There’s a quiet power in burglary, a wonder in claiming what the world isn’t giving you. Bilbo didn’t become a master thief overnight. Each step was a lesson, each near-miss a teacher, riddling with Gollum and facing Smaug.
I think of Bilbo in the Lonely Mountain, small against the imposing landscape, picking his way through dark and danger. That’s what it feels like to learn outside the lines, quiet, unsteady.
The beauty of burglary is its patience. Bilbo didn’t storm in. He waited, moved when the moment was right. The earth doesn’t rush either. Roots creep, tides pull, seasons turn.
So I wonder: what have you burgled from the ruins of what failed you, or at least left you hungry? What did you take for yourself?
Is it the right time for you?