Nothing worth having, comes immediately. My parents drilled that mantra into me from an early age; reinforced it with piano lessons, cello lessons, music theory, singing, ballet dancing, karate. Practice makes perfect, and patience is a virtue. Sayings that we hear daily, weekly, monthly, written on napkins as reminders to ourselves when we are stranded without paper, and pinned to boards to be a constant visual.

But impatience licks at my feet, and my hands, at my mind – as I’m sure it does with you, too – it chastises me when I can’t do fast enough; when my fingers are clumsy and my words are all muddled. Then something darker than impatience hooks it’s claws in a corner, and if I’m unlucky, snatches my work from under me. Tarnishes it with a stain and I won’t look at it again.

Butterflies are not born beautiful. They must eat and eat and eat (work hard) before cocooning themselves in their silken chrysali (patience), and then they emerge, tentative and yet magnificent. Perhaps, though, butterflies are not the best example to use for giving yourself time. They do work hard, and they do have patience, but their lives span less than a year.