My mum told me to have patience. It's about realising that when

The words of Vanessa Paradis—“My mum told me to have patience. It's about realising that when things aren't going the way you want them to, or you don't have inspiration, it will come”—carry the timeless wisdom of a mother’s counsel, the kind that has been whispered across generations like a gentle flame passed from hand to hand. At its heart, this teaching is a reminder that patience is not merely waiting idly, but a deep trust in the unseen rhythm of life. For the river does not always flow swiftly, and the seasons do not always bloom at once, yet in time, all things return to their course.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the human struggle with delay and disappointment. From the dawn of ages, mankind has battled with the yearning for immediate harvest, immediate victory, immediate revelation. Yet the ancients learned, as we must, that inspiration—like rain—cannot be commanded. It arrives in its own season, and the task of the soul is not to despair when it is absent, but to prepare the soil of the heart so that when it does come, it may bear fruit. Thus, Paradis’s words echo a truth known to every people: that to live well, one must cultivate patience in moments when life feels empty.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who labored over his paintings not in haste but in seasons of inspiration. The great “Mona Lisa” was not born of a single burst of vision, but of years of returning, revising, waiting, and receiving. There were days when his hand could not move the brush as he wished, when the vision remained clouded. But Leonardo trusted the silence, knowing that inspiration would return. His patience became the midwife of genius, and his work endures as testimony that beauty does not bow to impatience.

In this way, Paradis’s mother’s wisdom becomes more than personal advice—it is a law of the spirit. For whether in art, in labor, or in love, there are always seasons when the sky is gray, when progress is hidden, when nothing seems to bloom. The immature spirit despairs, abandons the field, or forces fruit before its time. But the mature spirit, guided by patience, endures the silence, knowing that the tide will turn, that the storm will pass, that inspiration will come again like dawn after the long night.

There is also tenderness in this teaching. For it does not chastise impatience with harshness but comforts it with assurance. To be told, “it will come,” is to be reminded that the absence of progress is not the end, but a pause; that failure is not permanent, but a step on the road. This is the balm of patience: the knowledge that time itself is often the healer, the teacher, the deliverer.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not despair when the path seems barren. Do not believe that the silence of today will last forever. Instead, nurture the soil of your life with discipline, humility, and readiness. Inspiration is like the wind; you cannot summon it, but you can raise your sail so that when it comes, you are ready to be carried forward. To abandon patience is to abandon hope; to embrace patience is to invite the future with open hands.

In practice, this means: when you lack inspiration, continue to show up. Write even when words feel dull. Work even when the task feels heavy. Live even when joy feels distant. For patience is not only waiting—it is faith in motion, the quiet trust that what is missing today will arrive tomorrow. Let mothers’ voices, like that of Paradis’s, remind you that waiting is not failure, but strength.

So let these words be a lamp for your path: have patience. Life does not always bend to your desire, nor does inspiration dance on command. But if you endure with trust, if you wait without despair, the flame will return, and when it does, you will be ready to receive it. For patience is the guardian of all gifts, and through it, inspiration will come.