The other morning I wandered into the garden with my first cup of coffee, intending to deadhead a few roses and cosmos before it became too warm. Half an hour later I realised I hadn't done a single thing.

I'd been watching bees disappearing into the foxgloves, wondering whether the Tumbling Tom tomatoes needed a support, and making a mental note that I really ought to attempt to capture the way the morning light was flickering through the grasses.

My phone was still inside.

A few months ago that would have been unusual.

Back in April, everything seemed to revolve around my exhibition and then Open Studios. Every painting I finished, every frame I wrapped, every little glimpse behind the scenes seemed worth sharing. There was always something to post because there was always something I was working towards.

Now those events are over, life has become quieter.

Not empty. Just quieter.

I'm still thinking about creating. Still sketching. Still noticing things that catch my eye. In fact, I'm probably observing more than I have for months. But when I open Instagram, I often find myself wondering what I have to say.

It's an odd feeling because I'm actually making things. Every day there are little sketches, colour notes, ideas scribbled in the margins of a notebook, or photographs of a leaf or flower or a landscape or hedgerow that might one day find their way into a painting.

But none of it feels ready to package into neat little squares with a caption underneath.

Perhaps that's because it isn't ready.

Perhaps neither am I.

Of course, if I do stay on Instagram for more than five minutes, something else happens.

Within moments I've mentally renovated three beautiful cottages, planned holidays I'll probably never take, admired gardens that seem permanently perfect, and convinced myself that everyone else's dahlias are doing better than mine.

Then there are the artists.

The ones announcing another sell-out exhibition.

The ones who seem to post, "Here's a new painting..." and before I've even had time to admire it, there's a little red dot announcing it's sold.

I know, I know...

Instagram is a highlights reel. We all know that. We only see the polished bits. We don't see the paintings that didn't work, the confidence wobbles, the weeks when inspiration refuses to appear, or the washing-up that's just out of shot.

At my age, I really should know better than to compare.

Most of the time I do.

But every now and then those little seeds of doubt have a habit of taking root.

Am I doing enough?

Should I be posting more?

Should I be trying harder?

Should I be... well... somewhere else?

And then I look up from my screen.

The blackbird is having a bath in the bird table.

The breeze is moving through the grasses.

A butterfly lands exactly where I was about to weed.

Suddenly the questions disappear.

Perhaps that's what's changed.

Over the past few weeks I've realised that I'm craving quiet more than content.

Not just a quieter Instagram feed, but a quieter mind.

The world feels incredibly noisy at the moment. Every day brings another headline, another opinion, another reason to worry, another drama about someone I’ve never heard of. Layer on top of that the endless stream of advertising, advice about how we should be living, creating, decorating, travelling or simply existing, and sometimes it all becomes rather overwhelming.

What I find myself wanting instead is something much simpler.

A sketchbook.

A pencil.

An hour in the garden.

Time to notice.

Time to think.

Time to make something without immediately wondering whether I should photograph it before the paint is even dry.

Perhaps that's what I've been missing.

Not Instagram itself, because it has brought me wonderful friendships, encouragement and opportunities I would never have found otherwise.

What I've been missing is the space between making something and sharing it.

The time when an idea is still quietly growing.

The time when a painting belongs only to me.

Maybe this is simply the season for looking rather than posting.

For filling the sketchbook instead of the camera roll.

For collecting ideas rather than likes.

For allowing paintings to emerge in their own time, without feeling they have to perform before they're even finished.

Instagram will still be there next week, and the week after that.

But this morning, with the verbena bonariensis gently swaying in the breeze, bees busy in the borders and a sketchbook waiting on the garden table, I know exactly where I'd rather be.

And somehow, that feels like a rather lovely place to have arrived.

Collecting Ideas Rather Than Likes

Opening the Studio Door: What I Learned From My First Open Studio