I'm a fairly slow artist at the best of times: I like to potter, to muse, to drink lots of cups of tea and endlessly faff around. I generally only work in a very fast and focused way if I've got a deadline. I've always berated myself for this - feeling that I ought to be one of those artists who works for 10 hours every single day of my life, despite the fact that I've never been that sort of artist. Trying to be that person aggravates my Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and then I end up crashing for weeks or months on end, unable to do anything at all. I've gradually come to see that my meandering way of making art is my body's way of protecting itself and that it probably ensures that I get more done in the long run.

I need to appreciate the way I actually make my art instead of continually wishing that I worked faster. Part of that is accepting my own art rhythms instead of fighting against them. I have fast times and slow times, times when I'm making and times when I'm not. After a major piece of work or an exhibition, I invariably need to 'lie fallow' for a little while.

I can always tell when I'm in this stage because the idea of making art makes me incredibly grumpy. I just have no motivation for it and even though I have ideas, I can't bring myself to do anything about them. If I try to push through and do it anyway, I end up ruining pieces or souring myself on a good idea. So instead, I catch up with the rest of my life: I rest, knit, read, organise household stuff, garden, visit friends, bake cakes and declutter cupboards.

It's been five months since I finished The Diary Project and I would normally be out the other side and onto the next big art thing by now. However, with my son being ill and then my trip to Australia, my schedule has fallen behind and I'm still stuck in the unwinding/rewinding stage.

In this particular fallow period, I've been working in the garden. It's been very neglected in the last couple of years because I haven't had the energy for it but in the last week, I've remembered how much I need the garden. Being outside makes me feel a lot better, it helps my mood and my health and I want to get the garden to a level where it's a restful and healing space for me. Unusually, instead of trying to do it all at once and getting overwhelmed and giving up, I've been breaking it down into small manageable chunks and doing one tiny area at a time and I'm starting to see results. I think that 'little and often' was the valuable lesson that I took from drawing every day last year. Now if I can just apply it to my art again...

I can always tell when I'm starting to come out of my art funk when I reach The Manic Mad Project Stage. In the past, I've impulsively wanted to do things like buying a piano (I can't play), learn to play the harp (can't do that either), learn bellydancing (I've got a big belly, it seemed a shame to let it go to waste) and various other ideas that seem perfectly sensible at the time but involve me having far more time and energy than I actually do. My poor, long-suffering family have learnt to to dread the words, "hey, you know what would be a really great idea..."

Sometimes I actually go ahead and start one of my mad ideas, especially decorating projects because for some reason, those always seem practical and achievable. Sadly this often doesn't end well because I'm notorious for running out of steam half way through and abandoning things - especially since the mad project stage is usually a precursor to a new burst of art energy and in a knock-down fight between decorating and art, art always wins.

I've learnt through bitter experience that it's wise to run such things past my family. If they say 'no way, are you completely nuts?' or sound a note of sensible caution, then I probably ought to listen to them. If they say "why don't you take piano lessons first and see if you like it" and my answer is "where's the fun in that?", then it's a sure sign that I've reached The Manic Mad Project Stage and need to get back into the studio before all hell breaks out.

So... last night I decided that I wanted to own chickens. I'm doing up the garden, I want to grow more vegetables and our family is interested in environmental things like micro generation of power (we have solar panels that heat our hot water) and getting off-grid as much as possible. So a couple of urban chickens producing lovely fresh eggs wasn't that out of left field - food yards instead of miles, it would be great!

Actually, I originally thought that both chickens and a beehive would be the way to go but apparently I'm learning because I recognised that bee-keeping was probably a bit beyond me and discarded the idea before enthusiastically announcing it to my bemused family. But I honestly thought that the chickens were perfectly reasonable. One little chicken ark and two chickens - how hard could it be? My family kept chickens when I was a teenager so I know how to look after them - in theory. What could possibly go wrong?

Yes, well... apparently, my family did not share my wild enthusiasm for this wonderful idea and I was told in no uncertain terms that there would be no chickens unless egg prices went through the roof or the fall of civilisation seemed imminent. So it looks like The Manic Mad Project Stage may be starting and the art should be back soon. In the meantime, I faithfully promise my family that I won't start any large decorating projects and I'll continue gardening in a slow, sensible and sustainable fashion.

Um, digging a pond isn't an unreasonable idea, is it?