There is something wonderfully humbling about discovering that you have been interested in something for years without ever actually doing it. I have loved the idea of watercolour painting for as long as I can remember. I have bought watercolour palettes, beautiful paper, paint journals, and all the little bits and pieces that make you feel like you are about to become the sort of woman who spends her afternoons painting beside a window. And yet, somehow, I never actually sat down and painted.

Last year, I discovered paint-by-numbers kits and thought, “This might be the answer.” I ordered one, probably around A3 size, and brought it home with every intention of starting it. It is still stacked against the wall in my living room, patiently waiting for me to give it some attention. Apparently, patience is a recurring theme in my life. 😂

Then, about a month ago, I discovered Davincified’s Lake District Mini Paint by Numbers Set. Something about the designs immediately caught me. I was naturally drawn to the Lake District, woodland, and countryside scenes because there is something about those landscapes that settles me. Trees, water, hills, open skies, and little pockets of nature have always had a grounding quality for me, and I think that is partly why I kept coming back to these particular designs. I decided to bring one of the kits with me to the cabin, although I had no idea whether I would actually get around to using it.

Today, after lunch, I finally did.

The little pots of paint were spread across the wooden dining table in front of me, each one marked with a number. The brushes were beside them, the canvas was covered in tiny shapes and numbers, and a fern I had picked up earlier rested across the edge of the table. The cabin was quiet around me. There was no laptop open, no podcast playing, no television in the background, and no particular reason for me to be doing this. I simply picked up the brush and started.

And it was surprisingly difficult.

Not because the painting itself was complicated, but because my brain wasn’t used to doing something that had no immediate purpose. For the first ten or fifteen minutes, I was all over the place, trying to coordinate the tiny brush, find the corresponding number, work out how much paint I needed, and stay inside the lines. My perimenopausal brain wasn’t entirely cooperating either. 😂 There were moments when I genuinely wondered whether I had suddenly forgotten how to use my hands.

But underneath the slightly chaotic beginning was something much more interesting. My brain kept asking me, Don’t you have something productive to do?

And there it was. That old voice. The one that has been running the show for decades. The voice that wants to know what I’m achieving, what I’m accomplishing, ticking off, producing, and doing next. The voice that can turn even a quiet afternoon in a Norwegian cabin into an opportunity to find something useful to do.

Except there was nothing useful to do.

I was painting.

That was it.

Slowly, something shifted. I stopped thinking so much about the finished picture and started concentrating on the little section directly in front of me. Find the number. Find the paint. Dip the brush. Paint the shape. Move to the next one. I began noticing the tiny variations in colour and the way the paint settled onto the canvas. I started getting a feel for the brush, my movements became more deliberate, and my shoulders relaxed.

I was present.

Not performatively present. Not “I am going to practise mindfulness now” present. I was simply absorbed in something small and quiet.

And I realised how strange that felt.

I talk about slowing down a lot. I talk about being present in my life, curating it, simplifying it, and creating space for the things that matter. I write about intentional living and the importance of not rushing through our own lives. But how often do I actually allow myself to sit in stillness without filling it?

How often do I sit somewhere without my phone beside me? How often do I deliberately choose something that doesn’t improve me, teach me, grow my business, organise my Home, advance a project, or contribute to some future version of myself? How often do I simply do something because I enjoy doing it?

That question stayed with me as I continued painting.

Because there is a subtle difference between having a slow life and actually knowing how to be still.

I can have a beautiful Home, light candles, make lovely cups of tea, organise my surroundings, and create a life that looks slow from the outside. But if I spend every quiet moment scrolling, checking emails, listening to something, planning something, or thinking about what I should be doing next, I’m not really inhabiting the stillness. I’m simply decorating my busyness.

And perhaps that is one of the things this cabin is teaching me.

I don’t need every moment to have a purpose. I don’t need to justify an afternoon spent painting. I don’t need to finish the picture. I don’t even need to become good at watercolour painting. I can sit at a wooden table in the Norwegian Highlands with a tiny paintbrush in my hand and spend an hour filling in little numbered shapes because it feels good.

That is enough.

There is something quite liberating about that.

I’ve spent so much of my life in hustle and survival mode that slowing down can initially feel almost irresponsible. When you’ve spent decades being the person who gets things done, there can be a strange guilt attached to doing something simply because it brings you pleasure.

But pleasure doesn’t need a business case. Joy doesn’t need an outcome. Rest doesn’t need to be earned. Creativity doesn’t have to become another thing I am good at.

Sometimes I can simply be a woman sitting at a table, surrounded by tiny pots of paint, trying to colour inside the lines. And maybe that’s enough of a reason.

I think that’s why this little painting has felt surprisingly significant to me. It isn’t really about watercolour. It isn’t even really about painting. It is about giving myself permission to be unproductive without feeling like I am wasting my time.

That feels like a much bigger lesson than I expected from a tiny brush.

There is something else I noticed, too. I have spent years collecting the things that might allow me to become the woman I imagine myself to be. The watercolour palettes. The notebooks. The books. The beautiful supplies. The hobby equipment. The things that sit patiently in cupboards and drawers, waiting for the version of me who will finally use them.

Maybe I don’t need more things.

Maybe I need to actually use the things I already have.

Maybe the slower, more intentional life I keep talking about isn’t waiting for me to buy the right journal, find the perfect hobby, or create another system. Maybe it’s sitting right there on the table, waiting for me to stop.

Today, I did.

I don’t know whether I’ll finish this painting while I’m at the cabin. I don’t particularly care. I might paint another little section tomorrow. I might leave it for a few days. I might bring it back to the UK and continue it at Home. The point isn’t the finished picture. The point is that, for a little while this afternoon, I wasn’t trying to get anywhere.

I was simply there.

And perhaps that is what slowing down really means to me now. It isn’t about doing less so that I can eventually do more, and it isn’t about turning rest into another productivity strategy. It isn’t about creating a beautiful life simply so I can photograph it or tell everyone about it. It is about actually living inside it.

Today, that looked like a wooden table, a tiny paintbrush, dozens of little pots of colour, a fern, a quiet cabin and a woman who finally allowed herself to do something that served absolutely no purpose.

Except making her feel good.

And perhaps that is purpose enough. ❤️

Kiran x

Kiransinghuk.com | The Sattva Collective

The Joy of Doing Something That Serves No…