Cancer’s a quiet fight—not a loud brawl, just a steady nudge in the ribs. Some days it’s a heavy coat, others a faint hum I can shrug off. Watercolor’s been my new little sidekick—soft washes on paper, steadying my hands when they wobble. There are no grand pastel strokes from The Beauty of Pastel right now. Those sticks nap in their box. Instead, my focus is on small studies, a brush, and a pan of muted hues. It’s less a battle and more a watery dance, keeping me present.

Ceramic Watercolor Palette

I picked up watercolors again during treatment—gentler than pastels when energy’s low. I’d sit after a long stretch of nothing, dip into a gray-green, and let it wander the page. No map, just a mark—little gray ghosts pushing back the fog. It’s not about masterpieces; it’s about showing up, a quirky scribble saying I’m still kicking. Each wash is a nod, not a shout—a funny way to fight when the fight’s quiet too.

Rest is my secret weapon—not giving in, just catching my breath. Naps between strokes aren’t quitting; they’re the pause that keeps the brush moving. I’d doze off, palette at my side. Then I’d wake to find the wash had dried into something beautiful and soft. Light sneaked in like a shy guest. Frida Kahlo knew this trick—her bed was a battlefield after that bus crash cracked her spine. She’d paint through casts and pain, mirror overhead, turning rest into a quirky stand. Naps didn’t stop her; they framed her fight. My naps are quieter, but that watercolor hum keeps me steady, too.

Watercolor Journal

Vincent wrestled louder ghosts—epilepsy and madness—yet painted Starry Night from an asylum bed. Rest wasn’t peace. It was a shaky pause before wild strokes swarmed the canvas. Swirls like a fever dream held chaos at bay. I’d stumble into treatment fog, then wake to a wash that danced on its own—less wild than his stars, but a kin in stubborn staying. Cancer’s a taker, but it hands you these weird breaks—time to rest, let the paint do its thing. Paint, nap, paint—it’s a rhythm I tripped into, and it sticks.

Monet’s eyes fogged with cataracts, turning lilies into soft smears, yet he painted on—blues blurring into yellows as sight dimmed. The rest was blinking through haze, then back at it—light sneaking in past the murk. His fight was quiet too, a brush against the dim, like my own naps letting hues settle into something real. I’m not the only one scratching at this—others hold on too, maybe with brushes, maybe with other tools. I posted about it on Instagram (@bfields), and a friend’s nod flickered back—a glow I didn’t expect. We’re all in this dance, marking our way through.

So I’ll toss it out—share your creations, whatever they may be. A doodle, a snap, a note—tag #artandrest or #WatercolorDays. It’s not an attention grab; it’s a nod to anyone keeping the ghosts at bay. This isn’t my pastel primer (although I’m working on it!) —it’s scrappier, less polished—but it’s a cousin. The Beauty of Pastel grew from fumbles into focus; these watercolors stumble too. Each mark’s a breath, a quirky stand—not loud, just mine. Maybe yours. Cancer’s a quiet fight, but it doesn’t own the silence—not while we’re still here, painting, napping, holding steady in our own beautiful way.

xoxo,

B