Gratitude Monday: Graces and blessings

A friend of mine organizes a novena to Saint Bartholomew via Facebook each August. I’m glad to be included, because for nine days, I have to carve out—oh—five to 15 minutes to say the prayers, examine the art works accompanying the posts and contemplate the significance of that day’s devotion.

Yeah, some days, even five minutes is monumental, as you get wound up in this and that. But I do my best, even if I end up doubling up some days.

(For those unfamiliar with the novena, it’s a ritual of intercessory prayers across nine days, typically culminating on the day a particular saint is recognized in the liturgical calendar. It can be performed alone, or in the company of others. There’s an introduction, a novena prayer constant to all nine days and a prayer specific to each day. Then there are concluding prayers.)

Every year a phrase of the Saint Bart novena catches me up: “May [the saint’s] prayers obtain for us every grace and blessing we need in our lives, and we thank you for the graces you have already granted us through his intercession, especially those which have come unasked and unlooked for.” [Emphasis mine.]

Graces and blessings that come unasked and unlooked for. Huh.

How many of these surround us, filling our lives with joy and comfort? Graces and blessings we didn’t think to ask for, which surprise us every day in ways large and small? What would our lives be like without them? An unexpected call from a friend, watching a puppy squirm and wriggle in a pile of leaves, the first sip of a perfect latte, arriving safely home through urban traffic—I typically don’t think to ask for these things, and while I do try to acknowledge them when I encounter them, I don’t think I could be said to look for them.

I wonder how many of them have slipped past me in my worrisome fugue every day?

Every year this prayer reminds me that I am in fact engulfed by graces and blessings, whether I’ve asked for them or even notice them. Every year I’m stopped cold by this reminder.

But this year I was also struck by a phrase from the prayer for day nine, Saint Bartholomew’s Day (which is today, as it happens): “O Glorious Saint Bartholomew, when you met Jesus you recognized him as the Son of God and the King of Israel. Pray for us that we may always recognize Jesus when we meet him.” [Emphasis mine.]

Well.

Um.

Now—this is only my interpretation, mind, and YMMV—but, I’m thinking that the Jesus we might meet these days could appear in, well, any form, really. If we limit ourselves to just humans, given how he manifested the last time—an itinerant Jew who relied on the kindness of strangers to provide him with food and shelter and did not build mega-churches, get around Galilee on the biblical equivalent of limos and private jets or exchange blessings for credit card details—it seems logical to me that 2026—Jesus might look dark-skinned as well as light; could shine through a woman’s face; may perhaps be found in a refugee camp seeking children forcibly pulled away from parents; might have been hauled out of a car on the city streets by ICE agents; possibly suffers from a pre-existing medical condition.

In short—we can’t rely upon the Almighty to publicize the arrival of Jesus (or even on Saint B to give us guidance in this), so we ought to be on the lookout for him or her or non-binary them…well, everywhere, really. In the supermarket, on Metro, at work (although—and this is just me being me—probably not in the boardroom or the executive suite; I could be wrong), in school, along the bike lane, out in the woods. We should be alert and receptive to him/her/them and maybe not get pissed off when they’re in the express lane with more than 15 items, or panhandling at an intersection, or wearing shabby clothes or don’t seem to be able to control their kids—which I recognize is not necessarily easy. At least, it isn’t for me.

However, by looking for Jesus everywhere, by seeking out the good and the godly and inviting these graces and blessings into our lives, I believe we can become a conduit for them to those around us; we can help bring them—unasked and unlooked for—to those around us. Idea: we could be the grace.

And this is my grace—my gratitude—for today.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

The sun in his jealous sky

Last week I came across a notification from my local PBS station that there is a documentary about Eva Cassidy, The Essence of Eva. So I watched it over the weekend. It reminded me—yet again—of her stunning gifts, which included the unique arrangements of the music she performed.

I’m proud to report that, about a month ago, I introduced her to someone I follow on Bluesky. He’d posted Sting’s original of “Fields of Gold”; apparently he wasn’t aware of Eva because:

I’ll say it again—along with everyone else who ever heard her sing—died much too soon.

And you’ll want to spend some time with this.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

Moving messages

Time for another installment of vanity plates. I feel like I’m seeing a whole lot of them around these days.

I've seen this one a few times:

I confess that I'm not sure about this one:

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

Down in the weeds

I tuned in to my HOA’s landscaping committee meeting earlier that month, which is 70 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.

I attended because I wanted clarification on what our landscape maintenance contractor is supposed to be doing about back yards. We’ve had three companies in the past four years; the previous one was only contracted to come into our back yards twice, during late fall, to blow leaves. By the time they got to mine for the first round, there were foot-high drifts of leaves and sycamore bark. I’m not sure whether they did the second pass at all.

But this crowd hasn’t been in my back yard all year. They’re here weekly during growing season, but they only mow and blow in the front yards and the common areas.

So I asked—when can I expect someone to attend to the growing piles of leaves in the back yard?

The hand-flapping chair of the committee asked me if I was leaving my gate open? No—because I have no back fence, therefore no gate. It's wide open. As they'd know if they ever walked behind my block of townhouses. Which they have not.

Well, the HOA president (who has ubiquitous tendencies) butted in to inform us that the workers are supposed to mow, trim and blow in open back yards every other week. Which they have obviously not been doing.

Yay.

However, in the course of the meeting for as long as I stuck it out, someone commented on the need for the contractors to address the weeds—which they obviously are also not doing. And I was reminded of this last week when I noticed this weed:

I mean—no banana for scale, but that’s a weed of substance, right there.

I have no weeds, because the leaves act like mulch to suppress anything that's even thinking of growing. 

(Contractors were out yesterday and back yard still ankle high in leaves. I’ll have to put in a ticket in the property management portal.)

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Creeping up

Well, Wegmans is anticipating the season.

I mean, kinda? They’re chimineas, but they look distinctly Halloweeny.

(And it's interesting that you can get whoever set up the display arranged the lids symmetrically.)

Still, they’re not a patch on Costco, which has had Halloween yard décor out for three weeks.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

Gratitude Monday: It's there if you look

Some days your gratitude is macro; some days micro. Today’s the latter, but I think it’s also the former.

One recent morning on my walk, I was struck by the elegant arrangement of three roses on their bush. So of course I shot a photo.

There’s something about the formation of the pink flowers against the green shrubbery and the subtle curve to the right that just hums. I'm so grateful to have this kind of thing all around me.

You don’t have to stop to smell the roses, but it’s worth your time to pause to appreciate what they’re giving you.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Not in the least bit scared

Well, this week’s breaking story is that the Kleptocrat’s departure from a NATO meeting last month in Ankara involved him ditching not only Bribe Force One in the face of alleged threats from Iran (because, you know, he’d just ordered resumption of the bombing), but also him slinking off the backup Air Force One—in a catering truck—to a third plane, leaving press, aides and cabinet members to face whatever the Iranians might throw at them. Diaper lady Natalie Harp, indicted co-conspirator Walt Nauta and longtime toady Dan Scavina joined him in the food service truck—which must have been really cozy—and flew with him in the non-descript C32 to the UK. On the ground there—with everyone aboard AF1 ordered to keep their window shades closed—they schlepped him back to the big plane, whence he emerged as though he’d made the journey in that craft.

You need to know that what we know as Air Force One only takes that designation when the president is aboard; as soon as Bonespurs crept into the catering box, that 747-8 was no longer AF1 and the C32 should have taken that designation the instant he shuffled aboard. But because the leader of the free world was terrified, the decoy plane retained the AF1 designator while the C32 apparently had no call sign.

The legacy AF1 craft (unlike BF1) is equipped with all defensive countermeasures, so the passengers had all the protections that accompany a sitting president. But they were still serving as decoys, intended to draw any fire the Iranians might send up to a plane presumed to be carrying their nemesis, so their trip could have been a lot more entertaining than they’d been led to expect.

But I’m sure they’d be happy to know that their potential deaths were in the service of his safety. And the memes that permeated the Internet have been cherce.

So, anyway—today we’re having “The Tale of Sir Robin”, from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. For no particular reason, really.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Picking peppers

I went to the local farmers market last Saturday specifically to buy a tomato that was somewhat in the environs of being ripe so I could make tomato-basil mayonnaise. While I was there, I came across this pepper:

I’ve never seen anything like it, so I bought it.

Here’s what it looks like in the interior:

The taste was muted and it didn’t have the crisp “snap” of a green bell pepper, so I’ll probably not buy it again (unless I’m doing something that requires a variety of colors). But it was worth a shot.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Not aroma therapy

Some months ago—don’t know when, precisely, but apparently it was pre-Christmas (as will become clear)—I saw a four-pack of Meyer hand soap on sale at Costco. I like their product, although I’d only ever had the lemon-scented stuff, so—without really looking at the package—I popped it in my cart.

When, some time in April or May, I pulled one of the bottles out and started using it in my kitchen, it smelled to me like celery. I thought celery was an odd take on hand soap, and when I actually looked at the label, it said it was pine.

Well, I’m here to tell you that only by stretching my imagination to its outer limits could I connect that scent to pine. It actually smelled manufactured and chemical and it was weird the entire life of its contents.

Then this week, it finally ran out, so I went to the package. The remaining choices were “Gingerbread”, “Peppermint” and “Snowdrop”. Obviously some kind of holiday promotion, and I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it.

With some trepidation, I pulled out the gingerbread.

I cannot describe to you how nasty this is, and how awful it smells on your hands. Because I use it in the kitchen, it stays on my hands while I’m prepping meals and still befouls them when I sit down to eat. I’ve taken to finishing off a hand wash with a swipe of dish washing liquid.

I may end up sending this wholesale down the drain and hope that it doesn’t form some kind of clog.

And I’m really afraid of the “Snowdrop”.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Coming up short

An interesting thing occurred while I was making peach ice cream. The recipe called for 2.5 cups of heavy cream. So I emptied a full pint carton of cream into my liquid two-cup measuring cup.

All my life I’ve understood that two cups equals a pint, so I expected the cream to come to the top measure of the container. It did not.

Interestingly, it didn’t even come to the milliliters stated on the carton (473). I reckon it measured less than 450ml.

Wegmans—you got some ‘splaining to do.

  

©2026 Bas Bleu