Seems like I post annually about how much I love crape myrtles. Because they are truly something I rejoice in; have done ever since I was a child.
So today my gratitude is for this beauty that looks like it’s swaddled by a shrub. Just popping out of the sea of green like a breaching orca in an excess of joy.
©2026 Bas Bleu
I knew that the environs of The District They Call Columbia was in the path of the smoke from Canadian wildfires, but Friday morning, when I stuck my head out of the back door to toss out birdseed, I’d forgot about that. Because my yard is closed in by trees and shrubs, I couldn’t see the haze, but I reacted to the smell and taste of the air.
“Is-is someone barbecuing at
this hour? Burning leaves?”
Then I remembered.
I had to go out a couple of times, once in the morning and once in mid-afternoon. Both times my eyes burned and by late afternoon I felt that painful catch in my lungs as they notified me that they were full of particulates and I should cool it.
Here’s the thing—I grew up in
Los Angeles before anyone gave a damn about air quality. I must have spent half
my childhood and youth never being able to actually fill my lungs with air
because of smog. Only rarely could I see the sky without the pollution blocking
the view (usually after rain), and never in the summer months. It got so that
schools throughout the Basin couldn’t let kids out for recess or physical
education for weeks at a time. It wasn’t until I moved away and then returned after
some years of lung-clearing that I realized what I’d been ingesting all that
time.
LA cleaned up its act—well,
California did. It took decades and caused much squawk from industries—including
auto manufacturers—and consumers. But they cleaned the air, and that’s my
gratitude for today. It’s been decades since I experienced what I did this past
weekend—I’ve taken it so for granted that I forgot all about it. But what a
gift to live in a functioning advanced society with clean air!
I say this recognizing that
even as the words flow from my keyboard this administration is doing everything
it can to send us back to Smog Alertville. That just makes me all the more
grateful that something like this weekend is an anomaly, and it should
be so. We may have to do it all over again when these kleptocrats are driven
from office, but it’s a worthwhile endeavor.
©2026 Bas Bleu
After a week of seeing the damage last Sunday’s microburst caused in my neighborhood of The People’s Republic, I’m deeply grateful to have escaped without a scratch, to either person or property.
They’re still clearing away
fallen trees (although not at the old house surrounded by my cluster).
And I imagine dealing with
insurance companies is just adding more pain to the initial wounds.
I recognize that it’s pure
luck that has spared me—there are two very large, old trees in my back yard;
either of them could have fallen or been split. But I am grateful that they
didn’t.
I’m also grateful that I had
the windscreen with the leaky seal replaced on my car several weeks ago. Before
the multiple storms we’ve been having.
No swamp in the passenger
footwell.
©2026 Bas Bleu
My gratitude for two days after our nation’s 250th anniversary is meteorological: the stinkin’ hot weather has finally broken, and it’s only seasonally ghastly. Thursday, Friday and Saturday brought triple-digit highs, along with humidity levels kicking the heat index up to the teens.
Then a storm system came
through Saturday evening. Messed up the cult activities on the National Mall,
but it also knocked the corners off the heat, so ill wind and all that.
Moreover—grateful for air
conditioning in home and car, and for ceiling fans. I had to drive out at
midday on both Friday and Saturday for appointments. Even with my 25-year-old
Saab’s AC working at max all the way, it didn’t do more than take a bite out of
the heat. Still—I cannot imagine the experience without it.
Willis Carrier—you da man!
©2026 Bas Bleu
With all the crappiness surrounding us these days—mostly man-made—I was filled with joy and gratitude to peek through the trees around the (man-made) ponds on the former corporate HQ campus and current construction site of absolutely hideous townhouses selling for $1.2M and discover my old friends the sacred lotus blooming.
Those ponds were completely
drained a couple of years ago, and I was so worried about the flora and fauna
that were part of their ecosystem. The snapping turtles were rescued and
relocated somewhere; I haven’t seen the blue herons. But the lotus gives me
hope.
A definite reason for
gratitude.
©2026 Bas Bleu
We had three gardenia bushes in the house where I grew up in Southern California. We also had no air conditioning, so on summer nights my bedroom windows were open. Even though I was at the front of the house, I could still catch the scent of the gardenias. It was heavenly.
About seven or eight years
ago, I bought a little gardenia shrub and planted it in a pot in my back yard.
It’s not an ideal situation for it—that area gets only scattered bouts of
direct sun seven months out of the year, due to all the trees around me. But
that little trouper has hung on, even though it took a bit of a hit during the
snowcrete days we had earlier this year.
Although it doesn’t give me weeks of scented evenings, I’m still grateful for the flowers it produces for me. Gardenias mean summer to me.
©2026 Bas Bleu
My gratitude for today is that the Kleptocrat’s name has been removed from the Kennedy Center—including from the wall of the building itself.
A federal judge, Christopher Cooper, ruled last month, in a
suit brought by ex-officio Kennedy Center board member, Rep. Joyce Beatty
(D-OH), that the center was given its name by Congress and only Congress can
change the name. (It was his handpicked stooge board that renamed the center in
December. A day later, he declared himself surprised, even as workers installed
the clearly planned letters on the wall.) He set 2359 on Friday as the deadline
for the name being off everything—the website, marketing materials, employee email
signature blocks and the building. The Kleptocrat’s KC stooges dithered around
for a couple of weeks, then filed a motion to stay, which the judge denied.
So I joined tens of thousands of online viewers Friday, (as well as scores on site) watching as workers erected scaffolding for the deed.
 |
| Credit: Rahmat Gul, AP |
There
was a break late afternoon as a storm moved through the city, right around the
time the stooges filed an appeal, claiming for the first time that amended
center bylaws now state that the center only receives funds if the Kleptocrat’s
name remains; if it’s ever removed, the money stops.
Well, that didn’t hold, but they still missed the midnight
deadline. So they filed another motion requesting a 24-hour stay, because the
dog ate their homework. The judge granted them until noon on Saturday to get ‘er
done.
Around 0330, the workers completed the scaffolding, but then spent time pulling up gigantic tarps to completely shield them from view.
 |
| Credit: Tasos Katopodis, Getty |
Word
on the street is that the delay to the wee small hours, and the tarps, were
solely to spare the Kleptocrat the humiliation of having the world rejoice at
seeing his name come off, letter by letter. But Cliff Owen of AP got this shot
of the P popping out:
And Joyce Beatty stayed throughout the night to witness.
 |
| Credit: Cliff Owen, AP |
The tarps are still up. It’s more than possible that the
Kleptocrat is hoping for more court filings to overturn the decision—that it’ll
go to SCOTUS, and they may find some way to twist “Congress gave it the name,
only Congress can change the name” into “yeah, it’s okay.” And, of course,
there was the birthday circus yesterday at the Building Formerly Known as The
White House.
 |
| Credit: Alex Wrobiewski, AFP via Getty |
UPDATE: Per @MusicologyDuck on Bluesky, those door-like indentations have been formalized:
 |
| Credit: Musicology Duck |
But for now, I’m grateful for Rep. Beatty, for Judge Cooper, for those workers (who I hope got overtime for working through the night), for everyone involved in this exquisite rebuke to the Kleptocrat’s imperial ambitions. And on his birthday weekend.
Many happy returns.
©2026 Bas Bleu
The chalk artists in the ‘hood are out again. Well, really—the chalk philosophers.
I came round the final stretch of my morning walk last week
to find this on the path past the tot lot:
Here’s the expansion:
And, finally, this, echoing Polonius:
I have to say that I don’t believe the artist is some
random 10-year-old. Not quoting a song that’s been covered by Nat King Cole and
Frank Sinatra.
Then, yesterday, there was this on the path by the
neighboring apartment complex’s playground:
With this addition.
Clearly, the Advice from the
Universe is to have integrity, practice love and spread joy. I’m grateful for the reminder.
©2026 Bas Bleu
Both April and May this year were absolute yo-yos, weatherwise. We’d go from 90+ to low 60s in 48 hours, then back up to the 80s. I switched between heat and air conditioning in my house at least seven times. The Memorial Day weekend was four days of overcast and rain, so I was kind of surprised to see the sun peep out late last week.
And then Saturday and yesterday were absolutely pristine,
clear, sunny days with highs in the low 70s. Zero (or at least, very low)
humidity. Just beautiful. Patio door and windows open beautiful.
This being the environs of The District They Call Columbia,
I know we’re headed for at least three months of bad hair day—temps in the 90s,
with humidity right up there, when walking out of an air conditioned building
fogs your glasses. So my gratitude today is for these two lovely, clear-the-air
days.
Here’s a family that also enjoyed the respite.
©2026 Bas Bleu
It seems appropriate that Memorial Day is a Monday holiday, because it’s the day we’re meant to reflect upon the sacrifices of the men and women who defend our country.
You know—to express gratitude in some way for their
willingness to trade their lives for the security of our society.
As a military historian with a focus on the human element
of conflict, it’s always been clear to me that the real cost of war isn’t the
treasure, it’s the blood. It’s the sons and daughters who go into harm’s way
and never return, or who return so altered as to never really find their way
back. As we reflect upon those costs, we really ought to consider the suicide
rate of combat veterans; per Department of Veterans Affairs figures, 17.5
veterans killed themselves every day in 2025. That’s 6500 per year. I’m not
going to talk about drug and alcohol addiction or homeless rates resulting from
PTSD; they’re line items on the butcher’s bill, too.
I wonder what that says about our society that we send
these people out to do terrible things on our behalf and then essentially shrug
our shoulders and avert our eyes when they come back not in bandbox tiptop
condition? Kinda feels like a broken contract to me.
Memorial Day marks the “official” start of summer in the
US; rather like acknowledging the dead who made possible the picnics and
fireworks of Independence Day. I kind of shudder to think what Cadet Bonespurs
will do to mark the occasion, in this, our 250th anniversary of nationhood.
He’s certainly been doing his part to increase the population at military
cemeteries, although of course that’s just a collateral part of his primary
goal, which has always been self-aggrandizement and -enrichment.
But it’s Memorial Day and Gratitude Monday. I’m grateful to my brothers and sisters who, through the generations, have given, as Lincoln said, “the last full measure of devotion.” I take it personally.
©2026 Bas Bleu
A small gratitude today. After about eight years of making pizza most Friday nights, I am happy to report that I’m finally producing pies that are recognizably round.
If you had any notion of how misshapen my pizza have been
for years, you’d kvell with me.
(One of my colleagues at my last job used to say his pizzas
looked like the Elephant Man, and mine were right up there.)
Yes—it will not change the world, and I bury it right away
with arugula anyhow. But it’s a small victory, and I am grateful for it.
©2026 Bas Bleu
Between SCOTUS and the Virginia Supreme Court, both the law and enfranchisement had a bad week last week.
I mean—ugh.
So I’m turning to Nature today for my gratitude, and boy,
does she deliver.
Just—have some irises:
©2026 Bas Bleu
Today I am grateful for the poetry of Spring—all the colors that envelop us as Nature throws off Winter’s coat.
I’m grateful for brisk temperatures for my morning walk, as
well as the lack of humidity.
I’m grateful for overnight rain that clears up before I go
out.
I’m grateful for the birds who sing and the foxes running
across the golf course.
Is there any better way to start the day?
©2026 Bas Bleu
Well, y’all know I’m not a fan of Emily Dickinson. Lord knows, I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t come.
But for this Gratitude Monday in National Poetry Month. I
was thinking about how much a sparrow enjoyed the birdbath I provide for my
avian friends, and when you search for “poems about birds”, Dickinson pops
right up at the top.
For reference, the sparrow:
I mean—its joy is infectious, and I’m so grateful to have
been able to make it possible.
So—Emily:
“Even the Smallest Wings”
A tiny bird upon the breeze,
Gliding high with so much ease.
Though small in size, it finds its way,
Soaring freely every day.
It does not fear the heights so steep,
Nor doubts the journey it must keep.
For wings, though small, were made to fly,
To chase the sun, to touch the sky.
So let the birds remind us true,
No dream’s too big for me or you.
With faith and courage, we can try -
Even the smallest wings can fly!
©2026 Bas Bleu
Particularly in our current environment, one of undeclared class warfare that pits the oligarchs against everyone else on every field—economics, environment, education, politics, religion, resource allocation—I struggle with maintaining any kind of spiritual, emotional and mental balance. So I make a conscious effort to absorb and honor the beauty and grace in my daily life.
As I do, I follow the prescription of an old photography
professor—when something strikes me, I also try to look around for another
perspective, to see if there’s not something else about it equally beautiful.
Viz:
I went out to glory in the dogwood in my cluster, which of
course were spectacular.
But so, too, was the shadow it threw on the sidewalk.
This reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty”, today’s
entry for National Poetry Month. Just the first line opens me up for the joy
and the loveliness that’s all around us, in both nature and the work people do
to make our lives easier.
You might call it "God's DEI program."
“Pied Beauty”
Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout
that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and
trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle,
dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
©2026 Bas Bleu
Me and 7,999,999 of my closest friends turned out on Saturday at more than 3300 locations across the country to reiterate our refusal to submit to the Kleptocrat’s attempts to become king-dictator. Additionally, thousands more showed up in cities and towns around the world to stand with us.
He didn’t hear us, because he was in Florida golfing and
grifting, but Republicans in general did. They are getting nervous. I hope this
develops into ulcers.
This
time round I did not get any photos of my fellow protesters in The People’s
Republic. Given the rotting that’s taken place in the Kleptocrat’s brain since
the last No Kings in October, I added a new message to the back of the poster I
made before:
I know it’s a pipe dream; the toadies and lickspittles in
the Cabinet will never invoke the 25th Amendment, no matter now much
he drools, slurs and meanders. But it’s still worth reminding Republicans that
we know what’s going on.
Ran into my neighbor again. He carried several signs with his political
cartoons, and saw some other protestors across the parkway who also had
them. Viz:
At one point, when people were changing call-and-response “Tell
me what democracy looks like/This is what democracy looks like,” he commented, “If
this is what democracy looks like, it’s aging.” Well, yes—there were a lot of
people who looked like they might have marched in the 70s, and 2010, and 2017.
But there were also many youngs, including families with small children and
dogs.
The passing motorists also showed support, honking and
waving American flags. Some even had their own No Kings signs against the
windows. (There was that one jackass in an SUV who flashed thumbs down; there’s
always that one jackass.)
Fairfax County’s finest were out in force as well—one of
their SUVs (why are they all in SUVs?) parked on the median and at one time
four more hovering in an adjacent parking lot, I suppose to ensure that the
people carrying signs didn’t suddenly pull out assault rifles or something. It
would have been a good time to knock over an ABC store, what with half the
force on riot control duty.
On the whole, a good way to spend 90 minutes being counted as
opposed to this administration and every criminal, corrupt, contaminated thing
it does. And it’s my gratitude for today.
©2026 Bas Bleu
My gratitude for today is, in the global scheme of things, miniscule. But for me, it’s big. I’m grateful that my sacroiliac joint is almost back to normal.
Can’t recall if I wrote about it when the issue first arose—about
two years ago. It was agonizing and required weeks of PT to beat it back. (Let
me just say: you may not realize it, but just about every movement you make
makes a transit point past the SI joint. If all the muscles are fine, you don’t
notice it. If not, you do. You really do.)
So, of course, when I got back to normal, I stopped doing
the exercises. A few months ago, it flared up somewhat, but I dragged out the
PT and it subsided.
Then, during the Big Freeze in January, I slipped on ice; I
landed on my left hip (which was the problematic one), but clearly knocked
something awry in my right. I tried walking it out, to no avail, so back with
the exercises. It receded, but then kicked back in, right around the time I was
helping with the monthly food pantry at a local church. (For that, I bag
produce on the Wednesday and on Thursday push carts for my neighbors who
collect food at the church.) I observed A Pattern: on the Friday after the
pantry, big flare up; impacts everything, including yoga.
Like I said—everything you do passes across your SI joint.
But this past week, after steadfastly doing my exercises, I’ve
finally corralled the pain to mild discomfort, so that about a half-mile into
my morning walk, I don’t notice the muscles complaining. I also pinpointed the
triggering event: bagging sweet potatoes, onions and cabbage last Wednesday, I
realized that the bag was heavy enough to feel in my butt. (Those heads of
cabbage can weigh upwards of 10 lbs alone.) It’s not the cart pushing, it’s the
produce schlepping. I can continue helping with food distribution, but I’ll
back off the bagging.
This is a lot of verbiage to get to the point: being
cognizant that at a certain age we cannot assume full functionality in our musculoskeletal
system, I am grateful that I am still able to command mobility and that my
muscles are responding to proper exercise. I suppose I have to be more aware of
what I’m doing, which is kind of a bummer, but given the alternatives, I give
thanks for what I have.
Also—the magnolia trees are awakening.
©2026 Bas Bleu
I try to be aware of my environment when I walk. I listen to the sounds around me and look side to side. Sometimes I remember to look up, too.
Yesterday morning, that’s when I saw this cloud activity,
driven by wind high up that we earthbounders did not experience:
I’m grateful for that ephemeral beauty and that I caught it
in transit.
©2026 Bas Bleu
A week ago I was doing my laundry on Saturday when I realized that the load seemed to be taking…hours. When I looked at the minutes-remaining readout, I realized it actually was taking hours. Every time it got down to the point where the final spin should kick it, it looped back to the beginning of the wash cycle.
Consulting Google, I did what I could—the appliance version
of the three fingered salute (unplugging, waiting five minutes, plugging in,
restarting), but same thing.
Even when I set it to Spin Only, it jumped back to wash and
started adding water.
Disconsolately I wrung out the clothes, hung them on the
drying rack until they were in a state that I could toss them in the dryer. On
Monday I called the appliance repair guy and he came out on Tuesday.
Understand that this machine—bought three years ago when my
old, mechanical-only washer finally expired—is packed with electronics. As it
is, I had to look really hard to find one that isn’t “smart”, but it’s still
computerized and I was envisioning having to replace something expensive.
Well, Alan posited that the machine—like a lot of modern,
agitator-free top-loaders—is very sensitive to load imbalance, and was probably
trying to reset the load. I couldn’t think that what I had in that particular
collection of clothes was markedly different from the hundreds of others I have
run since it arrived. A few times, when I was washing mattress pads, the
machine would go ballistic and I’d have to turn it off, adjust the placement
and then start again. (These modern jobbers don’t have knobs you can pull out
to continue where you left off.) He then had me run through a load on speed
wash, just to see how it went.
Well, we chatted around the machine for about 20 minutes,
and sure enough, it worked just fine. He charged me a call-out fee, and as he
was leaving, he noticed a bird’s nest in my dryer vent, next to the front door.
He checked for eggs—none—and then brought out a kind of mini-chimney sweep
device, with long poles connecting to a drill, and cleaned out what must have
been 20 years of lint from that dryer conduit.
It’s a miracle that I haven’t had a fire in the nine years
I’ve been here.
Well, Saturday, I filled the washer with my colored clothes
and turned the machine on. Let me tell you: then I saw it click over into the
spin cycle I was filled with such gratitude. You cannot believe how wonderful
it is to have a washing machine that works.
And then, when I dumped the clothes in the dryer, it was
wonderful again, knowing I wasn’t risking conflagration.
Life is good.
©2026 Bas Bleu
After three weeks of a four-inch crust of snowcrete on my back yard, the thing that gave me the most joy was seeing my winter aconite peeping up from the last blanket of white.
These sturdy little stalwarts never fail to raise my
spirits. They only make an appearance for a few weeks, then subside back into
the clay. But, oh, what a gift they are.
Forget the groundhog, Spring is on its way.
©2026 Bas Bleu
