Grief Nestled in Gratitude: The Delicate Balance of Grief and Healing
Poetry, like art in its purest form, has always been something I believed stood above the fray of worldly conflicts—untouched by the divisiveness of politics or religion, existing beyond the constraints of language or belief. In my mind, it lived in its own realm, light and untethered, free from the burdens that weigh down the world.
But as I hold the latest issue of Iton 77 in my hands, I can’t help but feel the weight it carries. The verses are heavy—not just with meaning, but with the fractures that mirror our world. It’s painful to acknowledge, but maybe poetry isn’t always above it all. Maybe sometimes, it’s right there in the thick of it, struggling, just like the rest of us.
A couple of weeks ago, I received that issue of Iton 77, which my childhood friend Micha has faithfully sent me for 37 years. The arrival of that large mailing envelope is something I cherish. It carries the scent of Hebrew in its most tender expression. And I always find a few lines that move me—like the pluck of a string on a musical instrument. In that way only poetry can.
For those unfamiliar, 👉 Iton 77 is a longstanding Hebrew literary magazine that often captures the tender pulse of Israeli culture through poetry and prose.
During our recent conversation, Micha said,
“I debated publishing this Arabic-only translated material. I thought it wasn’t the right time… but when is the right time?”
I replied, without hesitation,
“Poetry is above it.”
But as I turned the pages, I felt something unfamiliar: a distance. A heaviness. Was it the magazine? Or was it something in me?
And yet—through all that weight—poetry still gestures toward something more. Even in the thick of sorrow and complexity, it reaches for grace. In moments of conflict, we find that grief and gratitude aren’t opposites—they’re companions. Gratitude holds grief the way a nest holds an egg: fragile, but full of potential.
In times of loss, when the weight of the world feels unbearable, gratitude becomes the soft place where grief can rest and transform. It doesn’t erase the pain, just as the nest doesn’t change the egg’s fragility. But it creates the space—an invitation—for something to grow.
This delicate balance is where healing begins. Gratitude doesn’t dismiss grief—it makes space for it. It embraces it. It builds a home where beauty and love can still bloom, even in the shadow of loss. It teaches us that, like an egg in its nest, we are safe to feel. To mourn. To gather strength. To hatch into something new. And when the time comes, to fly.
In this way, gratitude becomes a steady companion on our walk through life’s hardest chapters—not a cure, but a kind of quiet support. It allows us to hold our grief gently, to name it without shame. Through gratitude, we find the strength to see light in the darkness, to discover moments of peace even when our hearts are heavy.
And perhaps, just like the poetry that now feels so weighted in my hands, we learn that it’s okay to carry the burden of the world. Because in that burden, we also find our way forward.
I wrote more about that weight—about sorrow, resilience, and bearing witness—through my experience at 👉 Nahal Oz following the October 7th attack. You can read that reflection here.
August, 2024