It’s not simple, in these lives haunted by loneliness and loss, menaced by warfare and heartbreak, witness to genocides and commonplace cruelties, to dwell in gratitude. And but it could be the one factor that saves us from mere survival. In these blamethirsty instances, to reward is an act of braveness and resistance. To insist on what is gorgeous with out turning away from the damaged. To bless what’s merely for being, figuring out that none of it needed to be.

My latest love affair with artist and poet Rachel Hébert’s nearly unbearably lovely E-book of Thanks jogged my memory of a poem by W.S. Merwin (September 30, 1927–March 15, 2019), present in his assortment Migration: New & Chosen Poems (public library) — a e-book that lodges itself within the deepest recesses of your soul and stays with you for all times.

THANKS
by W.S. Merwin

Pay attention
with the night time falling we’re saying thanks
we’re stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we’re operating out of the glass rooms
with our mouths filled with meals to take a look at the sky
and say thanks
we’re standing by the water thanking it
standing by the home windows searching
in our instructions

again from a sequence of hospitals again from a mugging
after funerals we’re saying thanks
after the information of the useless
whether or not or not we knew them we’re saying thanks

over telephones we’re saying thanks
in doorways and within the backs of vehicles and in elevators
remembering wars and the police on the door
and the beatings on stairs we’re saying thanks
within the banks we’re saying thanks
within the faces of the officers and the wealthy
and of all who won’t ever change
we go on saying thanks thanks

with the animals dying round us
taking our emotions we’re saying thanks
with the forests falling sooner than the minutes
of our lives we’re saying thanks
with the phrases going out like cells of a mind
with the cities rising over us
we’re saying thanks sooner and sooner
with no person listening we’re saying thanks
thanks we’re saying and waving
darkish although it’s

Couple with Billy Collins’s ode to gratitude, then revisit Albert Camus, writing in the midst of a world warfare, on how you can dwell complete in a damaged world, and Oliver Sacks, writing on the occasion horizon of loss of life, on the deepest measure of gratitude.