Issue 138 | The Sun Magazine

May 1987

Readers Write


An old porch swing, a birthday gift, an even half-dozen

By Our Readers


But as she has grown, her smile has widened with a touch of fear and her glance has taken on depth. Now she is aware of some of the losses you incur by being here — the extraordinary rent you have to pay as long as you stay.

Annie Dillard

The Sun Interview

Acts Of Courage

An Interview With David Schiffman

Time changes a lot of things. And certain struggles develop and then subside if you’re only willing to sit back and not be too eager to correct them. There is a value in not being so interested in striving, but rather in developing a more intrinsic feeling of appreciation for the flow of events. I’ve spent a lot of time cultivating that because it’s clear to me I’ve done a lot of unnecessary suffering, been too interested in the shadings of my own pain.

By Sy Safransky
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Path Of Compassion

Thoughts On Spiritual Practice And Social Action

I could make a very convincing case to you for the practice of sitting meditation — just to do that and nothing else — and an equally convincing case for going out and serving the world.

By Jack Kornfield
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Bedtime Reading

Soon after I met the man who is now my husband — it was our second date, I think — Peter explained one of his chief requirements in a woman: “Let’s go to the library. We’ve got to be able to read in the same room together.”

By Diane Cole

Suitcases Of Baby Food

I wait for my father at the airport, as usual. He is almost two hours late, according to his itinerary No. 48. I should be used to this routine by now.

By Yvonne Trostli Kirkpatrick

Daylight Savings

Orson has stopped asking me to marry him, but every once in a while he says something to let me know that the offer still stands.

By Sylvia Choate Whitman

The Pulse

He is in the pulse, pulsing, pulsing. He is where he belongs, where he is held, so loved. Why did he ever fight this? “Ever have I loved you,” not quite a voice, but he hears it, knows it.

By Maggie Deutschmann Harris