Issue 88 | The Sun Magazine

March 1983

Readers Write

Brothers And Sisters

I have two younger half-sisters whom I have come to like well enough over the years to call “sisters.” It is convenient nomenclature, avoiding, as it does, the occasional wise guy who can add: “You mean you have one whole sister . . . ha,ha.” Since my sisters live with their families outside Boston and I live in New York, our connections are sporadic and possibly more friendly because of distance. We share a deceased father and a secret willingness to forgive most, if not all, of what needs forgiving among us.

By Our Readers


The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.

Joanna Rogers Macy

The Sun Interview

Still Moving

An Interview With Tai-Chi Teacher Jay Dunbar

I’d been taking dance all my life — first ballet, then modern — so when I signed up for Tai-Chi, I thought of it as a dance class with all the attendant sweat, joys, and wear and tear on the body. At first Tai-Chi seemed tame and slow — no one was doing pirouettes in front of the mirrors. During one of those early classes, Jay Dunbar, my teacher, said something that caught my attention immediately: “Until people are thirty, they work on building up their muscles. When they get older, it’s more important to build inner strength. That’s what Tai-Chi is all about.”

By Susan Wallin
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Stealing Souls

Thoughts On Photography

A few years ago, on a cool Fall afternoon in Central Park, I sat down at a bench and watched an odd man playing the drums. He was playing on the lip of a tall waste-basket, drumsticks in his hand.

By John Rosenthal
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Excerpts From Seuphor And Natalie And The Word Accomplished

Above all: If you feel the need to create you must put it before all the rest. Not abandon the rest, this would be a serious mistake. But make all the rest serve the essential.

By Various Authors

News From El Corizon

In The Composing Room

Now leo says that of course we will get together again. He calls me on the telephone from seven-eleven parking lots long-distance and says that he loves me and he sends me a hundred dollars a month to keep his name on the mailbox, he in fact spends great parts of his poet-in-the-schools money to drive from galveston to dallas for weekends of love-making and whispered reassurances and barbequed chicken crowded around the little kitchen table with me and the three kids like he is simply a commuting husband and this family is really his.

By Pat Ellis Taylor