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The Sun Magazine

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

From The Honey Pot

This time we’re talking about feeling good — what an elusive state that is. Just when you think you’ve reached it, it’s gone. The advertising and consuming genii would have you believe that happiness/success/love can be found in this bottle or in that shiny car. Why, if it’s so easy to obtain, do we usually feel so miserable? And what does it mean to feel good?

Dear Food

“A veggie restaurant in Raleigh? It’ll never work” was the reaction of most folks who consider Raleigh a meat and potatoes town.

The Feminist Club

We experience two kinds of violence: the violence done to us by others, and the violence we do to ourselves. The latter hurts more, because it’s of our own making.

What I Heard

You do not have cramps. That’s invented by women who want attention. We don’t go in for that kind of malingering — that’s what it is. You have cramps because you eat too fast. You don’t chew.

Channel One

I once thought that the purpose of my life was to answer the question: “What is the purpose of my life?” I tried to fill myself looking for the answer. I have changed; I no longer move through life wondering “why?” I move. The meaning of life is usually contained in an awareness and appreciation of the process of life. The pleasure that I increasingly experience gives me the strength and trust to know I am moving through moments in the right way.

Another Appetite

The days of my life are inscribed in autumn’s diary; the leaves are pages burnished by experiences: some fiery red, some golden yellow, some mellow green, some dull brown.

Right Livelihood

Food Co-ops

Food coops became popular during the past decade as an alternative to supermarkets and retail natural food stores. What draws people to them are lower prices, democratic participation, friendly atmosphere, higher quality, and other factors. A number of books and articles have appeared extolling the virtues of coops, but very little of a critical nature has been written.

Channel One

Standing on the roof of a building high above Chapel Hill, I watch the sun passionately set. The sky is dazzling. The end of day heralded by pastels of tangerine, salmon, crimson, lavender, azure. Voluptuous swells of purple cumulus clouds glide across the lower sky while, high above, sleek streams of feathery cirrus race into the darkened east. I am awed.


Old letters are like old photographs of yourself. I’m shocked; I can actually hear this child-me speaking through these letters to myself. “To me when I am 13.” “To me when I am 16.” “To me when I am grown and a married lady.”