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The Sun Magazine

The Sun Interview

The Universe Is Made Of Stories

An Interview With Eaglefeather

Floating Eaglefeather loves a good story.

For the past ten years, he has traveled the world, gathering and telling stories that express “a love and respect for the differences among us.”

He speaks English and Spanish and French, and tells stories in words and in sign language. He recites poems and he sings, punctuating his tales with demonstrations of origami, as he deftly folds little pieces of paper into frogs, rabbits, and cranes.

With his beaded necklace, an eagle feather in his headband, and his hair woven in a single, long braid, he looks proud of his heritage. It wasn’t always that way.

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Pacifism Versus Passivism

On Revolutionary Nonviolence

There have been some remarkable success stories of nonviolent struggle around the world recently.

In the Philippines, a nonviolent revolution led by Corazon Aquino, with crucial support from the churches, swept the dictator Ferdinand Marcos from office with a loss of only 121 lives. In Poland, Solidarity has irreversibly mobilized popular sentiment against the puppet Communist regime. There, an entire clandestine culture, literature, and spirituality have come to birth outside the authority of official society. (This undercuts the oft-repeated claim that what Mohandas Gandhi did in India or Martin Luther King, Jr. did in the American South would never work under a brutal, Soviet-sponsored government.) Nonviolent general strikes have overthrown at least seven Latin American dictators.

When Prayer Is Impossible

Everyone is praying for my son Alex.

Everyone but me.

Alex is two days old. He has a respirator tube down his throat. Two transparent tubes full of watery blood descend from an incision in his right side. Another tube comes out of his stomach, leading to a little plastic jar that collects his stomach acid. An intravenous needle makes a red welt in his tiny wrist. A tangle of thin, black wires sends the story of his pulse, respiration, skin temperature, and oxygen saturation to a bank of beeping, blinking monitors.


Demon Meridianum

Roots pushed away beneath the city of Menasha’s big trees in summer, extending and swelling with all the slow nonchalance of inexorable power, here putting a little more buckle between the concrete bricks of a basement wall, there raising the edge of a sidewalk slab just a bit higher. Overhead, the oak and elm, ash and maple interlaced in a nearly continuous canopy that stopped the midday sunlight high above and deflected the sultry winds streaming in from a hundred miles of sun-warmed Central Wisconsin cornfields to the west.

*NOTE: Original copies of this issue are no longer available. Unbound, laser-printed copies will be provided for print orders.

Readers Write

Sunday Mornings

When I was eleven, Sunday mornings were terrifying. My best friend was Catholic, and had convinced me I was going to hell because I had never been baptized. Somehow this fate was more real on Sunday mornings than on any other day of the week. My only comfort came from my friend’s promise that she would baptize me if she were with me when I died (and only at that moment, for some reason I never understood), and save me from my awful fate. This was small comfort. And I was rarely with her on Sunday mornings. Once I went to church with her and was further terrified by the painful figure on the cross who was held in such reverence. Afterward, blasphemous thoughts about “the Lord” entered my mind and would not leave. I was miserable.

Personal Stories By Our Readers ▸


My own habitual feeling is that the world is so extremely odd, and everything in it so surprising. Why should there be green grass and liquid water, and why have I got hands and feet?

Don John Chapman

More Quotations ▸

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