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The Sun Magazine

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Anxious Wrestler

A Zen Story Of Psychotherapy

Nothing remained in the temple — except the mighty ocean rising and falling, and surging onward in its cycles. This was the sole reality. The temple itself disappeared. There was only the ocean, and the wrestler himself was the ocean.

Miracle At Canyon De Chelly

When I came to understand that there are mythic patterns in all of our lives, I knew that all of us, often unbeknownst to ourselves, are engaged in a drama of soul which we were told was reserved for gods, heroes, and saints.

What It’s Like

It’s like being in Miss Wheeler’s class but wanting to play with the kids in Miss King’s class. The thing is, they go to recess at 10:30 with the fifth graders, while your class goes at 11 with the kindergarteners. You face the hedges on your swing, throwing your head back so that the little brats on the playground dangle upside-down into the huge, empty sky, and you pump your legs so that the world shifts and tilts alarmingly: you wish you were with the fifth graders. On top of that, though Miss Wheeler is kind and soft-spoken, she has brown hair that hangs limply down to her shoulders, whereas Miss King has hair like white cotton candy piled high, and a coy smile that speaks of secrets as it creeps slowly across her pink, shellacked lips and into her deep, green eyes lined in black.

The Hand That Shook The Hand

I didn’t go to my grandfather’s funeral. I had excuses at the time — I was living 500 miles away, no money for plane fare, other obligations, and so forth — but mostly I suspected that funerals were some kind of superstitious pagan ritual. My grandfather had been very much a part of my life and I saw no reason to break that thread.


little pictures

as a small child, i did not know how to unzip myself. my parents never talked about it. when i was fourteen my father “accidentally” left out a book on his desk called “what to tell your child about unzipping.” by then it was too late.

Demon Eye

I needed to see the stallion’s body once I knew that he was dead. Nate had found him down by the creek while I was away. When he greeted me at the door with the news, its inevitability was suddenly obvious to me, like a desert sun emerging from behind weeks of secret knowing.

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

Readers Write


My family has never gone in for grand celebrations. The weddings I remember, growing up in our small Southern town, were brief, pale affairs, with canapes and ginger ale punch afterward in the church social hall.

Personal Stories By Our Readers ▸


When I pray, I never pray for myself, always for others, or else I hold a silly, naive, or deadly serious dialogue with what is deepest inside me, which for the sake of convenience I call God. Praying to God for something for yourself strikes me as being too childish for words. To pray for another’s well-being is something I find childish as well; one should only pray that another should have enough strength to shoulder his burden. If you do that, you lend him some of your own strength.

Etty Hillesum
An Interrupted Life

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