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Vocation
A Prayer
This is the 250th issue of The Sun. Given the life expectancy of most small journals, I’d like to offer a prayer of thanks. But on which knee? To which God? I’ve always been reluctant to identify myself with any spiritual path. I don’t even like to use the word spiritual, because it divides the world into what is and what isn’t.
October 1996The Toy Factory
The astronaut and his guides were making their way toward Assembly when Sally Jerzik lost her finger in the box press. People said her screams were louder than the conveyors, louder than the hoppers even.
September 1996Taking Sides
Buying a gun; reading Being Peace, by Thich Nhat Hanh; going to the hole for fifteen days
September 1996Silas
Silas works at a social-service agency. He sits inside a cubicle, behind a metal desk with a simulated-wood surface. One by one, people — mostly old women, but some old men, too — come and sit on a metal folding chair across the desk from Silas, where they weep and whine and struggle to maintain their dignity and finally grow vexed and demand their Social Security checks.
September 1996At The Window
I am standing at the bay window in our living room, watching my son walk down the street. I am Nathan Gold, son of Morris, father of Jeffrey. I am Nathan, son of Rose, husband of Jacqueline, father of Jeffrey.
June 1996Where The Parking Lot Is Now
I wondered how I’d feel when the place was gone. It would stay alive in my memory, but I couldn’t take much comfort from that. Memories we’re sure are indelible — how long do they really last?
April 1996Living Well
I used to think “Don’t cry over spilled milk” was a warning not to cry from the beating you got for spilling your milk. My father’s violence at the dinner table was breathtaking. He would grab the offender by the arm and yank her out of her seat.
March 1996The Art Of Living
When we learn to stop, we begin to see, and when we see, we understand. Peace and happiness are the fruit of that understanding. In order to be with our friend, a flower, or our co-workers, we need to learn the art of stopping.
March 1996Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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