“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(This morning I was dressed to go to Joe Bumbalo’s funeral by 9:15. I didn’t feel like hanging around the house until 9:45 — the service was at 10:00 — so I told Margaret Bumbalo I’d run down to the hospital to see Jane first, then walk over. Jane was better, surprised to see me, trying to decide whether to go to hydro [she didn’t].

(I found the whole funeral experience quite interesting, though I understood little of what was going on. A priest gave a short talk at the funeral home, leading it off, maybe for shock value, by telling us that sooner or later every one of us would experience the same thing Joe Bumbalo had. The room was very impressive, with its beamed ceiling. I thought the timeless quality, of light and so forth, inside the large room where the casket lay was more than a little symbolic in itself, isolated as the room was from the apparent time of day, night, or season.

(The booklet explains much — all of the multitude of sittings and standings and kneelings that we went through in the pews; the gifts carried to the altar by the Bumbalo grandchildren; the hymns we listened to; the selections from the Bible read by the various priests; the responses we gave to the appropriate passages recited by the head priest, who read from the Gospel of John and other Biblical passages.

Your own knowledge, desire, purpose and intent tuned you into some such communications, so your concern for Joe Bumbalo (our next-door neighbor on Pinnacle Road) tuned you into his physical and emotional state at that time.

(On March 6, 1984 I wrote this in the daily notes I make each day at the hospital: “This afternoon I described to Jane my dream last night about Joe Bumbalo. [...]

[...] At 11:55 a.m., as I was waiting for a call from our lawyer, John Bumbalo, Joe’s son, called. [...]

[...] After supper tonight the Bumbalos had told us that Howard has been diagnosed as having cancer of the esophagus, and is to be operated on tomorrow morning. Venice is to stay with the Bumbalos. [...]

(Strange, the way things work—today, July 16, 1984, before I reread this session, Joe Bumbalo’s daughter Judy told me that Joe has only 2 or 3 more days to live— bone cancer.)

[...] Regarding my visit with Joe Bumbalo this morning: He has cancer. [...] Was Joe Bumbalo giving birth to a new life form that upon death would be released to continue its growth elsewhere, just as we believe Joe will do after his death?)

[...] When I returned home I visited our next-door neighbors, the Bumbalos, briefly. [...]

[...] Last night I had a very interesting, and at the same time almost a bothersome dream: I dreamed that while I was with Margaret and Joe Bumbalo and their son John, I discovered I was a latent homosexual. [...]

About your dream: (Pause.) You were telepathically picking up some of the thoughts of Joe Bumbalo as he suspiciously wondered about John, because John’s talents and abilities struck him as being too feminine. [...]

[...] Anyhow, on her own she said that the Oriental women further represented to Joe Bumbalo his ideas that son John’s abilities weren’t American—that, indeed, they were unAmerican, foreign to male sexuality, feminine. [...]

(Just as I turned Jane on her side after the session, our neighbor Joe Bumbalo — who is very ill with cancer — called to invite me to share Chinese food and rhubarb pie with him and his wife, Margaret. [...] To the Bumbalos’ surprise, I finally was able to finish the meal. [...]

(At the close of yesterday’s session I wrote that I visited Joe Bumbalo after leaving Jane at 7:00 p.m. While I was up in his room, 522, Margaret went down to say hello to Jane. [...]

[...] I told her that at lunch time John Bumbalo had called and said that his father wouldn’t be going home for a while: the doctor has found an infection in a lung. [...]

(As we talked Jane impressed upon me that she’d definitely picked up that a household pet would help our neighbor Joe Bumbalo a great deal — she wants me to be sure to impress upon Margaret Bumbalo that this is the case; she felt it strongly, it wasn’t just a generalized idea, Jane said.)

[...] In 330 I found presents from the Bumbalos for both of us. [...]

(Margaret Bumbalo gave Jane a colored-glass butterfly of yellow and blue-stained glass, opened flat for a wall decoration, and fastened by a suction cup. [...]

(I’d left the house a little early this noon so that I’d have a bit of extra time to go up to room 522 at the hospital, to see if Joe Bumbalo was there — but he wasn’t. I made the trip again after leaving Jane, and this time found him. [...]

(When I pulled into the driveway at home, John Bumbalo came walking out of his garage with a large piece of lemon pie for me. [...]

[...] As I was taking my nap in 330 this afternoon, Margaret Bumbalo called, inviting me across the street for supper this evening.)

[...] I’d stayed much longer at the Bumbalos than I’d planned. [...]

[...] It was John Bumbalo. [...]

(After a late supper I went over to see the Bumbalo family. [...]

[...] Just before I did Margaret Bumbalo called and invited me for supper. [...]

[...] After I got home from the Bumbalo’s, Louise Stamp called. [...]

(I told her about Joe Bumbalo’s obituary notice that I’d found in yesterday’s paper, and that after I left 330 tonight I’d stop at the funeral home to see Joe and the family. [...]

[...] I told the Bumbalos I’d call if anything came up early in the day. [...]

[...] Neighbor John Bumbalo took delivery of the package yesterday afternoon while I was at the hospital, and brought it over as soon as he saw me drive into the garage. [...]

(I would add that much of my present concern seemed to have been brought to a conscious focus by an even that took place last Saturday evening, when Jane spontaneiously asked the Bumbalos over for a drink. [...]

The event with your company (Bumbalos), however, points rather dramatically toward important changes in Ruburt’s mental patterns, and he has had reminiscent experiences since. [...]

(I called Margaret Bumbalo in room 522 to see how Joe is. [...]

[...] It was John Bumbalo, our neighbor who lives across the street from our hill house. [...]

(Jane, with Carla’s help, tried to call me twice last night, but I didn’t get back to the house from John Bumbalo’s until about midnight. [...]

(When I got home from 330 I called Margaret Bumbalo. [...]