“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Jane hadn’t shown me any of these poems as she wrote them over a period of some four and a half years. She didn’t keep them from me deliberately. In one way they’re like casual jottings that she left half finished and unseen in her journals, until I found them when I began searching for fresh material for the frontmatter of this Volume 2 of Dreams. In another way they contain deep and private insights, ranging from her free, marveling childhood yearning and intuitive knowing up to her present physically impaired condition—her arthritic-like “symptoms,” as we call them—and beyond to the final state of her work after her death. I found each poem to be a revelation, stirring sad and questioning wells of emotion. I can’t help but mourn as I write this piece; I tell myself that had I seen the poems as Jane produced them I might have learned a little more about her each time; I might have been able to help her more than I had over the years. At the same time, it’s as though she’s just finished the poems, so fresh and consistent do they seem to me. And as I reread them I understand once again that my wife is still teaching me about her courage, and about the ineffable, unending mystery of the universe that each one of us is creating moment by moment, separately and all together.

lord let me remember how it was
when i nudged my skin
against the touch of each new morning
and bounded through
the thick thought-forests
that stretched between dawn and noon,
when like magic my lunch was put before me.
lord let me remember how it was
when i was so new
that i thought i was part of the morning.

lord let me remember how it was
when i nuzzled the air in the morning
and thought i could wiggle a distant leaf
just as i moved my own ears and toes.
i thought that i caused rain to fall
just as the tears from my own eyes
wet my cheeks,
and that my thoughts turned into clouds
that circled the top of my head.

(I hadn’t realized four years ago that Jane was speculating about leaving physical reality. Had I known, I would have been bewildered—at least at first. She was 47; I was 10 years older. As Jane wrote then about drawing strength from me by touching my arm, in April 1980 she touched my heart when I found this poem:)

I was walking past the world
one day,
half deciding not to stay,
when I saw you standing there,
ten years ahead of me in time
but so close in space
that I reached out
and touched your arm.

(“With all of her mental and physical challenges, my wife could still write a poem of humble thanks to the earth. Amazing!” Such was my first thought when I found this poem. Jane loved physical life with a deep, intuitive and psychic innocence then—and she still does. I don’t see how she can express that earthly love more clearly, simply, and beautifully than she does here. Yet, to me this poem also contains many other layers of meaning:)

I’ve done the best I could
with thy sweet heritage of blood,
one creature like all the rest
born from your power and benevolence,
graced to share in what you are
for your love’s multiplication
knows no prejudice,
so let me humbly state my thanks