“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

Because of the opposition of local people and Pennsylvania officials, utility executives have not been allowed to restart Unit No. 1, which was shut down for refueling at the time of the accident. The cleanup at TMI must proceed regardless of whether Unit No. 2 is repaired or decommissioned, or whether the entire plant is closed down. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission has rejected the idea of a sealed-up radioactive power plant sitting on its island in the Susquehanna River; the danger of eventual uncontrolled contamination, including seepage into the river, is too great.²

And she does well at times. When she began writing Magical Approach, she even surprised me by occasionally helping me get breakfast, cooking bacon and eggs at the hot plate I’d set up for her some seven months ago on the kitchen table.⁴ Although she could work at the table while sitting down, she’d given up those simple, nurturing acts of food preparation many weeks ago; her fingers weren’t working well enough, she told me at the time; she didn’t trust herself enough to handle hot food—and I admit that when she implied a risk, the chance of an accident, I stopped encouraging her to help me with meals.

We have an excellent stone fireplace in the living room of the hill house, and often during the winter months I used to build a fire in it at suppertime; we ate while sitting on the couch. Jane and I really enjoyed all of the deep implications conjured up by the wood fires. We had the fireplace cleaned a couple of years ago, however, and with that break in routine I gave up using it: By then my time had become so taken up each day with what seemed like an endless list of things to do—with trying to help Jane, with working, with running the house, with answering the mail and so forth—that I just stopped making fires.

Little by little / my strength arouses. / My muscles unravel /
which have been / folded tight, / saved for future use, /
and I sit up now / running brittle fingers /
through my sun-dried hair. / I say, “We went too far /
my friend. / From now on we’ll / have to go together /
just out as far as I can / walk or swim—or I’ll go /
mind-traveling with you. / But I won’t stay home /
alone again, / appliances turned down / halfway, waiting.”

When I look up at those three high, old-fashioned bay windows that illuminate the living room of Apartment 4, on the second floor of that house, I visualize Jane sitting behind them at her oak table, thinking and writing, intrigued and comforted by the busy patterns of people and automobiles traversing the intersection she looks down upon: Walnut and West Water Streets. And behind those windows, at night in that living room, she paces back and forth for hours at a time after she begins to speak for Seth in December 1963. She holds ESP classes there. Accordingly, then, a Jane Roberts Butts and a Robert F. Butts live in that apartment I’m creating. I think my nostalgia for those days reinforces our activities in larger realms of consciousness, as well as in our “present” joint reality, in which my wife is now chair-bound.