“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

In other words, my poetry finally revealed to me my state of mind before “Idea Construction” and Seth. Little by little, using it as a guide, other memories came back to me — all trivial in comparison to real tragedy and yet, to me, bitterly depressing. The death of a kitten that year led me to write:

A small household tragedy, the death of a cat, yet to me it contained the question of the uniqueness of life and the value of consciousness. Didn’t anyone or anything care that one cat had died? I felt guilty even considering the question. In a world where humans slaughtered their own kind constantly, who in their right mind would give a moment’s thought to a cat’s consciousness? Yet either all life was sacred, or none of it was. So I brooded.

No man can look in his son’s face,
What was done to him he does in turn,
For he carries the hate in his blood.
Ghosts of days forgotten,
Tragedies unseen, unspoken,
Wait in the past’s proud flesh,
And nothing can shake them off.