“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

By then, of course, Rob and I felt a strong commitment to the sessions. Now we feel that we have a twice-weekly appointment with the universe, and certainly this attitude developed during those projection sessions when we tried during the day to follow the instructions given by Seth. Sessions were held in the bedroom then. Now we hold them in Rob’s back studio. Both rooms are to the rear of the apartment and more private than the living room. So even space-wise, there seems to be a connection between those earlier sessions and the present ones in which Seth is dictating his own book.

Now, like then, we close the living room door so we won’t hear the phone or be interrupted by visitors. Rob moves my favorite rocker in. We usually take some wine. So from nine until nearly midnight, there we are — humble listeners. Of course, its also possible that we’re picking up, hearing and transcribing only cosmic noise. I doubt it, but even then I’d rather spend my life in the quest for meaning, the search for learning, rather than ignore the messages and signals that have appeared within our world. And I do believe that we are in contact with a source quite beyond our normal comprehension.

It may be that the frog could have learned more by exploring his own frogness, and, certainly, I felt rather superior to the frog and the nature of his search — that’s implied in the poem. Now it seems to me that any lively exploration into reality should lead to exuberence and greater understanding, not sadness and alienation. And I don’t believe that our world, like the watch, is simply a discard from another greater reality, though certainly it is a part of one.

Remember that I told you you may visit not only the past, present or future as it exists or will exist in your terms, but you may also visit realities that never existed physically. In our early sessions, I mentioned that intensity regulated the ‘duration’ of experience. Now, many events that were only imagined never took place physically, yet they exist. They simply are not a part of your definition of reality. You may, therefore, visit a museum that was planned in the sixteenth century but never built. Such a museum has a reality as valid as the house in which you live.

Without moving my physical body and with my physical eyes closed, I reached over and checked my dream book, finding that the page was blank. Really angry at this self-deception, I decided to get out of bed entirely, go into the living room, turn the light on and make sure that I really wrote the dreams down this time. (When I got out of bed here, I believe that I was in my dream body, without realizing it.)

The next thing I knew, I was out in the living room having some difficulty standing on the floor, but bumping up and down a few feet above the rug. This, in itself, should have told me that I was out of my body, but the realization didn’t come. As I stood there, trying to figure out what was going on, I heard someone at the door. In came Miss Cunningham, wearing a nightgown and robe. She was mumbling and crying to herself, confused and disoriented. “Mrs. Butts? Mrs. Butts?” she kept saying, exactly as she used to when she came to me for help.

I stood there a moment, wondering how she got in, and decided that I must have left the door unlocked. But how to get her back to her own apartment, I wondered? I completely forgot that she had moved. Now I stood by the bathroom door. She came closer, muttering under her breath, and for a moment the two of us were clearly delineated by the streetlight. Our eyes met. Instantly I realized that I was out of my body, and so was she. Miss C. gave a deep, frightened gasp and disappeared. Instantly, I opened my eyes to find myself in bed, body and all. I was as bewildered as I’ve ever been. Only one split second ago I’d been in the living room.

I’m convinced that I left my body when I decided to go into the living room, and met Miss C. who was traveling in her dream body, wandering about in her old surroundings and coming in for help as she used to do. Unfortunately, my critical sense was fully awakened only toward the end of the experience, though I made several valiant efforts to understand my condition.

On another occasion, I gave myself suggestions that during the night, I would project to Peg and Bill Gallagher’s house. When morning came, I remembered nothing except that I had tried to get there, drifted off in the general area, then lost proper control of my consciousness. A few days later Peg called me with a strange story. A newspaper man, a colleague of hers, told Peg that, though he didn’t know me at all, he awakened in the middle of the night convinced that I was in his room. My name kept coming to him over and over, and he sensed my presence. The man has no interest in psychic matters, and told Peg because he knew she was a friend of mine. His experience happened the same night that I tried to get to Gallaghers — and he lives in the same area.