“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

“Who knows?” I said. Later I started a poem on the idea, but couldn’t follow it through. “I can believe that almost anything is possible, theoretically or … philosophically,” I said. “When I think of the same thing in practical terms, apply it to life, that’s when I pull my horns in.”

But the deeper questions were now implied in ordinary events as I went about my day. Springtime again — the release of energy, the flowering of a landscape that, by all appearances, had been dead and nearly lifeless only weeks before. The implied promise of recurring life contrasted drearily with the few things we knew about life while we were in the flesh — much less free of it.

I wrote four more poems of varying merit about that one event and behind the whole affair was defiant recognition of the value of any consciousness, whatever its form. And the deeper question: Why was it ever annihilated, at least in our terms? Why was life constructed to be destroyed? I knew, even then, that I had to find my own answers — that each of us does. And yet at that point, I felt duty-bound to question my own experiences, Seth and the sessions because I refused to hide in self-delusions.

I’d identified all life with the birds, of course. Miss Cunningham, Rob, me and all the people that we knew were surely getting shot down; falling through time, we were dying in a descent that we couldn’t understand or control. Either that, or Seth and the material — still so strange to me — were giving answers that I refused, so far, to accept in practical terms.