“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

“Since I trust my feelings,” I wrote, “I just know that I’ve met Jane again. In this ‘adventure in consciousness’ she leaves the choices up to me — and I very clearly tell myself that I’m not ready to leave this mundane world. The experience is full of highly creative images.

October 13, 1984. Jane has been dead for thirty-eight days. It has finally come to me that the dark tunnels of those streets I run on, with their mysterious implications of the unknown, and the fear of the dark that such streets can generate, are physically oriented metaphors for the transition Jane has made to another reality. In our terms, the tunnel shapes lead to an unfathomable new reality that is supposedly filled with the light of the universe. That light is symbolized by the streetlights shining through the tunnels every so often, and hinting at that great brilliant reality beyond. This metaphor is particularly apropos at this time, with the trees still carrying their thick growth of leaves — yet later in the fall it may become even more applicable as the leaves drop and the streetlights, poor as they may be in comparison to the light of the universe, can shine through a little more brilliantly.

My first conscious contact with Jane took place less than two hours after she had died. After making certain funeral arrangements for her by telephone, before leaving the hospital, I drove home at about 4:00 A.M.

A block to the west of the hill house, the main road drops straight down into the outskirts of Elmira. Opening off the road to the left like a series of steps are short, level sidestreets upon which I often run late at night. In the beginning the running helped me physically handle my grief over Jane’s passing; I cried often as I ran, and tried to comprehend where she is now. I’m a natural runner, but had been unable to do more than a little jogging in recent years because of the pressures of work and of taking care of Jane as she became more and more ill. After her death I could run nightly if I chose to. I find that activity still secret and evocative. The streets are lined with trees arching up to meet overhead; periodically those intersecting patterns of leaves and branches are punctuated by bursts of light from the streetlamps. At certain times the moon follows me along in its phases. The only sounds might be the wind in the treetops and the chug-chug of my shoes on the asphalt. A dog may bark in the distance. When I do it right I float effortlessly along. And amid my tears I finally permitted the obvious to become obvious to me. The following is revised from my entry in my grief notebook.

[...] If I could leave my body and go out into the physical world, then I didn’t see why I couldn’t leave it and explore the inner one.

At the precise time of Ruburt’s dream, Miss Cunningham was deciding to leave this plane of reality. [...]

[...] There is a period of adjustment after leaving any plane, although yours involves the most difficulty since your camouflage pattern is unusually rigid.

[...] “I mean, that Miss Cunningham just leaves this old body of hers behind and appears someplace else as a young girl.”

[...] Mark offered to leave after I explained as best I could what was happening, but I said that we’d rather wait for the next regular scheduled session night.)

[...] I would not leave you with the impression that I was truly displeased or that I judge you unjustly. [...]

And as your dreams originate with you, rise from you, attain a seeming independence and have their ending with you, so do the entity’s personalities arise from him, attain various degrees of independence and return to him while never leaving him for an instant.

[...] This time, we decided not to have any “format” or particular plans but to leave ourselves open to whatever might happen. [...]

The trees in the forest
Stand secret and silent,
Their voices suspended
In lungs of leaves
That only can whisper
Of dreams held dormant,
That breathe only once
In a thousand years.

While I sleep and lie stretched out,
Eyelids closed and pupils dark,
Who walks wide-eyed downstairs
Through the door in the cold night air,
And travels where I have never been?
Who leaves clear memories in my head
Of people I have never met?
Who takes these trips while I
Never lift one inch from bed?
Who dreams?