“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

I think that I’ve had a number of waking and dreaming experiences in which Jane and I have communicated with each other since her physical death thirteen months ago. So have others. I’m offering two such events of my own, and one from the friend I’ve never met in person, Valerie Wood.

So if I insist that I’ve communicated with Jane at times, then I’m obligated to consider statements from others claiming the same thing. But in ordinary terms, even if my wife’s death has left me more open and vulnerable to psychic possibilities, I still shrink from offering any sort of blanket assurance. (“Yes, I’m convinced that you have reached Jane, just as I have.”) I’m not contradicting myself when I note that perhaps — and I’ve suspected for a long time that ultimately this is correct — it is true that on some far levels of consciousness and communication that we do not (or even cannot) understand at this “time,” each person who is so inclined to do so has at least touched a Jane who responded clearly enough. She will continue to do so. In this view, those elements in such messages that have no meaning for me can be only distortions on the part of the medium or the letter-writer or the poet. I do think that communication among entities, whether they’re physical or nonphysical, is always going on, and from every conceivable angle and in every way. Hardly a new thought, yet grasping it, or even speculating about it, is to touch upon a portion of the mystery of life. (And from where you are, Jane, what do you think of my very cautious approach?)

Along with my conscious contacts with Jane, I created a number of metaphors, or implied comparisons, revolving around her death. I’ll describe one now and work in another one later. These constructs, which are sometimes quite effortless, show how I began to express my longing for my wife very creatively even during a time of great stress. I’ve often become aware of the one to follow; it reminds me of certain speculations and truths that I think will always be with me.

Last night was the fifth night in a row that I’ve slept on the screened-in back porch in my new sleeping bag. I didn’t start doing this to avoid the bedroom that Jane and I had shared in the hill house for the last nine years, but because I’d always wanted to and now can. Jane is no longer here for me to be so close to, night and day, to leap to take care of when she needs me. She’d never been able to sleep on the porch — one of the reasons we’d had it added onto the house to begin with.

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