“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

It wasn’t too long however before Jane, already writing rudimentary poetry, began to have creative conflicts with the doctrinaire priests. She told me how eventually one of the older priests burned certain “forbidden” books of hers in the backyard incinerator, including one she particularly admired: Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. There were other conflicts also, that Jane didn’t reveal to her mother: certain persistent hints and requests as she began to mature, Jane told me more than once, for favors from a young priest that she intuitively rejected. She left the church when she was 19, despite Marie’s bitter objections.

When Jane entered the hospital for the last 21 months of her life, I could run all I wanted to. I usually spent the morning typing the session she had delivered the afternoon before for The Way Toward Health, answering mail, running, and running errands. I went to her room at noon and stayed until the evening, seven days a week, every week. I still remember asking myself as I trotted along on my 65th birthday on June 20: “Should I still be doing this?” My answer was yes, for that action, free of any other personal responsibility, helped me stay connected with the outside world in my own way. Jane died later that year. John Bumbalo did me an enormous favor in the hours following Jane’s death. When I came home from the hospital for the last time in a year and 9 months, John went to Jane’s room 330 and very carefully gathered up all of the belongings and artifacts we had accumulated there and brought them to me in 1730: my paintings and drawings, the letters from readers that I had put up on the walls (the hospital never complained), the session notebooks for The Way Toward Health, our books and magazines and newspapers and clothes, the flowers and other gifts from readers and from some of the nurses—all of those things that seem to accumulate almost by themselves as one seeks to create a home wherever that may be.