“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

You did not dwell consciously on the kind of woman you wanted. Some men never achieve any kind of creative or stable relationship with a woman, and so they are acutely aware of that lack in their lives. One purpose was met, then, when you married Ruburt. Your desire to paint, per se, did not emerge full blown when you were a young man, and one probable self is happily engaged in commercial artwork. He wonders what would have happened had he done something else. You did not meet Ruburt either until you were in your thirties, so the challenges set were not those that would be solved by a conventionally young man.

You could have followed still another course—one in which you did not become involved in any intellectual or challenging concepts but bypassed them completely. That kind of painting can be excellent, but it also involves an intense immersion in the emotions, to the exclusion of any important conceptualizing. The greatest kind of painting includes both the intuitions and the intellect, but in your terms this also requires the maturing of the high intellect. You decided to take that course. In a different way Ruburt chose the same journey. Had he not delved into deeper questions, he could very well have been the novelist, going no further than a novelist can into the nature of personality or motivation.

(10:05.) Now: it is obvious to you that Ruburt uses his symptoms to control his spontaneity, to mete it out, so to speak. You would never take on such symptoms. You should by now understand some of your own characteristics. They are like Ruburt’s, only a different mixture. You have often tried to control your painting, rather than to let it go through you onto the canvas. And precisely when you come to a point of sudden spontaneity in work, then you use the matter of distractions to slow you down. You seize upon them because you do not trust your own spontaneity in your work.

Frank can say to Ruburt (Frank called Jane a “tough little bird”—which she liked), “Truly, your legs can straighten. The muscles are tight, but they are not impaired,” and you can agree that this is true. Ruburt is faced with the sensation of tightness, however—there is something there in his experience to deal with, so that his senses can conform to his belief about his body. While he tries to free it he is faced with the lingering, quite valid-seeming evidence of his senses. So you are encountering the evidence of your senses, so that the chores seem to hound you. You do not seem to have time in a day to do what you want. As long as you keep telling yourself those things, they will be true. Ruburt is trying to say “There is nothing basically wrong with my body, though in my reality there seems to be.” That sounds like a legitimate statement to you, and it is. I am telling you that the number of distractions in your life is laughable, though in your experience they appear quite threatening. “I am free to do my painting.” How many times have you said that to yourself—yet in that statement lies great freedom, for you must change your belief.

(10:20.) “I can be free and spontaneous in my painting. I can let my ability flow outward through my fingertips and brush, so that I create an entirely new reality upon the board.”

Give us a moment.... Some of your private and joint problems spring from cultural beliefs that you are intellectually aware of, but not emotionally free from. Your idea of a separate painting studio, and some of your attendant ideas, are simply hangovers that you do not have to accept, springing from your father and his garage. You are aware of the connection, but you make no attempt to get above it.

You also have ideas of guilt about your painting that are culturally induced. Again, you recognize them, but you do not try to rise above them emotionally. The painting does not bring in money, so to punish yourself you do not enjoy it sufficiently—but concentrate upon the distractions instead. You do your financial part with the books, but you still tie in your social identity with your painting, and to some extent you still feel that that social identity is dependent upon the money your “art” should produce, so you punish yourself by not enjoying your painting time. This also impedes your spontaneity in painting, of course.

You felt guilty about the picnic table for the same reason. You wanted to be able to buy it for Ruburt, with money from painting. You do not get on top of your own negative thought patterns, therefore, though you can see Ruburt’s to some extent.

(10:42.) Great talent requires great spontaneity. Neither of you really believe it. You put up barriers to protect the creative self from the exterior world, which you fear would destroy it, and from the interior world, for left alone the creative self might just slam paint upon a canvas without discipline, or might show more than we are willing to show. We do not trust ourselves to spontaneously develop our own technique. Spontaneity knows its own order. Order springs from spontaneity, and spontaneity from order.