“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(From the outside only, Jane and I inspected several homes in Elmira. The first one we looked at — a bungalow on a Foster Avenue — intrigued us considerably. Our interest was hardly coincidental, though. Debbie had pointed out a photograph of it in a local real estate catalog, and we were quite aware that it bore a good resemblance to the house we’d considered buying in Sayre, Pennsylvania, in the spring of 1974.³ Besides being bungalows, both houses were of about the same age, and even of similar colors.

The Sumari characteristics do not exist in isolation, of course. To one extent or another, each family of consciousness carries within it the characteristics inherent in all of the families. There is, therefore, great diversity.

The Sumari abilities are highly creative ones, however. To a large extent they have been inhibited in your society. I have been speaking of them here so that each individual can learn to recognize his or her own degree of Sumariness. The playful, creative elements of personality can then be released. These qualities are particularly important as they add to, temper, or enhance the primary characteristics of the other families of consciousness.

The psyche as you know it, then, is composed of a mixture of these families of consciousness. One is not superior to the others. They are just different, and they represent various ways of looking at physical life. (Pause.) A book would be needed to explain the dimensions of the psyche in relation to the different families of consciousness. Here, in this manuscript, I merely want to make the reader aware of the existence of these psychic groupings. I am alert to the fact that I am using many terms, and that it may seem difficult to understand the differences between probable and reincarnational selves, counterparts and families of consciousness. At times contradictions may seem to exist. You may wonder how you are you in the midst of such multitudinous psychic “variations.”

An apple can be red, round, weigh so much, be good to eat, sit in a basket, but be natural on a tree. It can be tart or sweet. You can find one on the ground, or on a table, or in a pie. None of these things are contradictory to the nature of an apple. You do not ask: “How can an apple have color and be round at the same time?”

(9:40.) So far, you do not hold your consciousness in your hand, however. When I speak of the behavior of your psyche, then, you may wonder: “How can my psyche exist in more than one time at once?” It can do this just as an apple can be found on a table or on the ground or on the tree.

The inside dimensions of consciousness cannot be so easily described, however. If you ask: “How can I have reincarnational and probable selves at once?”, you are asking a question comparable to the one mentioned earlier, colon: “How can an apple have color and be round at the same time?”

Following this analogy, in the same way each psyche contains within it infinite notes, and each note is capable of its own endless creative variations. You follow one melody of yourself, and for some reason you seem to think that the true, full orchestra of yourself will somehow drown you out (intently).

When I speak in terms of counterparts, then, or of reincarnational selves and probable selves, I am saying that in the true symphony of your being you are violins, oboes, cymbals, harps — in other words, you are a living instrument through which you play yourself. You are not an instrument upon which you are played. You are the composer and the symphony. You play ballads, classical pieces, lyrics, operas. One creative performance does not contradict the others.

Returning to our comments about the alternate compositions, you can at any time bring into your own life-composition elements from any “alternate” ones. Period.

Sometimes you act as though one ability contradicts another. You think “I cannot be a good parent and a sexual partner to my mate at the same time.” To those who feel this way a definite contradiction seems implied. A woman might feel that the qualities of a mother almost stand in opposition to those of an exuberant sex mate. A man might imagine that fatherhood meant providing an excellent home and income. He might think that “aggressiveness,”⁶ competition, and emotional aloofness were required to perform that role. These would be considered in opposition to the qualities of love, understanding, and emotional support “required” of a husband. In actuality, of course, no such contradictions apply. In the same way, however, you often seem to feel that your identity is dependent upon a certain highly specific role, until other qualities quite your own seem threatening. They almost seem to be unselflike.⁷

To some degree you feel the same way when you encounter the concept of probable selves, or of counterparts. It is as though you had an unlimited bank of abilities and characteristics from which to draw, and yet were afraid of doing so — fearing that any addition could make you less instead of more. If all of this goes on personally, as you choose one melody and call it yourself, then perhaps you can begin to see the mass creative aspects in terms of civilizations that seem to rise and fall.

(10:48.) In that case, you see, there would be in another reality a carpenter or his equivalent with a latent love of words, unexpressed — and that individual would then begin to develop; reading books on how to write, perhaps, and taking up a hobby that would allow him to express in words his love of the land and its goods. (With emphasis:) The creativity of the psyche means that no one world or experience could ever contain it. Therefore does it create the dimensions in which it then has its experiences.

Each portion, by whatever name, contains within it the latent potentials of the whole. If the unknown reality exists, it is because you play one melody over and over and so identify yourself, while closing out, consciously at least, all of the other possible variations that you could add to that tune.

(Still in the same intense manner:) This does not mean that a tragic life is more vital than a happy, simple one. It just means that each individual is involved in an art of living. There are different themes, instruments, melodies — but existence, like great art, cannot be confined to simple definitions.

From the outside, for instance, it might seem as if a young person dies because in one way or another he or she is dissatisfied with life itself. Certainly it is usually taken for granted that suicides are afraid of life. However, suicides and would-be suicides often have such a great literal lust for life that they constantly put it into jeopardy, so that they can experience what it is in heightened form. The same applies to many who follow dangerous professions. It is fashionable to suppose that these people have a death wish. Instead, many of them have an intensified life wish, so to speak. Certainly it seems destructive to others. To those people, however, the additional excitement is worth the risk. The risk, in fact, gives them an intensified version of life.⁹

He picks, or she picks, victims as intuitively as the victim seeks out the slayer. On the other hand, Mary’s experiences in life may make her change her mind, so to speak, so that at 17 she encounters a severe illness instead, from which she victoriously recovers. Or she might narrowly miss being murdered when a bullet from the killer’s gun hits the person next to her. On an entirely different level and in a different way, she might have no such experiences but be a writer of murder mysteries, or a nurse in surgery. The particular variations that one person might play are endless. You cannot consciously begin to alter the framework of your life, however, unless you realize first of all that you form it. The melody is your own. It is not inevitable, nor is it the only tune that you can play.

To some extent you can actualize portions of your own unknown reality, and draw them into the experienced area of your life. There is an obvious relationship between one note and another in a musical composition. Now in terms of physical families and in larger terms of countries, there is a relationship between realities, which constantly change as the notes do. To some extent your reality is picked up by your contemporaries. They accept it or not according to the particular theme or focus of their lives.

(Actually, she now had many channels open from Seth. It seemed that every topic we mentioned engendered another one. Seth even had “a bunch of stuff” available on Jane, myself, and music. This included data on my starting to take violin lessons when I was eight years old — an event I hadn’t thought of for what seemed to be decades [it took place in 1927], but which I was able to instantly recall as soon as Jane mentioned it.)

The 726th session was held on a Monday night, and was the last one for “Unknown” Reality for the year. During a private session on the Wednesday night following, Seth had a few things to say relative to our upcoming house adventures:

7. In Volume 1, see Appendix 2 for Seth’s discussion of the conflicts I felt between my artistic, writing, and sportsman selves. I spent a number of years working to resolve those feelings. From the private session for January 30, 1974, which I quoted in Appendix 2: “Your father’s creativity … had its side of secrecy, privacy and aloneness … you identified creatively with his private nature. The writing self became latent as the sportsman did, yet the writing self and the artist were closely bound. You felt conflicts at time. It never occurred to you that the two aspects could release one another — one illuminating the other — and both be fulfilled. Instead you saw them as basically conflicting. You believed the painting self had to be protected … as you felt that your father had to protect his creative self in the household….”

And in a note for that session I wrote: “Years ago, when Jane and I began living in Sayre, Pennsylvania, not long after our marriage in 1954, I began telling myself that before I reached the age of 40 I’d know whether I wanted to concentrate upon writing or painting — but that if I’d failed to do so before that date, I would then decide upon one or the other of those creative arts. I turned 40 in 1959 — and chose painting.”