“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Jane began to cry when she recounted the time at home a few years ago when she couldn’t get up and on her feet — finally reaching that point of helplessness. I got mad at her and yelled, saying I’d leave her sitting there if she didn’t get up — thus displaying my own deep fears that we had reached a sad and desperate point in the course of the symptoms. She remembered my crying at times. I told her I’d cried at times when she hadn’t known it.

(“Years ago in the 1960’s,” Jane said, “I thought I loved you a lot more than you loved me, and that you could get along very well all by yourself.” I said that was a total misconception on her part, that I’d never had such ideas, nor wanted to do any such thing. It had never entered my head. I knew things bugged me — working, being an artist, or trying to, and so forth — but not anything to do with her. I didn’t even fear fatherhood as much as she feared becoming pregnant. Not that I wanted fatherhood.

(4:33. “I did pretty good,” Jane said as I lit a smoke for her. “I didn’t know whether I could do it or not. I almost came out of it a couple of times, but I did it.” I’d noticed the instances she meant. I read the session to her. She had a couple of thoughts as she listened to me. One: She transferred stuff about excommunication into the loss of companionship — that nobody would want anything to do with you if you crossed them up. Two: She’d tried to be more like me — cooler, not expressing so many emotions, more in control. And that had been a mistake on her part, a serious one, born, I said, out of her desire for protection and love.