“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

He will not die, despite himself, so to speak. His living is the most natural thing in the world. He is, therefore, not abandoned. The mysterious, creative healing energies do sustain him. Forget the knees as much as possible, and the seeming impediments.

(Very long pause.) The body’s motion already begins to assert itself. Let him find that motion. Above all, reassure him, and feel its presence. Again, the session should automatically help calm his mind and let the panic dissipate.

Remind Ruburt further (pause) that he did his best to help your mother, making efforts toward love and communication (long pause) that he felt you were not able to express toward your mother at times.

Remind him of his kindnesses to your apartment-house neighbor, Miss Callahan, to his many students, and of his love for you. Also remind him that he did not deal with malice toward his own mother. Do remind him affectionately and often that for many years he loved his mother deeply, and that his own existence made his grandfather experience a love that was a light in his later years.

These elements are all living and highly potent in the affairs of his life — so that in no way do his relationships with his mother (pause) become any isolated concentration, existing apart from the other affairs of life. Remind him that Ruburt loves nature, and always has. Nature loves Ruburt, and always has.

It may also be a good idea to read some portions of our late material over, substituting the name Jane rather than Ruburt. He is Jane to himself and to the universe and to you, and to his friends and his readers.

(We were talking at 3:45 when the phone rang. It was John Bumbalo. His father, Joe, had died at 2:00 p.m. John had just left the house, as Jane and I had left the rest home just before my mother died in November, 1973. Jane spoke to John, thanking him for looking after me. John told her I was “a wonderful man.” I felt a surge of emotion, half unbelieving, when she told me. Jane began to hum a song we both knew but couldn’t place — perhaps an aria from an Italian or Spanish opera. She said she thought it was connected to Joe somehow.

(I did no typing last night, but typed this session this morning after taking our cat, Billy, around the house on his morning jaunt. The phone rang at 10:25. It was Georgia. She put Jane on. “No big deal,” my wife said, “but I had a crappy night. Would you come down earlier and maybe eat lunch with me?”