“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(She ate a rather skimpy lunch. At 2:59, as we talked, she began to speak about being scared and panicky again. Half crying and moaning in no time, arms and hands moving from where I’d propped them up. She did say her panicky feelings had to do with the session about her mother Marie yesterday, and a dream she’d had last night. Very good, I said, but she couldn’t actually pin down the source or subject matter for her panic today. She continued half crying. “Read me — read me yesterday’s session. I don’t know what I’m doing,” she cried, when I asked her if she was thinking about Marie.

(I read her the session at 2:48. Jane was moaning and crying. She didn’t want to hear my notes for the session, or the poem she’d dictated yesterday. I thought it important that she hear the notes, but had no choice except to wait.

(3:03. She was still teary, her voice often choked with emotion. She took the Darvoset to help calm her down. It was raining heavily, just as it had done periodically yesterday afternoon. Reading today’s session, so far, helped. Carla had said last night when she called that Jane was still doing the motions she’d begun yesterday. Now Jane told me a friend had visited earlier. When the motions had started up, Jane had asked her to leave, since she hadn’t wanted to do the motions in front of someone else.

(Jane had a cigarette. I told her it was important that I read her my notes for yesterday’s session, especially those pertaining to her mother. She finally agreed.

(3:30. “A little more session,” Jane said. Her delivery was much calmer now.)

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.

(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.

(After a late supper I went over to see the Bumbalo family. Margaret and I hugged. She almost cried. I could tell they’d all been crying. Yet they had the Olympics on TV, and John offered me a scotch and soda. There was much laughing and joking too. Margaret asked me if I’d be an honorary pallbearer at Joe’s funeral, and I said sure. She said I didn’t have to do anything. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I didn’t have a suit to wear — just my corduroys. I didn’t mention this.

(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?”

(Georgia said she’d order me a cold ham plate, and Jane and I made arrangements that I’d get there at noon — earlier wasn’t necessary, she said. Jane wasn’t going to hydro this morning, and Georgia was starting to bathe her in bed.