“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(This morning I was dressed to go to Joe Bumbalo’s funeral by 9:15. I didn’t feel like hanging around the house until 9:45 — the service was at 10:00 — so I told Margaret Bumbalo I’d run down to the hospital to see Jane first, then walk over. Jane was better, surprised to see me, trying to decide whether to go to hydro [she didn’t].

(I was one of six honorary pallbearers. We stood outside after the service, three in a row facing each other on the porch, while six others carried Joe’s casket between us and down the steps to the hearse.

(I found the whole funeral experience quite interesting, though I understood little of what was going on. A priest gave a short talk at the funeral home, leading it off, maybe for shock value, by telling us that sooner or later every one of us would experience the same thing Joe Bumbalo had. The room was very impressive, with its beamed ceiling. I thought the timeless quality, of light and so forth, inside the large room where the casket lay was more than a little symbolic in itself, isolated as the room was from the apparent time of day, night, or season.

(It was all part of the ritual, Jane said later as we went over the booklet together in 330. Only now she was surprised to see that it was printed all in English. In her day it had been printed in Latin on one page, with the English translation on the page opposite. The new way seemed very strange to her.

(The service wasn’t as long as I’d thought it might be, though, and we were on our way to the cemetery shortly before noon, winding through the quiet tree-lined side streets. The day had turned hot and bright and humid — a beautiful day to be alive, actually, though I’d agreed with the priests when each of them said that Joe was in an even better place now.

(Perhaps 20–25 people were at graveside, compared to the much larger group at the church. The priests spoke briefly. They were perfectly sincere people, and I found it arresting to listen to them as they spoke of Jesus Christ, the afterlife, and so forth, with such utter sincerity and conviction. Their commitment was for life, I thought, and so was bound to be different than most other people’s. I wondered how often they went through roughly the same procedures with the dead, and speculated about how their sincerity and love must have stood them in good stead at such often-repeated times. For each time, they had to ring true to those left behind, adding those necessary personal touches, and references and little stories, to match the personal history of the newly deceased.

(I didn’t stay for the lowering of the casket. I don’t know whether the immediate family did or not. John Bumbalo had made arrangements for someone to give me a ride back to the hospital, where my car was. Jane and I went over the booklet of burial rites after lunch. I felt peaceful and tired, and put off starting these notes for a long time.

(August 7, 1984. Patty called me at noon and said Jane wanted me to come to 330 early if I could. I finished a sandwich and went down. She was doing fairly well by then, but had had a very rough morning. She’d gone to hydro, and hadn’t fared too well: new people, students, had helped position her, and hadn’t done it right. Jane said she’d had a much better night than usual, though.

(I’d told her several times in recent days that I thought her right knee was draining considerably less as a rule, and that several other scabs on her body were showing signs of clearing up. The swelling on her left shoulder blade varies considerably in size from day to day.

(I was pretty quiet today, mostly because I felt tired and didn’t know what else to do to try to get her to eat or be more open about physical motion. So I said nothing, feeling very frustrated. Jane ate little lunch, though she said she did better with breakfast. I decided to stop saying anything about either hydro or her eating, since it appeared to have no effect.

(I didn’t expect her to have a session. When she did, her voice was quite uneven; she spoke with many pauses, at times in a peculiar pronunciation that I had trouble understanding. Eyes often closed.)

(“Thank you.” 4:27 p.m. Jane ate very little for supper — then she threw it all up, so ended up without food since noon. I was frustrated and discouraged. She just will not eat. She called at 9:15 with Carla’s help. She said something about she should eat something before the night passes. I don’t know how she’s going to manage that. I didn’t ask.)