“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Jane ate little lunch. I didn’t urge her to, or ask questions about hydro or anything else. She dictated the following poem from 2:15–2:28 p.m.)

(The swelling on her shoulder was up again, but I noticed there was no drainage at all from her knee, nor was there for the rest of the afternoon. Jane said she’d been picturing herself at the old apartments on Water Street [we’d ended up with two], and around town as she used to go — all as though she were taking the last grand tour. When she was finished with all of this she asked me what I thought. I said I didn’t have anything to say. I no longer carry on like I used to, or get mad, and so forth. I could hardly make her do something she didn’t want to do, but I didn’t say that either. If she wanted to die that was it. The hell with it, I thought. I decided — again — that I was through worrying about whether she’d live or die, or whether she was starving herself to death, or whatever.

(I told her I didn’t want to overdo it, so I turned her on her side. After my nap, I turned her back. As I propped her left leg with the pillow, I discovered that it would still move, for the tendons were still soft. At the same time Jane was in pain — natural enough, I said — for according to conventional belief, muscles that hadn’t been used were supposed to hurt. I also let loose with a few barbed comments, to the effect that she wasn’t about to let the body do its thing, no matter what it wanted.

(Jane was both surprised and pleased at the unexpected discovery of motion. I said we’d try it again tomorrow. In fact, after supper she began to hurt even more. I didn’t know what to do except a few light touches of massage on the right upper leg. Even I was surprised to feel it move beneath my hand — that it could still do so after being held in that position for many months, following the fracture of the knee. Her abdomen still feels rock hard, though.