“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] Only in dreams in your time, in your society, is the male free to cry unabashedly, to admit any kind of dependency, and only at certain occasions and usually in relative privacy is he allowed to express feelings of love.

[...] They had to lift Jane, and this hurt her; she cried. [...]

[...] Jane cried. [...]

[...] It is like crying wolf.

Let’s cut loose, you and I,
Zig-zag like fools beneath the sky,
Follow the crazy plunging moon
Through secret towns like crying clowns,

[...] Jane’s eyes snapped open and she cried out. [...]

Now laughing loud and heartily, or crying deeply—either would serve you well, help release inner feelings and help clear the inner channels. [...]

[...] Again Jane was nervous and edgy, near crying. [...]

[...] When the infant is born he still hears these sounds and voices, but again they do not meet his physical needs nor bring him milk when he cries, and gradually he discards them, focusing upon that data which best serves his physical purposes.

[...] The very consciousnesses within the smallest molecules cry out against any ideas of limitation. [...]

(Last night while we made love I broke down and cried for my worry over Jane.

[...] “See, that’s what I mean,” she said, half crying. [...]

[...] You no longer made each other laugh or cry. [...]

I wanted to cry, and for a moment I almost did — to be so interrupted. [...]

[...] My mother begins to cry. [...]

[...] They will not need to cry out for expression, for they will be fully admitted as members of the family of the self. [...]

and cry that what I sense

[...] I woke up with my stomach bothering me, and Jane, half crying, with a continuing of the strange, intensified feelings of uncontrolled motion/extra-slow motion combined and manifested in her back and legs. [...]

Were you born once in winter,
in Europe’s ice and snow,
when villages were dark at night
and wolves roamed the towering hills?
Or dark-skinned, did your swaddling cry
pierce Egypt’s early dawn?
How many birthdays come and gone,
how many homelands, each your own?
How many loves have whispered through
the patterns of your mind?
How many sons and daughters have grown
from your womb or loins?
What voices merge with mine
to wish you happy birthday,
and what loves within your past
lay out a feast of wine and cakes?

[...] Think that Rob’s and my relationship might now achieve new highlights, when suddenly I feel like crying.” [...]

[...] Now, there is joy in all this—and there is spontaneity—and you do not have to think in terms of walking into the inner self in a sack of ashes and crying repentance. [...]