“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] (The apartments are on the second floor.) Jane’s psychic identification with the leaves of the great oak tree, growing so close beside the second apartment’s kitchen windows, marked the beginning of a different kind of relaxation for her; the kitchen became her evocative “tree house.” [...]

Now it’s later and he’s just sort of sitting there and he’s drinking and they’re in the kitchen and she threw something—and she says now she’d rather he (pause) was really full of life again like he was… Rather than like an old man…

Around 1:00 P.M., as Rob and I finished lunch in the kitchen and waited for the mailman, a fan turned up. [...]

As Seth came through, Mitzi was playing her favorite game—again and again knocking her paper-ball toy down the steps leading into the celler from the kitchen, then racing down after it and carrying it back upstairs.)

[...] The kitchen once more becomes a sacred place of nourishment to him, and the food that he prepares is much more nourishing to your bodies, because of his attitude and its results upon the atoms and molecules composing the food.

[...] I threw open a kitchen window when Jane called my attention to that familiar honking sound. [...]

[...] He slept in the kitchen. [...]

[...] At 8:59 she was in the kitchen making coffee. [...]

Your kitchen is a room you walk through in your house. [...]

Ruburt will be in fine fettle by Saturday in regards to financial matters, and his kitchen. [...]

(At 4:45 PM, while talking to Jane in the kitchen as she prepared supper, I experienced the now familiar feeling of enlargement in my right hand. [...]

[...] She rises before dawn and makes herself “a simple quick breakfast” — just so she can read, make some notes, and watch the sky lightening outside the kitchen window. [...]

[...] It was a warm if snowy night, and we had a kitchen window open for fresh air; all through her delivery I’d been aware of the traffic ceaselessly negotiating the intersection just west of “our” apartment house, of course, and had asked her to repeat a number of words. [...]

[...] He had me stand with my head out of the kitchen window in the cold night air, but nothing seemed to help. [...]

[...] As Seth, Jane sat waiting quietly until I came back from the kitchen.)

[...] He went out to the kitchen, where the ball after he played with it finally rolled. [...]

(Now that idea, I thought as I went into the kitchen to get Jane some wine for the session, made sense—it could account for the perpetuation of her symptoms on a daily, present-life basis, and made a lot more sense than thinking she was suffering now because of something that happened to her when she was perhaps eight years old or whatever. [...]

[...] In the morning I thought strongly of Venetian blinds, that I would like some on the kitchen windows. [...]

[...] The two tiny kitchens show clearly that the nourishment of food has been given the last spot, in both of your lives. [...]

[...] On September 28, 1978, Jane wrote this little poem when I brought in a few blooms from the climber growing up the trellis at the northeast corner of our hill house, near the kitchen windows: