“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] I gave you one or two small examples of your mother’s probable existences. [...]

(Jane wondered how tonight’s material applied to my mother, [who had died three months ago]: “… to Mom Butts herself — not just the theory of it … Is she in another probability now?”

[...] “For reasons too personal to go into here, we haven’t yet tried to “tune into” my mother in her new environment. [...]

[...] There seems to be a woman relative, though not your mother, with whom you should use considerable care. [...]

[...] We discussed the events of yesterday, and the fact that my mother is due to return to Sayre on Sunday, December 26. Jane and I are to spend Christmas in Rochester with brother Dick and family, and bring mother back with us, etc. [...]

Mothers tell children to forget their troubles. The children, not realizing how dumb their poor mothers really are, often do just that—and discover that their problems do indeed disappear. [...]

[...] She will do this with her mother, for instance, while they watch a late movie on TV, etc. [...]

[...] You are terrified of inactivity, for many reasons: bodily inactivity, mental inactivity, some of this based upon fear of your mother’s disease. [...]

[...] You have been frightened of your mother’s disease, and you have also translated a fear of inactivity into other than physical realms.

[...] You were sensitized because of your mother’s problem to fear inactivity. [...]

[...] He was creatively gifted—but an overly impulsive child does not care for an invalid mother, conscientiously, for 21 years.

[...] Very seldom did he yell back at his mother. [...]

[...] Mother spoke to us, or one of us asked her what the trouble was, I am not sure which. Mother answered, but though I saw her lips move plainly, I could not hear what she said. [...] Leaning forward at the table, I then heard mother say very distinctly, “Father has a spot on one lung.” [...]

[...] The three of us sat facing our mother, who was behind some kind of higher desk or bar. [...]

[...] Newborn animals either die quickly and naturally, painlessly, before their consciousnesses are fully focused here, or are killed by their mothers — not because they are weak or unfit to survive, but because the [physical] conditions are not those that will produce the quality of life that makes survival “worthwhile.”

[...] There is a natural compassion, a biological knowledge, so that the mother of an animal knows whether or not existing conditions will support the new offspring. [...]

[...] There is a give-and-take between all elements of nature, so that such individuals often choose mothers, for example, who perhaps wanted the experience of pregnancy but not of birth — where they choose the experience of the fetus but not necessarily [that] of the child. [...]

[...] Although Jane’s father, and my own, had died the previous year (in 1971), our mothers were still living: Jane’s in a nursing home in upstate New York, and mine at the Butts family home in Sayre, Pennsylvania, which is only 18 miles from Elmira and just south of the New York State border. (While Jane and I were away my mother stayed with one of my brothers, who lives some 60 miles below Sayre.)

[...] Jane’s mother was to die within three months of our return home, mine over a year later (in November 1973).

Now he was told under emotionally charged conditions, as you know, by his mother, that he could or would lose his mind. [...]

[...] His mother, for all her emotionalism, stressed intellectual control, contrasting it with the father’s lack of control. [...]

The animal hair is not an irritant in your case, though there are some associations of the past concerning your mother that may lead you to think so. [...]

[...] He should automatically now give himself the suggestions mentioned in this session, before he reads a letter from his mother. [...]

[...] Sundays, if you do not go to your mother’s, then the two of you should at least for an hour or so also leave the apartment, if only for a walk or ride. (My mother lives. [...]

[...] The mother knows where the child is, even though she is not conscious of this. The mother may even go out after the child in a projection, and bring it home. [...]

[...] Also he sent a telegram I believe, either to someone, or he will send one to his mother.

[...] (Long pause.) The mother will hear from him, however. [...]

[...] My father had a temper that was aimed at us children and at my mother. [...] I was always afraid to bring friends home for fear my mother and father might argue and embarrass me. [...]

[...] They were in the bedroom, your mother and your father. [...] Your mother cried out. [...]

[...] His present mother and father were both brothers…the American Revolutionary period, the same geographical area as now. [...]

[...] I wrote a note on a sympathy card for Sue and her mother.

(I didn’t have time to go into it today, but Seth’s material reminded me anew that I know my own mother had managed to make me afraid of certain areas of life—that as I grew up, then left home and had to manipulate in the world, I became quite aware that I’d acquired certain fears or inhibitions. [...]

[...] Regardless of past-life influences, which did exist, and granting some other interior reasons, you had a child to prove that you were a woman both to your mother and to yourself.

[...] Emotionally you also went out to your mother, but you felt that she was dependent upon him, and weaker, and so to some extent you were afraid of your own feelings toward her.

[...] This is the fact that John, Jane and Bill all have mothers who were, or are, bedridden with arthritis. Bill’s mother has died. [...]

[...] I would say specifically your mother. [...]

[...] Before he left however, he described to Jane and me a plan that he had broached to his brothers and sisters, concerning the care of his invalid mother in Philadelphia. [...]

[...] Jane also said she felt that Seth had more information on John’s mother, but that she had blocked it.

[...] A child may be told: “You are just like your mother; she was always nervous and moody.” [...]