“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(11:21.) Now, for both of you: this material (the session) was given so that you could use it to clear up many matters, and also because of course it will help others. Ruburt’s exercise today however represented exactly what I spoke of, and in that way should be avoided—the paper that you read this afternoon, that he wrote—and when each of you review your joint past, do so looking for your accomplishments. There are many. Otherwise the past will seem like ashes.

[...] I’d even found myself exploring the town dump of Elmira — only the landscape looked volcanic, beautiful in its own way, heaped with gray fine ash like the surface of the moon, almost.)

[...] A strong breeze kept whipping up the airy branches of the mountain ash outside the windows of 330, and the room began to cool down a bit.

[...] A good breeze moved outside the windows of 330, making the new green leaves of the mountain ash tree dance. [...]

[...] That network is unpredictable, yet from it Ruburt can predictably put ashes into that shell. (Jane held up her favorite ashtray, the abalone shell we’d found in Baja California in 1958, and tapped some ashes into it from her cigarette.) The predictability of that gesture rests upon the basis of an unpredictability, in which multitudinous other actions could have occurred, and in other realities do occur.

[...] In times past in particular, though the custom is not dead, men purged themselves, wore ashes and beat themselves with chains, or went hungry or otherwise deprived themselves. [...]

They may find it easy to cluck their tongues at obvious fanatics who cry out for God’s vengeance, and speak about the world’s end in brimstone and ashes. [...]

[...] In the ash tree just starting to get leaves beside the windows of 330, I saw a tiny yellow bird flitting about among the branches. [...]

[...] They had no cause to live for, because their idealism became so separated from any particular actualization that they were left only with its ashes.

[...] She said she slits her eyes open when she picks up a wineglass, knocks the ashes off a cigarette, etc. [...]

Normal aggressive acts are like microscopic chunks of ash that barely fly very fast or far. [...]

[...] 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. [...]

Darwin’s theories, and Freud’s for that matter, will in the future be seen as any other antiquated, outmoded system—yet from their ashes will rise new ways of interpreting and experiencing reality. [...]

[...] A long cone of ashes fell onto her lap while I wondered what to do about the session. [...]

I mentioned before that some people court exciting and dangerous sports, living quite purposefully on the edge of death, and choosing to taste life spiced exotically by the ever-present sprinkling of ashes. [...]

[...] There are currents of thought as there are currents of air, and the mental patterns of men’s feelings and thoughts rise up like flames from a fire, or steam from hot water, to fall like ashes or like rain.

[...] Her cigarette had burned very short; stabbing her hand toward an ash tray on the coffee table, she struck it a glancing blow on the rim and knocked it aside. [...]

[...] After disdaining such activities as beneath him for years, he suddenly discovers an intimate relationship with earth and its goods, and this appreciation adds to words that before may have been as dry as ash.

[...] A long cone of ash fell into her lap as she woke up with a start: “I never never do that when I’m here alone!” she exclaimed, chagrined. [...]

[...] There are currents of thought as there are currents of air, and the mental patterns of man’s feelings and thoughts rise up like flames from a fire, or steam from hot water, to fall like ashes or like rain.