Wilber, Ken - Grace & Grit.doc

AS I WRITE THIS, it has been ten years since Treya's death. I am immeasurably more, and immeasurably less, because of her presence. Immeasurably more, for having known her; immeasurably less, for having lost her. But then, perhaps every event in life is like that: filling you up and emptying you out, all at the same time. It is just that, it is oh-so-rare that such a one as Treya is with us, and thus the joy, and the pain, are all so intensely amplified.

There are as many Treyas as there are those who knew her. What follows is my Treya. I am not saying it is the only Treya, or even the best. But I do believe it is a full account, fair and balanced. In particular, it makes liberal use of her own journals, which she kept off and on for most of her adult life, and which she kept almost daily during the years we were together.

I had always intended to destroy these journals after Treya died, and without reading them myself, because they were so intensely personal for her. She never showed them to anybody, not even me. Not because she was reclusive or private about her "real feelings" and thus had to "hide" them in her journals. On the contrary, one of the most extraordinary things about Treya – in fact, I might say the single most astonishing thing about her – is that she had almost no split between her public and her private selves. She harbored no "secret" thoughts that she was afraid or ashamed to share with the world. If you asked, she would tell you exactly what she thought – about you or anybody else – but in such a nondefensive, direct, straightforward way that people rarely got upset. This was the basis of her enormous integrity: people trusted her right from the start, because they seemed to know that she would never lie to them, and as far as I can tell, she never did. No, I had intended to destroy the journals simply because when she wrote in them, it was a special time for her to be alone with herself, and felt that nobody, including me, should violate that space. But right before her death, she pointed to her journals and said, "You'll need those." She had asked me to write about our ordeal, and she knew that I would need her journals in order to convey her own thoughts.

In writing Grace and Grit, I read through all of the journals (around ten large notebooks, and many computer files), and was able to find excerpts on virtually every topic covered in the following pages, thus letting Treya speak for herself, in her own words, in her own way. As I read those journals, it was exactly as I had suspected: there were no secrets, no items that she had not generally shared with me or with her family and friends. Treya simply had no split between her public and private selves. I think that was exactly part of her enormous integrity, and I think that was directly related to what can only be called her fearlessness. There was a strength in Treya that was absolutely fearless, and I do not say that lightly. Treya had little fear because she had little to hide, from you or me or God or anybody. She was transparent to reality, to the Divine, to the world, and thus had nothing to fear from it. I saw her in much pain; I saw her in much agony; I saw her in much anger. I never saw her in fear.

It's not hard to understand why people felt alive in her presence, vivified, awakened. Even when we were in various hospitals, with Treya undergoing one gruesome indignity or another, people (nurses, visitors, other patients, their visitors) used to hang out in her room, just to be around the presence, the life, the energy, that she seemed to radiate. In a hospital in Bonn, Germany, I remember waiting in line to get into her room.

She could be obstinate; strong people often are. But it came out of that core of vivid presence and wakefulness, and it was bracing. People often came away from Treya more alive, more open, more direct. Her presence changed you, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, but it changed you. It drew you into being present to the Present, it reminded you to wake up.

One other thing: Treya was remarkably beautiful, and yet (as you will see in the following pages), she had almost no vanity, which was amazing. As much as anybody I have ever known, including some very enlightened teachers, she was unselfconsciously herself, just so. She was simply and directly present, all of her. The fact that she had little self-consciousness made her even more right here. Around Treya, the world became immediate and focused, clear and inviting, bright and honest, open and alive.

Grace and Grit is her story; and our story. Many people asked me, since I was so careful to include Treya's own writing and her own voice in the following pages, why I didn't list her as coauthor of the book. I thought about doing so from the beginning, but conversations with editor and publisher made it increasingly clear that to do so was misleading (as one editor put it, "A coauthor is someone who actively writes a book with another person. This is different from taking someone else's writings and weaving them into a book"). So I hope that those readers who felt that I was not acknowledging Treya's contribution will realize that such was certainly not my intent, and that Treya's real voice has been included on almost every page, by letting her speak for herself.

At one point in Treya's journals she wrote, "Had lunch with Emily Hilburn Sell, the editor at Shambhala. I like her a lot, trust her judgment. I told her about the book I was working on – cancer, psychotherapy, spirituality – and asked her if she would edit for me. I'd love to, she said, which makes me even more determined to see this project through!" Treya did not have time to complete her book – which is why she asked me to write this one – but I am glad to report that Emily was the editor of Grace and Grit, and did a wonderful job.

A few minor points. Most people read this book, not for technical information about my work, but for Treya's story. As I indicate in the Note to the Reader, chapter 11 is particularly technical, and it definitely can be skipped without missing a thing! (Actually, if you are skipping that chapter, just read the few paragraphs in between the interview material, since it has some important story elements; but otherwise, skip away. Readers interested in a more up-to-date version of my own work might wish to consult Integral Psychology.)

In this present book, all of Treya's journal entries are marked by a vertical solid line down the left-hand margin. These are different from, say, some of her letters, which have no solid lines. Her letters, even if they were mostly private, were still open to other people (namely, those to whom she sent them). But every entry marked by a solid vertical line is from her journals, and thus an entry previously not available.

The reception to Grace and Grit was overwhelming, and it wasn't me the readers were responding to. To date, I have received close to a thousand letters from people all over the world – an unprecedented percentage write to tell me what Treya's story has meant to them, and how it has changed their lives. Some have sent pictures of their baby daughters named "Treya," and I can tell you, as a purely objective bystander, that they are the most beautiful little girls in the world. Some of the people who write have cancer, and they were initially afraid to read the book; but once they did, they tended to lose their fear, sometimes almost completely – a gift from Treya to them, I honestly believe.

Dear Ken,

Last August I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had segmental surgery, lymph node dissection and a three-week treatment. I am in constant relationship with cancer on all levels. Several weeks ago a friend told me of your book and I knew I had to read it. It was a scary thought because, after all, I knew the ending.

"But," I thought, "she had some other kind of more serious cancer." How's that for denial? The fact is, I have the same kind of terrible cancer Treya had. The truth is this book has been at moments terrifying, but totally freeing. . . .

Freeing, because Treya describes, almost step by step, the way in which she moved through the pain and agony of cancer and into a spiritual freedom and liberation that outshines death and its inherent terror. As one of my favorite letters said (and this is the entire letter):

Dear Ken Wilber,

I am fourteen years old. Since I was a little girl I have been very afraid of dying. I read Treya's story, and ever since, I have not been afraid to die. I wanted to tell you this.

Or another:

Dear Ken,

Last year I was diagnosed with advanced metastatic breast cancer. A friend of mine said I had to read this book, Grace and Grit, but when I asked how it ended, he said, "She died." I was afraid of the book for a long time.

But having finished it, I wanted to thank you and Treya from the bottom of my heart. I know I might die, too, but somehow following Treya's story has made me unafraid. I feel free of fear, for the first time... .

Most of the people who write do not have cancer. It is simply that Treya's story is everyperson's story. It might seem that Treya "had it all": intelligence, beauty, charm, integrity, a happy marriage, a wonderful family. But, like all of us, Treya had her own doubts, insecurities, self-criticisms, and deeply unsettling issues about her own worth and her own purpose in life . . . not to mention a brutal battle with a lethal disease. But Treya fought the good fight with all of those shadows . . . and she won, by any definition of the word "win." Treya's story speaks to all of us because she met those nightmares head on, with courage and dignity and grace.

And she left us her journals, which tell us exactly how she did it. How she brought meditative awareness to bear on pain and thus dissipated its hold on her. How, instead of closing down and becoming bitter and angry, she greeted the wrld with love in her heart. How she met cancer with "passionate equanimity." How she rid herself of self-pity and chose joyously to carry on. How she was fearless, not because she lacked fear, but because she immediately embraced it, even when it became obvious that she would soon die: "I will bring the fear into my heart. To meet the pain and the fear with openness, to embrace it, to allow it. Realizing that brings wonderment at life. It gladdens my heart and nourishes my soul. I feel such joy. I'm not trying to 'beat' my sickness; I'm allowing myself into it, forgiving it. I will go on, not with anger and bitterness, but with determination and joy."

And she did so, greeting both life and death with a determination and joy that outpaced their tedious terrors. If Treya can do it, we can do it: that is the message of this book, and that is what people write to tell me about. How her story moved them to remember what really matters. How her attempt to balance in herself the masculine/doing and the feminine/being spoke directly to their own deepest concerns in today's world. How her remarkable courage inspired them – male and female alike – to carry on with their own unbearable suffering. How her example helped get them through the dark hours of their own nightmares. How "passionate equanimity" installed them directly in their own true Self. And why all of them understood that, on the very deepest level, this is a book with a profoundly happy ending.

(Many of those writing me are also support people, those who suffer doubly: having to watch the loved one suffer, and not being allowed to have any problems of their own. Grace and Grit speaks for them as well, I hope. Those who would like to see some of the mail response to Grace and Grit might wish to check One Taste, March 7 entry.)

As of this writing, Treya's family – Rad and Sue, Kati, David, Traci and Michael – are all still alive and doing very well. Treya often said she could not imagine having a better family, and to this day I agree with her.

The Cancer Support Community, founded by Treya and Vicky Wells, is an award-winning institution still going strong. If you would like to offer donations, or if you need its services, you can locate it by calling San Francisco information.

Treya and I were together for five years. Those years have been etched into my soul. I really do believe that I have kept my promise, and I really do believe it is due to her grace. And I really do believe that any one of us can meet Treya again, any time we wish to do so, by acting with honesty, integrity, and fearlessness – for there lies the heart and soul of Treya.

If Treya can do it, we can do it. That is the message of Grace and Grit.

A Note to the Reader

WHEN TREYA AND I first met, we had the strangest feeling that we had been looking for each other for lifetimes, but I don't know if that is literally true. But I do know that then commenced one of the most extraordinary stories I myself have ever heard. An unbelievable story, in many ways, and therefore I can assure you, a true story.

This book is two things: One, it is that story. But two, it is an introduction to the perennial philosophy, or the world's great wisdom traditions. Because, in the final analysis, the two are inseparable.

Treya had five main passions, I would say: nature and the environment (from conservation to recreation), crafts and arts, spirituality and meditation, psychology and psychotherapy, and service organizations. Nature, crafts, and service organizations are fairly self-explanatory. But what Treya meant by "spirituality" was contemplative or meditative spirituality, which is another way of saying the perennial philosophy. Treya didn't talk much about her mystical spirituality, which led many people, even some very close to her, to conclude it was peripheral to her concerns. Treya herself described it as the "guiding symbol of my life." It is, in other words, absolutely central to this story.

As it turned out, this interest in psychology and religion was also one I deeply shared, and, indeed, I had written several books on exactly that topic. And so woven into the following narrative are explanations of the great wisdom traditions (from Christianity to Hinduism to Buddhism), the nature of meditation, the relation of psychotherapy to spirituality, and the nature of health and healing. Indeed, the main purpose of this book is to provide an accessible introduction to just those topics.

Nonetheless, if you hit one of these explanatory sections – which occupy about one-third of the book, and which are very obvious – and all you are interested in at the moment is following Treya's story, feel free to fast-forward through these sections and pick up the story again. (Chapter 11 is particularly technical.) If you wish to come back later, you can peruse these sections at leisure.

I first met Treya in the summer of '83, at a friend's house, on a breezy night, on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. . . .

1
A Few Embraces, a Few Dreams

LOVE AT FIRST TOUCH, she always called it.

It took me thirty-six years to connect with "the man of my dreams." Or as close as one gets these days to that ideal, which in my case is pretty damn close. Once I got used to his shaved head, that is. .. .

When I was growing up in south Texas, in the days when girls dreamt of such things, I never imagined I'd marry a six-foot-four philosopher-psychologist-transcendentalist who looks like he came from some faraway planet. Unique packaging and a unique combination of traits. What a sweetheart! And brilliant too. In all my past experience with men, the sweet ones weren't brilliant and the brilliant ones were definitely not sweet. I always wanted both.

Ken and I met on August 3, 1983. Within two weeks of that first meeting we had decided to get married. Yes, it was fast. But somehow we both seemed to know, almost right away. After all, I'd been dating for years and had a number of very satisfying relationships, but – I'm thirty-six years old, and I had never before met anyone I had even thought about marrying! I'd wondered if I was afraid, or too much a perfectionist, or too much an idealist, or simply hopelessly neurotic. After wondering (and worrying) about myself for a while, I'd settle back comfortably into accepting my situation, until some event would bring on the self-questioning again, usually some event that made me doubt my "normality." Other people falling in love, getting married, being in relationships. . . .

I suppose a part of each of us wants to be "normal" so we can be accepted. I know as a child I never wanted to attract attention for being different, and yet I wound up living a life that could scarcely be called normal. A normal education at one of the seven sisters colleges, a year of teaching, a normal M.A. in English literature, but then a sudden veering away from that path with a passion for environmental causes that led me to the mountains of Colorado. Environmental work, skiing, assorted odd jobs, teaching skiing. Then another unexpected, sudden change in direction. Born out of a deep longing for something I was at a loss to describe, a bicycle trip to Scotland took me through Findhorn, a spiritual community east of Inverness. There I found an answer, or part of an answer, to that longing, and there I lived for three years. I learned to recognize that longing as a spiritual longing, and there I learned various ways to begin to honor that need. That insistent call from within. I left only because friends called on me to help start another unconventional center [Windstar], in Colorado outside of Aspen, where I hoped my spiritual and environmental concerns could intertwine. From there on to graduate school, but again an unconventional one stressing interdisciplinary East/West and transcendental philosophy and psychology [the California Institute of Integral Studies].

It was there I first read the works of one Ken Wilber, considered by many, I heard, as the leading theorist in the new field of transpersonal psychology (a psychology that deals with all the things orthodox psychology deals with, but also studies the psychology of spiritual experience). He was already being called "the long-sought Einstein of consciousness research" and "a genius of our times." I loved his books – they illuminated many thorny issues I'd struggled with, illuminated them with a clarity I found refreshing and inspiring. I remember liking the picture on the back of one, A Sociable God. It showed an elegant-looking, shaved-headed man with glasses accenting an intense, concentrated look, the background a solid wall of books.

In the summer of '83 I went to the Annual Transpersonal Psychology Conference and heard that the famous Ken Wilber was there, but would not be speaking. I saw him from a distance a few times – hardto miss at six-foot-four and bald – surrounded by admirers and once sprawled by himself on a couch, looking lonely. I didn't think much of this until some weeks later when a friend, Frances Vaughan, who'd been with my travel group in India, called to invite me to dinner with Ken.

I couldn't believe that Frances and Roger had finally agreed on somebody. Terry Killam. Very beautiful, extremely intelligent, great sense of humor, gorgeous body, fellow meditator, enormously popular. This was all sounding a little too good to be true. If she's so great, why wasn't she with somebody? I was skeptical of the whole thing. That's all I needed, another blind date, I kept thinking as I phoned her. I loathed this whole dating routine; it was right up there with root canal. So what was so wrong with dying alone, miserable and wretched? Beats dating.

...

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Introduction to the Second Edition

A Note to the Reader

1A Few Embraces, a Few Dreams

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