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From The Sunday Times
February 10, 2008

The Beatles, the Maharishi and me
John's ex-wife was there when the Sixties guru `turned on' the Fab
Four. Following his death last week she tells how flower power went
global
The Maharishi
Cynthia Lennon

The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi came into my life at a traumatic time. It
was the late 1960s. I was married to John Lennon, one of the so-
called Fab Four. The Beatles were at the height of their fame, but my
relationship with John was becoming fraught and distant. Sex, drugs
and rock'n'roll had taken their toll on the Beatles. They were
exhausted. Too many people wanted too much – all the time. Then Brian
Epstein, the band's manager, suddenly died.

We all needed some peace and space and found it at the Maharishi's
ashram in India. I did not know it at the time, but this would be a
defining moment of the 1960s, the moment when flower power went
mainstream. The pictures of the Beatles, the fashion leaders of the
time, sitting crosslegged with the Maharishi, were to spark a huge
interest in eastern mysticism and meditation.

I was in London last week when I heard the Maharishi had died. I was
surprised at how shocked I felt. He was part of my life for just a
few short months in the late 1960s, but his influence on me has
lasted. It's bizarre: I was never a follower, yet I have a beautiful
photograph of the Maharishi holding a rose that I have kept with me
ever since.

It was Patti Boyd who introduced us to the Maharishi. George Harrison
and Patti had become interested in Indian spiritual beliefs and went
to a lecture in London, held by the spiritual regeneration movement.
Later that year – 1967 – its leader, the Maharishi, came over from
India to hold a conference in Bangor, north Wales. John went to hear
him speak in London beforehand, with George, Patti, Paul McCartney,
Jane Asher and Ringo Starr.

"It's fantastic stuff, Cyn, the meditation's so simple and it's life-
chang-ing," John told me. Like the others he had been bowled over by
the Maharishi's charisma and promises of nirvana. So off we went to
the Bangor conference. George, Patti, her sister Jenny and Paul were
all going. Ringo decided at the last minute that he would come too,
and so did Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull.

The Beatles had overdosed on everything that fame could bring. The
Maharishi was antidrugs and had explained that through meditation you
could reach a natural high as powerful as any drugs could induce.
John loved this idea and was already talking about enlightenment,
cosmic awareness and doing without drugs. So I was all for the
Maharishi's message: perhaps this was the change of direction John
had been looking for.

We were staying in dormitories at a large training college, along
with a couple of hundred other followers. Our room was basic, with
bunk beds and simple chests of drawers. Mick and Marianne sauntered
in looking bewildered. "Hey John, what's hap-pening? Where do we go
from here?"

"Back to school," John laughed. The introductory seminar was an
incongruous mix of the Maharishi's regular devotees joined by the
psyche-delically clad pop star elite, all sitting crosslegged on the
bare wooden floor. That afternoon the Beatles held a press conference
renouncing the use of drugs, in keeping with the Maharishi's
teachings. Only a month earlier they, along with other pop stars, had
taken a full-page ad in The Times stating that the law on mari-juana
was unworkable and immoral. Now all that was turned on its head.

The press were wildly excited. But the story had barely hit the news-
stands when it was overtaken. As we were heading back to our room, a
reporter told us that Brian Epstein, who had steered the Beatles for
the past six years, had been found dead.

The disbelief and horror were overwhelming. Brian had been the
Beatles' mentor, their guide and best friend. The details were
sketchy but it was a suspected overdose. This was horrific. And help
came in the shape of the Maharishi. We were called into his quarters
and walked in, heads bowed. He sat yoga-style in the centre and asked
us to sit down on the floor and talked to us for the next few minutes
about life's journey, reincarnation, release from pain and this life
being a stepping stone to the next.

The Maharishi's words helped us all to feel a little less bleak and
as the weeks passed after we returned to London, John and I were
brought closer by grief. John and George were also being drawn
towards the Maharishi. It was as though, with Brian gone, the four
needed someone new to give them direction and the Maharishi was in
the right place at the right time.

John and George agreed to go to the ashram in Rishikesh, at the foot
of the Himalayas in India, to study meditation. Patti and I would go
too. Paul, Jane, Ringo and his wife Maureen were less convinced about
the joys of meditation but decided to join us. The trip was planned
for February 1968.

John, always passionate about a new cause, was evangelical in his
enthusiasm for the Maharishi, talking about spreading the message to
the world. I was a little more sceptical, but I enjoyed the
meditation so I was happy to go to India. I hoped, too, that time out
of the spotlight would be good for John and me.

In fact the opportunity to be away from everything was heaven-sent. I
can still see us there, by the Ganges, living in little bungalows
with no heating and no luxuries. It was bliss. No one in India knew
who the Beatles were so they were not mobbed all the time.

A few days before we left, we had a meeting with the Maharishi's
assistant at a house in London to finalise details of the trip. As we
entered the main room, I saw seated in a corner armchair, dressed in
black, a small Japanese woman. I guessed immediately that this was
Yoko Ono, but what on earth was she doing there?

Yoko introduced herself to the group, then sat silent, taking no part
in the proceedings. John chatted to the other Beatles and the
Maharishi's assistant and appeared not to notice her. My mind was
racing. What on earth was going on?

At the end of the evening our driver was waiting outside for us. He
opened the car door and, to my astonishment, Yoko climbed in. John
gave me a look that intimated he didn't know what the hell was going
on, shrugging, palms upturned, nonplussed. He leant and asked if we
could give her a lift somewhere. "Oh, yes please, 25 Hanover Gate,"
Yoko replied. We climbed in and not another word was said until we
dropped her off, when she said, "Goodbye. Thank you," and got out.

On February 16 we flew out with George, Patti, Jenny and Alex Mardas,
a young Greek sound engineer we called Magic Alex. From Delhi we took
a taxi for eight hours to the Maharishi's compound of low stone
cottages containing five rooms each. When we arrived dozens of people
of all ages, creeds and races were gathered to take the Maharishi's
path to enlightenment.

Among them were actress Mia Farrow, Mike Love of the Beach Boys and,
later, the singer Donovan with his friend, a burly bloke called
Gypsy. Donovan was having a romance with Jenny and wrote his hit song
Jennifer Juniper for her in India.

John and I had a room with a four-poster bed. Close by were the
Maharishi's house, a swimming pool, a laundry, a post office and a
lecture theatre where we would gather for regular talks. I loved
being in India, away from the fans, hordes of people, deadlines,
demands and flashing cameras. Just peace, quiet and sweet mountain
air filled with the scent of flowers. Best of all, John and I could
be together for much of the time.

Four days later Paul, Jane, Ringo and Maureen arrived. Ringo, wary of
the spicy Indian food that he was certain would be served in the
communal dining hall, had brought a crate of baked beans and another
of eggs. In fact some of the centre's food was surprisingly ordinary:
for breakfast, which was taken at long trestle tables out in the open
and often shared with brazen monkeys, we had cornflakes.

In the first week we settled into a routine, meditating for several
hours a day and going to lectures, then spending the rest of the time
on our own pursuits. John had his guitar with him. I drew and wrote
poetry.

The Maharishi had a laugh like a tinkling bell. He had an aura. I was
as cynical as anyone to begin with, but I suppose I'm a perpetual
student. I felt he was someone I could learn from. He'd call us for
two chats a day to talk about the spiritual life.

I didn't follow the whole thing, just took what was necessary for me.
I still meditate occasionally. I have my mantra, a personal word that
we were all given, which was to be kept secret and to be repeated
over and over. It works: eventually your brain does go to a different
level. It empties your mind and gives you space to think.

But Ringo and Maureen weren't happy: they missed their children,
Ringo was soon tired of eggs and beans and Maureen had a phobia about
flies. After 10 days they went home. I was not having the second
honeymoon I had hoped for. John was increasingly cold and aloof. He
spoke to me very little and after a week or two he announced that he
wanted to move into a separate room to give himself more space.

What I didn't know was that each morning he rushed down to the post
office to see if he had a letter from Yoko. She was writing to him
almost daily. When I learnt this later I felt very hurt. There was I,
trying to give John the space and understanding that he asked for,
with no idea that Yoko was drawing him away from me and further into
her orbit.

Then something happened that shook all of us. A couple of weeks
before we were due to leave, Magic Alex accused the Maharishi of
behaving improperly with an American girl who was a fellow student.
Without allowing the Maharishi an opportunity to defend himself, John
and George chose to believe Alex and decided we must all leave.

I was upset. I was surprised that John and George had both chosen to
believe Alex. It was only when John and I talked later that he told
me he had begun to feel disenchanted with the Maharishi's behaviour.
He felt that, for a spiritual man, the Maharishi had too much
interest in public recognition, celebrities and money.

I disagreed. But by dawn the next morning Alex had organised taxis
from the nearby village and we left on the journey back to Delhi.
After eight weeks the dream was over. I hated leaving on a note of
discord and mistrust. But John was running away and I had little
choice but to run with him. My last glimpse of the Maharishi was of
him sitting quietly, as if he had been betrayed. He was baffled that
we were packing up and that hurt me.

The journey home was long and grim. I was close to tears and John was
paranoid, afraid that the Maharishi would take his revenge on us in
some way. Alex had discovered that if we hurried we could make the
night flight to London. I hated the rush, which seemed unnecessary,
but with the others setting the pace we hit the road and just made
the flight.

Sad as I was at the way the Indian trip had ended, it was wonderful
to hold Julian again. We had brought him back six little Indian
outfits and some delicate hand-carved wooden soldiers, gifts from the
Maharishi for his fifth birthday a few days earlier. He looked
adorable in his Indian clothes and was thrilled to have mum and dad
at home.

John continued to be distant towards me. Now we were away from the
others and the charms of India, I felt increasingly afraid and
depressed. John and I were back in the same bed, but the warmth and
passion we had shared for so long were absent. What I hadn't allowed
for was that John's history, his attitude to marriage and the family
were very different from mine. He had hardly ever seen his parents
together: at five he had been abandoned by his father and,
effectively, his mother too.

Given how often and uncannily we repeat the patterns of our parents,
I should, perhaps, have been more prepared for John to leave his own
marriage and five-year-old son. But I was too young, too
inexperienced and too determinedly optimistic to take it seriously. I
had thought our magical interlude with the Maharishi would be the
making of our marriage – but in reality it just presaged the end.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

- The Maharishi was the most famous of the spiritual gurus of the
1960s and attracted a glittering cluster of celebrity followers,
including the Beatles, Mia Farrow and Clint Eastwood. Argument still
rages over whether the Maharishi, who died last week aged 91, was a
sage or a charlatan but his message of peace and love, wrapped around
transcendental meditation, became a key element of the
hippie "brand". The Beatles – other than George Harrison – eventually
fell out with him, claiming he was too interested in money. The
Maharishi's defenders said he objected to the Beatles taking drugs at
his ashram





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