After reading the George Harrison story I wrote in a recent newsletter about the making of his song, “My Sweet Lord,” two readers brought up to me the beautiful side of Elvis Presley — a side not known to most of us, and sidestepped by most media outlets in their portrayal of Elvis.

So, I will share this related excerpt from my book, Inner Mastery, Outer Impact, to continue reflecting on the inner life of remarkable singers.

He was raised by poor but loving parents who relied on government food assistance. He received a guitar as a gift when he was ten, though he had hoped to get something different, perhaps a rifle or a bicycle. “I learned to play a little bit. But I would never sing in public. I was very shy about it.” He was regarded as a loner in school. His music teacher in eighth grade told him he had no aptitude for singing. He received no formal music training and studied and played by ear. In his senior year, he entered a talent show. “It was amazing how popular I became in school after that.” From then on, his star kept rising. By twenty-one, he was the most popular entertainer in America, attracting a record 82.6 percent of the TV viewing audience to his performance on The Ed Sullivan Show, releasing a top-selling album, and revolutionizing America’s youth culture. He remains the best-selling solo music artist of all time. Forty years after his passing, the house where he lived is second only to the White House in the number of visitors it attracts—half a million annually. I am of course talking about none other than the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Elvis Presley.

Across all spheres of human endeavor—athletics, performing arts, science, business, and beyond—we admire people who engage in the dogged pursuit of excellence and scale new heights in their fields. When they arrive at the summit to claim victory, we look back at their roots and are in awe about how much growth they have achieved. And yet, this single-minded devotion to the mastery of their discipline has led many legends to very dark places: depression, loneliness, a struggle to be happy. In 1976, a cleaner at a Hilton hotel found notes that Elvis had scribbled to himself. “I feel so alone now. . . . I wish there was someone who I could trust and talk to.” In a letter he wrote to a friend in 1977, he said, “I need a long rest. I’m sick and tired of my life. . . . My willpower is almost gone.” Seven months later, at age forty-two, Elvis was dead, his body ravaged by a poor diet and an addiction to prescription drugs.

When we focus exclusively on outer success—on winning the outer game but not the inner game, on cultivating outer charisma but not inner charisma, on what we are accomplishing but not who we are becoming—our victory is a hollow victory.

[But] beneath his outer hungers, Elvis was hiding a beautiful inner hunger. He told First Assembly of God pastor James Hamill in 1958, “I’m the most miserable man you’ve ever seen. I’ve just got all the money I’ll ever need to spend. I’ve got millions of fans. I’ve got friends. But I’m doing what you taught me not to do and not doing the things you taught me to do.” His ex-wife, Priscilla, observed, “Elvis had been searching his entire life. . . . He was convinced his purpose went well beyond music and movies. . . . He was absolutely mesmerizing when he read Scripture and acted out the stories.” Elvis told his costar Deborah Walley, “I’m not a man. I’m not a woman—I’m a soul, a spirit, a force.”

Elvis’s inner stirrings led him to the teachings of Yogananda and to his organization, Self-Realization Fellowship. In the top margin of page 277 of Elvis’s copy of Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi are the following words scribbled in his handwriting: “Everything else can wait but our search for God can’t.”

Priscilla reminisced, “I have this picture in my mind: It’s a clear sunny afternoon in Los Angeles. Elvis and I are on our motorcycles, roaring through Bel Air, down Sunset Boulevard, over the freeway, past Brentwood into Pacific Palisades. We stop at an idyllic retreat called Self Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine. Elvis takes my hand and leads me through the grounds. . . . For a long time, we sit in the meditation garden and focus our attention on our breath. I’ve never seen Elvis this calm. ‘It’s what we all need,’ he says. ‘A break from the craziness.’”

Elvis became close to Self-Realization Fellowship president Daya Mata, whom he called his “spiritual mother.” Born Rachel Faye Wright in Salt Lake City into a Mormon family, she had entered the SRF monastic order at the age of seventeen. She once spoke of her meetings with Elvis:

When he came to Mother Center to see me, it was evident that he felt the constant pull of his career and was stressed at times because of it. I recall saying to him at the time: “Elvis, relax about your career. Slow down. Take some time and seek out a quiet place where you can just enjoy the company of your family and forget your concerns about your following. You will be remembered long after you have left this world.” Those words were spoken not out of any presentiment that he would soon leave this earth but from a conviction that he had already established his place in the world.

Priscilla remarked, “Elvis wanted to devote his life to helping others fulfill themselves through devotional discipline. In fact, he wanted to be a leader of the Self-Realization Fellowship. In this regard, Daya Mata was especially wise. “This higher level of spirituality,” he’d tell her, “is what I’ve been seeking my whole life. Now that I know where it is and how to achieve it, I want to teach it. I want to teach it to all my fans—to the whole world.” “You must go slow with this process,” she advised him. “This evolution isn’t instantaneous.” But Elvis, always in a hurry, said, “I want to get there now. I want a crash course. There have to be short cuts.” “There are no short cuts, Elvis. This takes discipline and commitment. To teach others would require your full-time dedication. You have to live this life.”

Elvis frequently reached out to Daya Mata for guidance. He met with her after his marriage to Priscilla ended in 1972 and later recounted the meeting to a friend, Larry Geller:

There’s no hiding from her, Lawrence, that’s for sure. The minute I walked into her room she knew exactly where I was at. We just sat together for a while, first not talking at all, and then meditating. She knew I was hurting without my saying a word, and she didn’t judge me or ask me questions; just held my hands. It was so beautiful, like she was giving me love and strength with her eyes and her touch. ‘Course she didn’t let me off scot-free. She said my mind and my spirit would be fine, as I meditate and grow calmer, but she was concerned that I was neglecting my body. I promised her I would work on it but, let’s face it, that’s one area where I need some serious help.

Elvis is buried in the meditation garden that he was inspired to create at Graceland after a visit with Daya Mata.

In Daya Mata, Elvis had a role model and mentor, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow her guidance. And yet, unbeknownst to his fans, he held a belief that he was born for something far more meaningful and enduring than the sole pursuit of earthly fame and fortune—that within him lay a beautiful Graceland.

What motivations are you driven by — the pursuit of earthly fame and fortune, or something more meaningful and enduring? Do you have a role model and mentor to guide you to the beautiful Graceland that lies within you? Are you following their guidance?

Warmly,
Hitendra

Note 1: Coincidentally, George Harrison had his own beautiful connection with Daya Mata. His friend and fellow musician, Gary Wright, has recalled, “When George came to L.A. feeling a bit down spiritually, he would often ask me to arrange a meeting with her and we’d drive to Mother Center together…In her presence we became like little boys, bathing in the love she exuded.” Here is a picture of Harrison with Daya Mata at Mother Center.

Note 2: Elvis died in 1977, the same year I was introduced to Yogananda and Self-Realization Fellowship as a ten-year-old in a small town in India. Through her recorded talks and her book, Only Love, Daya Mata became my greatest living role model and remained so until her passing at age ninety-six in 2010. Meeting her at Mother Center in LA in 1994 — perhaps in the same room where Presley and Harrison met her — remains one of my most treasured memories in life.

Note 3: A few among you wrote to alert me that I misnamed Harrison’s classic song, “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” calling it “While My Guitar Gently Sleeps.” Well, it was I who was asleep!

To make up for it, I am sharing with you this beautiful rendition of While My Guitar Gently Weeps by Tom Petty, Steve Windwood, Prince, Harrison’s son Dhani and others at the 2004 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. No doubt, some of you have seen this and remember the way Prince came in at the end to deliver an unforgettable guitar solo. 

A year prior, Rolling Stones had published its rankings of the “100 Greatest Guitar Players of All Time,” and left Prince out. Prince waited for just the right moment to make his statement with this epic solo — through what he did, not what he said. Later, Rolling Stone published an updated list of the “250 Greatest Guitarists of All Time,” and Prince was #14. 

There’s another story to that moment, shared by the producer of the Hall of Fame show, Joel Gallen. Joel had invited Prince to play the song’s solos at the Hall of Fame event. But during rehearsals, Marc Mann, one of the guitar players in the group who played that day, took over and did a perfect recreation of the mid-song solo. Prince stopped and let him do it, playing the rhythm and strumming along.  

“We get to the big end solo,” Gallen shared, “and Prince again steps forward to go into the solo, and this guy starts playing that solo too! Prince doesn’t say anything, just starts strumming, plays a few leads here and there, but for the most part, nothing memorable.”

After the rehearsal, Prince told a very concerned Joel, “Look, let this guy do what he does, and I’ll just step in at the end — for the end solo, forget the middle solo.”

Gallen continued, “And then he [left]. They never rehearsed it, really. Never really showed us what he was going to do, and he left, basically telling me, the producer of the show, not to worry. And the rest is history. It became one of the most satisfying musical moments in my history of watching and producing live music.”

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