Origins: 1967 - 1980

Steve Trembley was my first guitar mentor. A popular local guitarist who played in a band called “The Moods,” Steve was someone I truly looked up to, and I always appreciated his encouragement and support.

I borrowed it and took it home, eager to begin.

Reading the book was not easy for me at the time. My mind was still untrained in philosophical or spiritual language, and much of the content felt dense and difficult to fully comprehend. Yet something remarkable happened as I read. Beneath the surface of the words—beyond my intellectual grasp—something deeper responded.

It was as if the text spoke directly to an inner knowing, a pre-verbal level of understanding that did not require analysis. I felt an immediate sense of recognition, almost like remembering something I had always known but had never articulated. There was a quiet certainty, a feeling of being “at home” in the ideas, even when I could not fully explain them.

Though I struggled to understand Maharishi’s teachings conceptually, they stirred within me a profound resonance—something ancient, intuitive, and unmistakably true. In that moment, I sensed that his words were pointing toward a universal reality, one that transcended culture, language, and time.

And even without full comprehension, I knew I had encountered something real.

John’s Musical Past...Early Days in Music

In 1967—just before they took the stage at the legendary Monterey Pop Festival—The Association stopped in Flint for a concert at the Whiting Auditorium.

At the time, a friend’s father managed the Whiting. Because of his position there, my friend and I were invited backstage after the show. For me, it was an extraordinary opportunity. The Association were in the middle of a successful national tour, performing the songs that had quickly become staples of the radio—“Cherish,” “Windy,” “Along Comes Mary,” “Never My Love,” “Everything That Touches You,” “Six Man Band,” and others that filled the auditorium that night.

For a young music fan, it was my first time ever going backstage after a major concert—and meeting the band whose songs I had heard so many times.

The group’s frontman, lead singer, and principal songwriter, Terry Kirkman, was especially welcoming. After we were introduced, he took a few minutes to talk with me. Looking back, what still surprises me is how generous he was with his time. He asked about my interest in music, offered a few words of encouragement, and shared some advice that I carried with me long afterward.

For a brief moment, I was seeing up close what a pop-rock star looked like—not just on stage under the lights, but in person: thoughtful, approachable, and willing to encourage a young musician.

That encounter with Terry Kirkman left a lasting impression. It was a small moment in the larger sweep of music history, but for me it was formative. Even now, decades later, the memory remains vivid—a reminder of how a few kind words from someone you admire can stay with you for a lifetime.

My love of music became evident as early as 1962 as I ravenously consumed my parents and sisters’ LP collections and listened for hours to my father playing violin in the wee hours of the morning.

Though he was an engineer/designer by trade, his true love was music. Familial responsibilities prevented him from pursuing a professional music career. I inherited his desire.

Soon after learning Transcendental Meditation, a quiet but unmistakable certainty began to grow within me: I wanted to become a meditation teacher. The practice had opened a door in my awareness that I had not known existed, and stepping through it felt like discovering a deeper current beneath the surface of everyday life. I felt compelled not only to continue exploring that inner landscape myself, but also to help others find their way to it.

I shared this aspiration with my TM teacher, who listened thoughtfully and then gently began guiding me along the path that would make it possible.

Becoming a teacher of Transcendental Meditation was not simply a matter of enthusiasm; there were several prerequisites that had to be fulfilled before one could even apply to attend a Teacher Training Course (TTC). Some requirements were practical, others more symbolic, meant to reflect a willingness to let go of old attachments and adopt the discipline of the path.

One requirement, however, struck me more personally than the others: I had to cut my long hair.

At the time, my hair was something I was deeply attached to. It had become part of my identity—an outward expression of who I believed myself to be. The thought of cutting it off felt strangely momentous, almost like relinquishing a small piece of myself. I hesitated. Vanity, habit, and sentiment all rose up in quiet protest.

But the desire to grow—to deepen my spiritual life and move forward on the path—proved stronger than my attachment to appearance. In the end, I sat down in the barber’s chair and watched as the long locks fell away. What I had feared would feel like a loss instead felt like a small initiation, a shedding of the old in preparation for something new.

With that step behind me and the other requirements completed, I was finally ready.

Livingston Manor Experience

Certain memories do not fade with time; they remain vivid, almost tangible, as if the body itself remembers. One can still feel the texture of the moment through all the senses—the sounds, the physical sensations, the emotional atmosphere that surrounded it. My first experience of group rounding was one such memory.

This took place in 1975, during a period when I was experiencing strong Kundalini-related physical movements. My meditation practice had begun to trigger powerful bodily responses—spontaneous surges of energy, involuntary motions, and waves of sensation that moved through my nervous system. At the time, these experiences were both fascinating and unsettling.

The course instructors suggested that I attend a group rounding session. Their reasoning, as I understood it, was that the collective field of meditation created by the group might help stabilize my system. In that setting, the shared practice of many meditators was believed to amplify the effects of meditation while simultaneously smoothing the process of stress release in each individual. The group consciousness, so the theory went, could provide a supportive container in which the nervous system might settle more easily.

So I went.

I remember arriving at the meditation room and quietly taking my seat among the others. The atmosphere was calm and expectant. Cushions were arranged neatly, and the soft murmur of people settling in gradually faded into silence. We waited for the meditation to begin.

Shortly after the session started, my body began to move. At first it was subtle—small tremors running through my muscles. But the movements quickly intensified. My body began shaking in pronounced waves, as if currents of energy were passing through me.

Then something unexpected happened.

I started to laugh.

At first it was just a small burst of laughter, the kind that escapes before you can quite contain it. But within moments it deepened into something far more powerful. It was not ordinary laughter; it rose up from somewhere deep inside, uncontrollable and continuous.

A local TM teacher drove me north to Livingston Manor, New York, nestled in the tranquil Catskill Mountains. The journey itself felt like a passage from one world into another. As we left the bustle of everyday life behind and entered the quiet wooded landscape, I sensed that something important was beginning.

There, I began Phase One of the TTC—a four-month residential immersion into meditation and Vedic knowledge.

Life during the course unfolded according to a gentle yet disciplined rhythm. We meditated for hours each day, allowing the mind to settle again and again into the stillness beneath thought. We listened to recorded lectures by Maharishi, whose voice carried both clarity and conviction as he spoke about consciousness, the nature of reality, and the profound simplicity of the technique.

Our days were also filled with practices that supported inner balance and refinement. We practiced Hatha Yoga and pranayama, stretching and breathing in ways that harmonized the body with the mind’s deep rest. At times we gathered to listen to Vedic pundits chanting the Sama Veda—ancient melodies whose resonant tones seemed to vibrate not only in the room but somewhere deeper within our awareness.

Meals were simple and nourishing—vegetarian food prepared with care. Occasionally we undertook periods of juice fasting, giving the body a chance to rest and reset. There were long solitary walks through the forested landscape, moments of quiet reflection beneath tall trees and wide skies. We received massages, went to bed early, and gradually settled into a lifestyle that felt both structured and deeply restorative.

It was a period of immersion—not only in meditation, but in a way of living that supported clarity, simplicity, and introspection.

When Phase One concluded, I returned home to my local TM center to begin the next stage: field work. This was the practical preparation that would lead toward Phase Three of teacher training, where the knowledge gained during the course would be refined into the ability to guide others.

Step by step, the path was unfolding.

Without fully realizing it at the time, I was moving toward a role Maharishi described in a phrase that both amused and inspired me: I was on my way to becoming an “exponent of reality.”

In other words, someone whose task was simply to point others toward the quiet, limitless field of awareness that had already begun transforming my own life.

My whole body was shaking with it. The laughter rolled through me in waves—deep, resonant, unstoppable. Soon tears were streaming down my face.

The laughter became so intense that it disrupted the stillness of the room. One by one, the others began to laugh as well. The carefully maintained silence of the meditation hall dissolved into a strange and contagious wave of amusement.

One of the meditation leaders approached quietly and suggested that I step out into the hallway and continue meditating there. The intention was simple enough—to minimize the disturbance so the group could continue their practice.

I agreed and moved out into the corridor.

But the laughter did not stop.

There I sat in the hallway, attempting to meditate while waves of laughter continued to pour through me. From behind the closed door of the meditation room I could hear the group inside—many of them still laughing too, as if the moment had taken on a life of its own.

Eventually the meditation period came to an end. When it was over, I made my way back toward my room in the hotel’s Press Club wing. As I walked down the corridor, I noticed something extraordinary: it felt as if I were not really walking at all.

It felt as though I was floating.

My body felt light and buoyant, almost effortless, as though the ground beneath my feet had softened. The laughter had subsided, but a quiet joy lingered in its wake.

That night, after the evening meal and program, I slept deeply—one of those rare, enveloping sleeps that seems to restore every part of the body.

When I woke the next morning, my mind was calm and clear. My body felt light, relaxed, and peaceful, as if something within had settled into a new balance.

Even now, decades later, the memory remains vivid. Not merely as a story, but as a sensation—an echo in the body of that strange and liberating evening when meditation, laughter, and energy intertwined in a way I had never experienced before.

Many people in the Los Angeles TM meditation community were involved in entertainment, the arts, and media. It was almost impossible to attend gatherings without meeting someone who worked in film, television, music, or some creative corner of the industry.

As I began to spend more time in this community, I naturally started forming friendships and professional connections. Conversations that began around meditation often evolved into discussions about careers, creative projects, and the inner workings of the entertainment world. I asked questions whenever I could and, when it felt appropriate, sought advice, guidance, and introductions to people whose work intrigued me.

During this period of searching, I began to notice something familiar. It reminded me of my earlier years of spiritual seeking. Back then, I had discovered that progress rarely came from a single dramatic breakthrough. Instead, it unfolded gradually—through curiosity, consistent effort, and a willingness to follow subtle intuitions. I realized that the mechanics of my job search were unfolding in much the same way.

So I approached it with the same spirit of disciplined exploration.

I developed a daily routine devoted to cultivating and nurturing my growing network of contacts. I kept notes, followed up with people, scheduled conversations, and continued asking questions. Slowly, my understanding of the entertainment industry deepened. Job titles that had once sounded mysterious began to make sense. I learned how different roles fit together and how projects actually moved from idea to production.

At the same time, something equally important was happening internally. As I explored these possibilities, I began to recognize some of my own natural, marketable skills. I could also see more clearly which abilities I would need to develop if I wanted to move further into this world.

This realization energized me. My curiosity expanded into a genuine desire to learn as much as possible about the different paths that lay before me.

Gradually, both inner and outer considerations began to take shape in my mind and heart. A faint but growing sense of direction emerged, and the feeling of possibility was exhilarating.

Around this time, a friend approached me with an unexpected proposal. He asked if I would help co-produce a benefit event to raise funds for bringing TM instruction into Folsom Prison. I had never produced an event before, and the request initially caught me by surprise. But the purpose of the event resonated deeply with me, and something inside said yes before my practical mind could raise too many objections.

I told him I would be glad to help.

Fortunately, the organizational and leadership skills I had developed while running the TM Center in Flint proved invaluable. While the scale and context were different, many of the underlying principles—planning, coordinating people, communicating clearly, and staying calm amid moving parts—were surprisingly similar. Because of that experience, I didn’t feel completely at sea as we began to organize the event.

As the weeks unfolded, the project grew into an exciting and complex collaboration. The event ultimately became a grand success. More important for me personally, it placed me behind the scenes of the very world I had been trying to understand.

Through the process, I interacted with a wide range of professionals in the entertainment industry—venue managers, personal managers, talent agents, performers, designers, sound and lighting technicians, and many others. Watching how they worked together to bring a live event to life was both fascinating and illuminating.

With every meeting, every problem solved, and every conversation backstage, the sense of direction that had been quietly forming within me became a little clearer.

For the first time, I felt that I was not just observing the entertainment industry from the outside. I was beginning to step inside it.