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My summer visit to Knoxville at age five had already given me a taste of another world—one with towering brick buildings, broad streets, and sparkling clean stores filled with the latest products. Now, eleven years later, when Mama Georgie suddenly passed away, my mother invited me to live with her in St. Louis. That’s when I began a whole new life.
Living in a big city for the first time, I felt like an outsider. Then again, I had always felt like an outsider within my own family, so I was able to quickly adapt. When I was seventeen, I went to the Club Manhattan, a bustling, smoke-filled music venue, where I met two men who would play important roles in my life.
The first was Raymond Hill, a talented sax player with whom I had a brief romance that produced my beloved son Craig. The second was Ike Turner, a musician and bandleader who was famous for his groundbreaking song, “Rocket 88.”
Ike spotted me at the Club Manhattan and invited me to sing with his band. He became a mentor to me and launched my musical career. I was thrilled. There I was, a teenager, standing onstage, dressed in fine clothes, singing my heart out. I never imagined that kind of career was possible for me. It seemed like a dream come true, until it wasn’t.
Against my better judgment, Ike became my first husband. The best thing our relationship produced was my second beloved son, Ronnie. Ike and I also raised his two sons from his first marriage, Ike Jr. and Michael, so I was a mother of four when I was still figuring out how to be an adult.
Living with Ike was a challenging series of ordeals. He changed my name from Anna Mae Bullock to Tina Turner in the early days of our relationship, despite my protests. After that, during our difficult ascent to fame in the 1960s as the Ike & Tina Turner Revue, I suffered years of domestic violence, both emotional and physical. Busted lips, black eyes, dislocated joints, broken bones, and psychological torture became a part of everyday life. I got used to suffering and tried to keep myself sane while somehow managing his insanity. I felt there was no way out.
By the mid-1960s, we had achieved success with some of our songs, and my 1966 solo “River Deep–Mountain High,” produced by Phil Spector, was a smash in the United Kingdom and Europe. Thanks to that hit, the Rolling Stones invited us to tour overseas with them in the fall of 1966, which was another dream come true.
However, after we returned to the States, life with Ike got worse. The pressure to turn out hits intensified Ike’s insecurities and fueled his drug dependency, making his bouts of violence more frequent.
I began to lose hope.
Finally, in 1968, I was so depressed and despondent that I couldn’t think straight. Ike’s abuse and infidelities left me numb, unable to feel for myself or my family, unable to feel alive. The only thing I could feel was that I had reached the end. One night before I was set to go onstage, I attempted suicide by taking fifty sleeping pills. People backstage noticed something was very wrong with me and rushed me to the hospital, which saved my life.
At first, I was disappointed when I woke up and realized I was still alive. I thought death was my only chance at escape. But it was not in my nature to stay down for long. For nearly twenty-nine years, I’d always found a way to get up and go on, despite all the trials in my life. In fact, that was my mantra before I even knew what a mantra was. “I’ll go on.”
This time, too, I tried to pull myself out of despair as best I could. If this was my lot in life, I thought, I would somehow make the most of it. Then, it occurred to me that maybe I had survived for a reason, for some greater purpose. From that point on, no matter how tough life was, my instinct, my heart, told me to just keep going.
Where was I headed? That was still unclear.
Never underestimate the power of dreams, and the influence of the human spirit …
The potential for greatness lives within each of us.
—WILMA RUDOLPH
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When you can’t find your direction, and your heart won’t guide you home, let go, and let God …
Nam-myoho-renge-kyo,
Nam-myoho-renge-kyo,
Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
—OLIVIA NEWTON-JOHN, “LET GO LET GOD”
The early 1970s were a difficult time, both personally and professionally. We hadn’t had any significant success with our music in recent years, so I took it upon myself to do something about it. I wanted to write a song. I had been helping a songwriter who worked with us, cleaning up his writing, and I thought, if he could write songs, so could I.
Over the years, I’d heard songwriters say, “Write what you know.” Following that advice, my first try was a song I penned in 1973, called “Nutbush City Limits,” about the place where I was born. It was a hit, especially in Europe. That relieved some of our financial worries, and it made me so happy to think I could do something creative. But the kids and I were still suffering at home, where we were always at the mercy of Ike’s mood and temper.
I was often distraught and exhausted from the abuse, and it was getting harder to hide it from the people around me, who weren’t blind to my problems. When I was alone with them, they’d sometimes try to speak with me about it, saying things like “I hope you’re taking care of yourself.” I knew it was their way of saying, “Why don’t you get the heck out of that mess?”
One day, our sound engineer said something different to me. “Tina, you should try chanting. It will help you change your life.”
I didn’t know exactly what chanting was, and I didn’t ask for an explanation. Wasn’t chanting something hippies did? I soon forgot about it.
A couple of months later, my youngest son, Ronnie, came home carrying what looked like a lacquered brown wooden rosary. He said excitedly, “Mother, these are Buddhist chanting beads. If you chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, you can have anything you want.”
What? How could I ever have anything I want? I didn’t even know how to process that statement.
“It’s mystical, but it all makes sense,” he assured me. “I just can’t explain it. Let’s go up the street to a chanting meeting and learn more.”
Under normal circumstances I might have gone. But by that time, I was basically a prisoner in my own home; I couldn’t go anywhere without Ike’s permission. He rarely allowed me to go on my own to places other than the grocery store or the recording studio. So, I told Ronnie he could invite the Buddhist people to visit us, but I couldn’t go to them. That was my second brush with chanting, but nothing came of it.
A few weeks later, Ike brought home a cheerful-looking woman to meet me. He was always parading people through our house to “see Tina.” Out of nowhere, she started talking about chanting. She was a Buddhist.
Apparently, the universe was trying very hard to send me an important message. This time, I was ready to listen.
Chapter Two
THE WORLDS WITHIN US
It was another typically beautiful day in Southern California—the kind you see on postcards, with blue skies and plenty of sunshine. But it wasn’t a typical day for me because I had heard about chanting for the third time in as many months and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It was 1973, and I was approaching my thirty-fourth birthday, doing my best to raise four strong-willed teenage boys while dealing with a litany of relationship and professional problems. No matter how intense the stress became, I kept all the pressure inside. This was a bad time; yet somehow, I felt a spark of hope.
I had seen enough of life to believe there’s no such thing as a coincidence. I believe that our situations, good or bad, always happen for a reason, even when the reasons elude us. Still, I wondered why I had to suffer abuse and negativity when I had done nothing to deserve it. Not in this lifetime, anyway.
But no matter what happened, I tried to be a good person. If there was any justice in the universe, I hoped some long-overdue positivity would come my way. Maybe this was my moment. Three people who didn’t know one another, and were of different ages, genders, and ethnicities, had each offered the same advice about changing my life for the better. They told me: “Learn about Buddhist wisdom and start to chant.”
I felt this message had come to me for a reason.
All I wanted was a way to change my life. Even the slightest improvement would be a relief.
I should try chanting and test it out, I told myself.
I began by reading books on the subject by Daisaku Ikeda, a true thought leader in Buddhist practice. Although I hadn’t been a great student in my younger years, I was a curious person who always enjoyed learning. As I grew older, books became good friends to me, transporting me to other places and introducing me to new ideas. Whether I was reading about fashion, the history of ancient Egypt, science, or politics, I welcomed the opportunity to improve myself.
Ikeda’s writings whisked me away to a mystical era in ancient India, where I learned about a concept called the Ten Worlds.
A colorful, practical principle of Buddhist wisdom, with origins dating back nearly three thousand years, the Ten Worlds describes ten categories of our “life condition”—our ever-changing moods, thoughts, and general states of being—that powerfully influence our emotions, our actions, and our view of ourselves and others.
These ten “worlds” are actually life states that we all experience internally, and they range from the very worst to the very best of human behavior. The lesser of these inner conditions—when left unexamined, or unchecked—can lead to habits that trap us in unhealthy patterns. That’s certainly what happened to me.
By becoming conscious of these conditions, I was able to see the tendencies that were holding me back and bringing me down, including low self-esteem, codependence, denying my worth, and deferring decisions about my life to others. If I could see these aspects of myself more clearly, I could begin to change them, opening the way for me to build lasting success and happiness.
To help illustrate the Ten Worlds, I invite you to come with me on a quick journey. Fast-forward from 1973, when I was first learning about Buddhism, to a lazy Sunday morning in 1977. It was a few years after I started chanting, and the first full year of my life as a single, independent woman.
As anyone who knows me well can tell you, I love to sleep. After all those years of performing, I’m a night owl, and sometimes I like to sleep quite late in the mornings.
That Sunday morning in 1977 was no different.
No one can figure out your worth but you.
—PEARL BAILEY
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The challenge is not to be perfect.
It’s to be whole.
—JANE FONDA
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We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.
—ANAÏS NIN
Happily asleep in my bed, I’m awakened by the annoying sound of my alarm clock. I wonder: Why did I set that today? Nothing’s going on. It’s Sunday.
With one eye half open, I push the off button and drift back to dreamland.
Then, a distant thought bubbles up from the recesses of my mind, jolting me awake with this sobering fact: Today is actually Monday, and now I’m late for a rehearsal with Cher for her television show.
I splash water on my face, spray myself with perfume, and throw on the clothes I wore last night, which are conveniently draped on a chair right where I left them. My stomach is growling, so I grab an apple and run out the door.
Traffic is jammed, making me even later, and my temper is starting to flare. I turn on the radio, hoping for some musical relief, as Barbra Streisand’s gorgeous ballad “Evergreen” comes on, calming my nerves.
Arriving late to CBS Television City, which is unlike me, I’m thankful that no one mentions my tardiness. Everyone seems happy to see me.
My embarrassment at being late quickly gives way to delight when our brilliant costume designer, Bob Mackie, shows me a sparkly creation he’s made for me to wear on the show. I’ve been wanting exactly this kind of costume for years, and now I’m thrilled that my desire’s been fulfilled.
The rehearsal is fun and easy. Cher and I always have a good time together. After a quick bite at the nearby Farmers Market, I head out to meet some friends who’ve invited me to chant with them.
Feeling much happier than I did this morning, I’m more like my usual self as I steer my Jaguar XKE Roadster, which I cherish and love driving.
To my surprise, I’m suddenly pulled over by a police officer. I’m not aware that I’ve done anything wrong, so I’m feeling nervous. I try to suppress feelings of angst and indignation, remembering what I know about injustices at the hands of policemen.
These thoughts evaporate when the officer politely asks, “How are you doing today, ma’am?” I tell him I’m fine, and on my way to a Buddhist chanting meeting. The expression on his face indicates he was not expecting to hear that. “Is there some urgent rush to get there?” he asks. “Because you rolled right through that last stop sign just now.”
Turns out the reason I’m being stopped is because of the hard-to-break habit of “California stops.” If you’ve never heard of a California stop, it’s when the wheels of your car don’t actually come to a complete halt at a stop sign.
I apologize and explain that I’m not the best driver in the world, and my thoughts have been distracted by some family drama lately. The officer reminds me to always halt fully at stop signs and red lights and lets me off with a warning. Then, I’m back on the road.
While driving (a lot more carefully than I did before being stopped), I listen to a fascinating interview on public radio with scientist Carl Sagan. His comments reveal things I never knew about the universe, leading me to think about my place in the world.
As I wait to turn a corner near a retirement home, I see an older woman whose smile reminds me of my dear grandmother Mama Georgie. Something about this moment makes me resolve that I’ll spend more time doing good things for others, the way she taught me to do.
Thank you, Mama Georgie, I think to myself as I send her a loving prayer of appreciation.
Why am I telling you all the details of a seemingly unremarkable day in Los Angeles? Because, during this time, you traveled with me through eight of the Ten Worlds, and we went all the way from “Hunger” to “Bodhisattva.”
Since ancient times, the Ten Worlds have been described (from lowest to highest) as Hell, Hunger, Animality, Anger, Tranquility, Heaven, Learning, Realization, Bodhisattva, and Buddhahood.
The first four of these worlds can be summed up like this: the state of suffering or destructive despair (Hell), the state of being controlled by insatiable desires (Hunger), the state of being swayed by instinctive behaviors (Animality), and the state of ego attachments, dominated by conflict and arrogance (Anger).
The fifth and sixth worlds are the state of relative calm (Tranquility) and the state of temporary elation at the gratification of a desire (Heaven).
Together, these six states of being, from Hell to Heaven, are considered the lower paths, since their emergence, or disappearance, is determined mostly by the way we react to external circumstances. Any satisfaction we may gain while experiencing these life conditions depends on temporary, external situations, so it doesn’t last long.
In contrast, the remaining four worlds are the higher paths, which require our conscious, inner effort to manifest them. The gains we make while experiencing these higher conditions are long-lasting.
In Buddhist texts, these four higher paths are often called the four noble paths.
The first two of these four higher paths are the state of seeking truth from the teachings or experiences of others (Learning) and the state of understanding truth through our own efforts and observations (Realization). Achieving these life conditions gives us some independence from the ups and downs of the lower paths.
Then we come to the highest two paths.
The first of these two is the state of compassion, altruism, and aspiring to enlightenment while finding joy in helping others do the same (Bodhisattva).
Finally, we have the highest condition in life. This is the state of total freedom, wholeness, and absolute happiness, in which we can enjoy a limitless sense of unity with the life force of the universe itself (Buddhahood). I like to think of this as an indestructible, diamond-like condition—a treasure we have deep within our hearts.
We reveal this greatest of life conditions through our concerted positive actions, particularly those actions we take while we’re in the state of Bodhisattva. The state of Buddhahood overflows with boundless compassion, infinite wisdom, and steadfast courage.
We all have the potential to manifest any of these ten conditions at any moment, and as we are experiencing one of them, the other nine conditions remain dormant.
As the example of my memorable day in 1977 shows, we all experience swings from one life condition, or world, to another, and we may go through many different conditions in a single day. At any given moment, we are always experiencing one of these conditions, and the qualities of that condition inside ourselves reflect outward into every area of our lives.
When I was growing up, I wasn’t aware that the qualities of Buddhahood existed. During my childhood, my home environment revolved mostly around the lower four or five worlds. Occasionally, there were times when I briefly experienced Heaven, such as when I went to the movies or visited with my beloved Mama Georgie. Later, in school, I experienced the states of Learning and Realization, expanding my horizons with new subjects and class activities, but those states were irregular and brief.
The externals are simply so many props; everything we need is within us.
—ETTY HILLESUM
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Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.
—ARISTOTLE
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The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
—JOHN MILTON
As a teenager, I took a job working for the Hendersons, a kind young white family, who opened my eyes to what it was like to be a part of a happy home. For the first time, I saw what a higher life condition could be. I felt their compassion and desire to help me in the way they taught me social manners and told me about the world outside of Tennessee. Thanks to the Hendersons, I observed the condition of Bodhisattva, and I aspired to have the sort of positivity I saw in their lives.
Though I was becoming aware that higher life states were possible, I didn’t know how to achieve them. I hadn’t yet found a way to transform my state of life.
But I carried these memories with me as a guiding light.
Later, I worked as a nurse’s assistant at a hospital. Let me tell you, if there’s one building on Earth where all of the Ten Worlds are manifesting at the same time, it’s a hospital. There are people experiencing genuine emergencies, as well as nervous hypochondriacs, people waiting to donate blood, people doing important research to cure disease, babies crying their first cries, loved ones saying their final goodbyes, and everything in between. That was a mind-opening experience, too.
Now that we’re familiar with the range of life conditions, let’s revisit our journey through that day of mine in 1977, only this time through the lens of the Ten Worlds.
Sleeping snugly in my bed, I am in a state of Tranquility.
As the alarm sounds, instinctive reflexes, and perhaps momentary fear, trigger Animality. The notion that I’m safe to go back to sleep for as long as I want is Heaven, which is soon shattered when I remember it’s Monday. Disbelief turns to Anger, as I berate myself for oversleeping.
Now, you might interpret my feeling hungry on the way out the door as the state of Hunger, but it’s more accurately Animality, since it’s instinctive, in contrast to the actual state of Hunger, which is about our desires or greed (not literally wanting something to eat).
The traffic jams bring out Anger again, but soothing music helps me settle back to Tranquility.
The realization of something I’ve been wanting for so long (Hunger), a gorgeous Bob Mackie costume, brings out Heaven, although this is a temporary high.
Back in my car, I return to Tranquility until a police officer stops me, which briefly brings out Anger. Fortunately, he lets me go with only a warning, and Tranquility returns.
Listening to Carl Sagan’s insights on public radio gives rise to Learning and Realization. To cap off the day, remembering my grandmother and her lessons about helping others immediately brings out the state of Bodhisattva.
Now that I’m ending my day in a higher life condition, the things that seemed bad earlier in the day don’t seem so bad anymore. But those external circumstances haven’t changed—it’s my life condition that changed. My life condition colors my view of the whole day, past and present.
In other words, our life condition can brighten, or darken, our feelings about the same circumstances.
If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.
—MARVIN GAYE
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I believe in the soul … I believe it is prompt accountability for one’s choices, a willing acceptance of responsibility for one’s thoughts, behavior, and actions that makes it powerful.
—ALICE WALKER
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The ultimate mystery is one’s own self.
—SAMMY DAVIS JR.
Although the details may be different, I’m sure you’ve experienced similar situations, and you know that feeling of being on a roller-coaster ride through many different life conditions in a single day.
The more I’ve learned about modern psychology, the more I see its similarities to ancient Buddhist wisdom. I even found that Abraham Maslow’s well-known theory of self-actualization and the hierarchy of needs have been likened to the Ten Worlds. The first time I saw Maslow’s hierarchy of needs drawn as levels in a pyramid, I was struck by its resemblance to Buddhist levels of life conditions.
Maslow’s theory says that people naturally seek to satisfy their basic needs in the following order, from lower to higher:
First there is the physical level of our basic survival needs (food, water, and shelter); then comes the level of safety (security, health, and finances); and the level of psychological needs of belonging (love, friendship, and family). These first three levels in Maslow’s pyramid correspond to the six lower life conditions of the Ten Worlds.