“Access to the ‘mystery of spirituality: did yeh hear that?” she said incredulously. “I’ll tell yeh where to find the mysteries yer lookin’ for: in the decades of the Rosary! Joyful, sorrowful, they’re all in the beads, luv. Ye’d remember that if you darkened the door of the church once in a while, the Lord save us and guard us!”

“You can put yourself in that special place anytime you want,” the instructor cooed. “There are plenty of meditation apps on your phone that can help. They play nature sounds like the wind blowing that can really help refresh your soul.”

“That’s the sound of wasted money, whistlin’ through the auld trees,” my father’s voice snickered in my ear. My mother’s voice giggled in the other.

“Your soul benefits from this singular focus on the present,” whispered the instructor as we closed our eyes for another round. “Focus on the here and now. Right now.”

“Yerra, I could have told you that,” my dad’s voice whispered in disgust. “Ye’d be better off focusing on the present. Any eejit knows that. There’s incredible healing powers when yeh take a roller full of paint and go back and forth on those scuffed walls at home. Sure—’twould be a better use of time on a Sunday than this nonsense.”

The class ended, and my wife and I strode hand in hand into the brilliant sunshine. “I feel like a new woman,” my wife sighed.

“Good for you,” I mumbled back.

According to endocrinologist and self-help author Eckhart Tolle, “Compulsive thinking has become a collective disease.” My wife was cured right away, but it took me some time to beat back the brain on shamrocks to get a little peace and quiet.

Being able to meditate was akin to working a muscle until it bulged past the skin level, but I eventually got the hang of it. When I went for a massage recently, the masseuse remarked on the decrease of knots in my neck and back, proof that my diligence was beginning to pay off.

My wife needed nothing more than a foam yoga mat, which she purchased at a discount department store, to start on her meditation journey, but I needed heavier equipment. When the credit card bill came, I had to explain away why I had purchased a $250 pair of noise- cancelling headphones.

“Deep breaths, honey,” I said sheepishly as she inspected the bill. “Namaste!”

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