For those of you unfamiliar with this affliction, I submit a brief explanation. We all have that little voice inside our head that judges, assesses, and guides us through life: Some call it a conscience. If you are of Irish descent, that inner voice has a brogue and sounds remarkably like one or both of your parents.

The drumbeat of blood coursing through my tense veins began to quiet a bit as we drove through Monmouth County’s majestic horse farms en route to the recreation center. A wispy woman in wrinkled hemp clothing had dimmed the lights of the room before lighting candles and incense to create the right environment. The brain on shamrocks went into overdrive once it got the first whiff of pungent incense.

“Jaysis, what kind of hippy-trippy nonsense have ye gotten yerself into?” a voice sounding remarkably like my father’s whispered in my ear. “What’s next? Shavin’ yer head and passing out prayer cards in airports? For the love of God.”

“Incense—remember that smell?” remarked a voice that sounded like Mom’s in my other ear. “You first smelled that in a church. IN. A. CHURCH. A CATHOLIC one, might I add. One that looks remarkably like the one you drove past to get here. I’ll be quiet now, and let’s hear what yer wan over there is sellin’.”

I squinted my eyes hard as the instructor encouraged us to focus those internal thoughts on an image of a silver garbage can on a hill. She asked us in slow, pulse-reducing tones to tilt our heads to the right, shaking any thoughts we had into the garbage can so that we could clear our minds. That worked for a little while; I could feel the tension lift from the base of my neck and shoulders. Then the instructor had to open her big fat trap and reveal how long stretches of meditation can get us in touch with our soul at the level of self, which allows for a new access to the mysteries of our spirituality.

That wasn’t my stomach growling; that was my mother’s voice grumbling in the other ear.