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I AM KNEELING on a round purple cushion – all the better to rinse the hair of the wriggliest human beings alive. As my knees creak, I have a sudden, powerful spiritual revelation; time was, I used to sit on this cushion to meditate – when it smelled of sandalwood incense. Now it smells of wee.

I put them to bed and warm to my theme. Not being a member of an organised religion means having to be a little more motivated in terms of one’s spiritual practice. Catholics, Protestants, Jews and Muslims all have concrete places to go at specific times which, spiritually speaking, means there is no excuse for letting things slide. Feeling spiritually famished? Check out the church, mosey down to the mosque or seek counsel at the synagogue.

My own spiritual cues are less tangible. My gurus and spiritual mentors aren't based anywhere as predictable as a building. Quite often, they pop up on the telly. Like the inspiring older people in the nursing home who were part of RTÉ's excellent Coming of Ageseries. And Gay Byrne's The Meaning of Lifeis consistently good, in terms of a spiritual kick in the backside.

I could listen to people talking about their inner lives for hours, even the ones with whom I couldn't agree less. Which is why I will be watching Gaybo talk to Ian Paisley tomorrow night. He has always been a bit of a guru of mine – Gaybo, not Paisley. As a teenager, I bunked off school to get him to sign a copy of his autobiography. I don't think anybody else has ever been able to hold up a mirror to the nation the way he could on the Late Late. We could do with his wisdom, charm and ability to crash heads together on our TV chat shows right about now.

He spoke to Deepak Chopra in the latest episode. “Go to the deeper aspects of your self,” he said. “Find the kingdom of heaven within . . . If I have a problem I go into deep meditation and I delegate it to the unknown. I was an atheist,” he smiled, “until I realised I was God.” I know, I know, all trite gibberish to many, but conversational manna from heaven for us mystery seekers in need of a spiritual shot in the arm.

It got me thinking about how my spiritual practice had changed since parenthood. Changed? Try disappeared. In the early days, when they were tiny, looking after them was a spiritual practice. Mentally and emotionally, I couldn’t have been anywhere else. These days, they are more independent and I use parenthood as an excuse not to nourish myself spiritually. As in: “Those pesky kids. If it wasn’t for them I’d be enlightened by now.”

It’s not as though I was ever the Dalai Lama, or even Richard Gere, but listening to Chopra and Gaybo I realised suddenly how much I miss meditating, miss the inner silence, miss being still. I miss having the freedom to go off to India, where I find spiritual inspiration on every corner. Closer to home, I miss being able to drop everything to go on a 10-day silent meditation course. I never realised that spending time “finding myself” was a luxury. Perhaps I would have appreciated it even more if I had.

When I bought our bath I envisaged long, deep spiritual soaks, lit by scented candles, stargazing through the skylight above. Now candles are banned and the bath is home to six ducks, two turtles, an octopus and a toy train.

And yet, if I’m truthful, there is meditation in our home. Learning to eat all by ourselves meditation. Reading meditation. Baking cake meditation. Giggling until we collapse on the floor meditation. The constant cry around here is, “we don’t pinch, we don’t bite, we don’t push, we just love”, which is as powerful a mantra as any other.

I know I can’t use them as an excuse any more. They are as much a part of my spiritual life as that damp, purple cushion. Just because I don’t have a particular organised church to go to doesn’t mean I can’t bring them along on my disorganised spiritual journey. It’s never too early to start finding yourself.

THIS WEEKEND Róisín will be getting a hug from Amma at the National Show Centre in Dublin (ammaireland.org). And locating another meditation cushion.