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I admit that I may have a problem.

Let me first speak in defense of myself... I have had a pretty tough go of things when it comes to relationships. My last relationship left me somewhat bruised and in need of a lot of therapy. I warm up slowly to new people; its only because I can't look you in the eyes that I'm able to write posts on my experiences of spousal abuse that I am able to click "publish." 

That being said, I'm having a deeply satisfying love affair with my kombucha mother SCOBY, Beatrice. It's not what you think; I'm not going to be petitioning the courts to legally declare my love for her, nor are we going to enter into a commitment ceremony. I just love her. She’s really good for me.

Beatrice (unlike you-know-who) has never done anything to hurt me. Admittedly, there was that time I gorged myself with homemade lavender-infused kombucha that she and I had made until my belly sloshed, giddy with the fact we’d made our own, and would never again have to pay upwards of FOUR DOLLARS for a measly twelve-ounce jar, that I gave myself a terrible stomach-ache with side effects resembling dysentery. Of course, that could just as easily have been a little tough love on Beatrice's part, knowing that it was really time for a cleanse, as evidenced by the wonderful, health giving, healing crisis I experienced. (Also, there were rare occasions in which I swallowed what can only be referred to as JELLYFISH in my kombucha, but I’m chalking that up to my neglect of her, so I have to take some level of accountability on this point.)

But I love her; I do.

I’ve known her since she was just a jellyfish herself.  I’ve given her a beautiful, five-gallon beveled glass habitat to live in, because every woman needs a room of her own. I want her to be healthy, so I only feed her organic raw sugar and organic black tea and clean, filtered water. I sing to her; I encourage her with positive affirmations, because I want her to see herself as a strong, capable SCOBY. I explain to Beatrice her reproductive rights; she’s more than just a host for an unplanned symbiotic colony of bacteria and yeast. She has CHOICES. So far, Beatrice’s choice has been to stay home and ferment my tea and reproduce herself, making kombucha. Later, she may change her mind, and I’m fine with that, so for now, I support her decision and enjoy playing dress-up with the full mason jars of kombucha she makes. We like to dress them in handmade, vintage embroidered hankies best.

What’s really great about our relationship is that whatever I put into it, I share in the positive after-effects intended for Beatrice.  As I encourage her, I encourage myself; my affirmations directed to her settle right into my own heart. My declaring her right to choose reinforces my self-awareness that I too, am empowered to create my own life based on my decisions, no one else’s.  I understand that my kombucha SCOBY isn’t a viable life partner, and that my one-sided love of it can never be requited. But! Isn’t talking nonsensically to my mother shroom more fun than a boring post it note stuck to the bathroom mirror with trite affirmations like, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!" That may have worked for Saturday Night Live’s Stewart Smalley, but that sho’ ’nuff aint my gig.

As far as relationships go, I’m satisfied that I’m in a good one. I love my SCOBY, and I love myself. My self-worth is growing every day, and you can see it in my eyes. I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it! My  SCOBY likes me.

Click the following link to learn how you can brew your own homemade kombucha:

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