Kombucha is The Way…

There’s a kombucha (a fermented, probiotic effervescent tea that dates back to 221 BCE — supposedly) labeled “Clear Mind.” They need one for forgetfulness.

Usually, it’s the kitchen that’s my go-to-forgetwhat-the-hell-Iwas-looking-for place but recently it was the grocery store. I went there for a single item. One item. Come on. How hard could that be? For the life of me I couldn’t remember what it was.

I even told a woman standing by the organic green beans that I couldn’t remember. Hoping that would trigger my brain into a woke mode. Nope. She said I’d probably find other things to buy, which I did. But not what I went there for. (It was yogurt, which I found on the last aisle.)

Normally I only go down necessary aisles, with my list on my phone, which I had forgotten at home. I never go down

(or is it up?) each aisle. Unlike my friend Mabel (whose name I’ve changed to protect the guilty), who goes up and down each aisle, looking at each item, reading the ingredients and checking prices. Kill me now!

I once went to a thrift store with Mabel and I have no idea why. I don’t shop at thrift stores. I’m too impatient. When I shop, the items need to be clearly marked with my name on them! Seriously. My size, in eight different colors, that fit me. Is that too much to ask?

I spent two minutes walking around with my eyes squeezed shut and then sat on a bench for sale while Mabel went through the shop like my dog did when he hunted for food in his snuffle rug.

Good thing I know how to meditate. Which is what I did for the next hour sitting on that bench, waiting for Mabel to buy something she didn’t need.

I learned to meditate in Sri Lanka. Learned it from a Buddhist monk. Learned to block out the mosquitoes buzzing my head, the sweat dripping down the sides of my face, dogs barking, chickens squawking, the DJ from Hell (more on that later) telling me there were better things to do, like email and taking photos, swimming in the sea. Yep. I learned. Eventually.

I also learned to “be mindful” from that same monk, Thero Santimanissa. We were on a mission with 10 other monks to villages that had gone through massive mudslides during the May rainy season. The mission started with us loading into a van. I was in the back row, sitting alone. Turns out that monks weren’t allowed to sit next to a woman. The other monks were squished together in the front seats. Eventually they stopped and picked up a boy who sat next to me. Then two monks sat next to him. Rules followed.

The sights outside the van window were very disturbing. Destruction everywhere. Villages wiped out. We finally stopped and had to continue on foot, carrying supplies. Unfortunately I didn’t have on proper shoes and ripped off my big toe’s nail. That’s when Santimanissa said that I needed to be mindful. When we had to cross a stream on a raft made of bamboo trunks, Santimanissa got on the tippy raft first. When I got on, with my camera and camera bag full of lenses, the raft took a big tip and I reached for Santimanissa‘s shoulder. He dodged my touch. I was being mindful of my expensive camera gear rather than the monk’s rules, but Santimanissa quickly motioned a man onto the raft to steady me. That worked.

Seems ridiculous to write about kombucha while thinking back on the Sri Lankan flood disaster and when the horrendous Ukrainian war is taking place.

A lot of things seem ridiculous, so we do what we can. Ray Bradbury (author of Fahrenheit 451 and of a gazillion other novels and short stories) said that writing kept him sane. I have often felt the same. Kombucha has helped my gut stay sane. Along with writing my column. Last night I dreamt of a new column idea, down to the last paragraph, but woke this morning to my cat Sox demanding to be fed, the dream forgotten with his first loud yowl.

What is a girl to do? when sitting in the dark while recovering from two cataract surgeries? Feed the cats. Rest. Watch Netflix. Except today, day five of recovery from the second cataract surgery, I’m able to open my computer without the light bothering my eyes and finish the column that I started a week ago.

I love What’s a Girl to Do? so much. Love writing it. Love figuring out what to write. As Marie-what’s-her-name says, it brings me joy.

Perhaps there should be a kombucha named Joy.