They said it would take about 6 months..

The first time I gave up catering I was 35, single and burnt out.  Actually, more like a charred little heap of ashes.  It took a while between "right, that's enough" and "here are the keys, the recipes, the clients, and good luck"; and I hadn't given a lot of thought to "what now?" 
I had no idea what I wanted..  the best I could come up with was, whatever is next has to be something that's good for me.  As it turned out, that meant living and working in a retreat centre in the Coromandel for a year while I 'found myself'..  quite unexpected behaviour for a girl from Karori.
That fascinating and life changing period is now a distant memory, and I could write a whole lot more about it, but that's not the point.  
The point is; 17 years later, here I am again doing something unexpected.  Not for other people maybe; but for me, yes.  
After two more stints in catering; giving it up again (never say never); doing strange and wonderful things to food for strange and wonderful movies;   a character building diversion down the 'gourmet food & coffee to go' route; a brief encounter with nearly 3,500 pies; and numerous other food related career-type activities; once again I have embarked on a 'something-that's-good-for-me-whatever-that-means' type adventure.  
Having sold, given away, thrown away, let go of one way or another, almost all my worldly goods; I packed my little spotty hanky, and followed the talking engineer to Western Australia to start a whole new chapter in our nearly 9 year life together.  
Yikes!  
Wise people told me; "it will take at least six months or more before you regain your equilibrium".  Wise people.
So here's how it's been lately:
Sunday morning I hang out the washing, smiling as I listen to the all denominations family service being conducted in the tree tops all around me.  First; the crows who um and aw in their old man voices; debating far and wide who knows what but somehow they decide who is right and move on.  Pause for a quick breath before the black cockatoos come shrieking in all aflutter and agog.  Natter, natter, natter and off they go..  not before the galahs have taken up the hymn sheets and away we go again.  It feels so normal.. and somehow mine.  Like being at a family get together where we all clamour to outdo each other with dreadful puns and one-up stories.  
Monday morning I stumble out of bed at the usual time of 5am, having drawn out the savouring of my cup of tea in bed as long as I can before himself says "come on, I have to get up".. and into the kitchen to get him some breakfast and a packed lunch.  I like "getting him off to work".  Once he's gone, now that it's still so dark in the mornings I may sneak back into bed for a while, but I couldn't possibly say..  
Later, I walk down the road to the local cafe to be greeted by a smiling face and: "Hi Harriet, your usual today?".. music to my ears.
Walking around 'Freo', someone asks me for directions, and I can help.
I'm no longer apologetic about my mangled vowels, and merely smile and repeat myself each time I get the puzzled, "sorry?" (have these people listened to themselves lately?)
I don't jump at every scurrying, darting, clattering shadow; millipedes on the toilet door handle are simply to be brushed off, not squawked over.  I do wear something on my feet when I go outside at night though.
Today marks 7 months since I arrived here; and it's OK.  Or should I say, "noa wurries moight, eet's awl goood".
More soon xx