Old notebooks on a Saturday

I had one of those moments this afternoon. Stopping to look around me. It was 3PM. Saturday, a light snow falling. My wife and my son napping. Me, sitting with the Diva's, smoking and chatting. Life, today, is perfect. I really can't ask for more.
Incomplete thoughts.
Incomplete deeds.
Indecipherable messages.
Everything is fully formed within it's unformed purpose.
Now, my company is gone. KG and son watching TV. I clean. Dishes, desktops. Moving old notebooks, stopping to remember days not as bright as these. Times when my mind was troubled.
What was lost is found. It never was gone, but here. Always. The now.
The time between the comission of a crime and it's discovery.
I stop for a smoke break before continuing on with my chores. I stop to flip through a few pages, re-immerse myself in my own history.
The moment after a natural gas explosion. The sound of the last few whitewashed boards striking the ground.
The light of an open sky through broken clouds as the cyclone passes on.
And I find, to my great relief, that no matter where I might be, here I am. Now matter what time it is, it is now.
And always will be.
Recovery. Taking stock of losses. Checking the hull for breeches. Assessing the damage.
Not yet resuming pace, just sucking wind.
That hazy second when the world still spins, even though the Sit & Spin has stopped.
Recovery.
Recovery.
My days of roadtrips are behind me. My days of drama and strife. My days of searching for me. I am here. It is right now. This is what I have.
And it's good.
Everything will be OK.