Okay, so it was eight ... not two thousand. I may have exaggerated a wee bit. My, aren't you a picky one.

Much like the world, Diaryland has been a bit unstable as of late.

That's okay. I'm not bitter. I like a little instability in my people, places, and things. It keeps me on my toes. And makes the dull parts a whole hell of a lot more interesting.

So, where shall we start? Life, love, or war? Take your pick.

Actually, wait ... I have a story. Put's all of them into perspective.

(Don't I always have a story?)

Part of my job is to conduct "intake interviews". People who want to enter our program must first be assessed to see if they are indeed compatible for the program. So, they come to me.

We sit down in a nice room with a big couch and lots of windows and I ask them about a million and one questions about who they are, where they've been, what they've done, and why they decided to change their lives.

It's pretty invasive and, understandable, emotional draining. For both the interviewer and the interviewee.

So, this woman comes in. She's been a crack addict for 15 years. She has had four children taken away from her by the state. She lost her job. Lost her husband. Lost her house and nearly lost her life. She didn't think she had anything good left in her life.

Then one day, sixteen months ago, she found out that she was pregnant. Suddenly, amidst all the ugliness and horror surronding here, there was a glimpse of wonder. A shimmer of hope.

She decided that, even though her actions had produced ghastly circumstances, something good could come from all of it.

However tiny, there must be some speck of value. Something redeemable in her.

So, she entered rehab. She was scared and unsure. But her goal was to stay clean long enough to give birth to a non-addicted, healthy baby.

But then something miraculous happened. During those seven months, she started to live again. Never realizing that she had been dead for all those years.

She was laughing, hoping, dreaming ... breathing all for the first time in over a decade.

This was her rebirth.

This was freedom.

Now, this woman was sitting in my office. Clean and sober for seven months. For the first time in fifteen years.

I asked her why now? Why with this child? What made you search for something beautiful?

She told me because it was all she had left. She had spent half her life believing that the world was a horrible place. And that nothing beautiful could grow in such an ugly environment.

She needed to have something beautiful. Something good. To make all the anguish, pain and suffering comprehensible.

To make it all worthwhile.

So what does this story have to do with life, love, and war?

Simple. In life, love, and war - horrible things happen. Hurtful, unforgivable things.

This makes me angry.

Angry that we are destroying someone's land, family, and home. Angry that people will die. Angry because I can't trust what either side says because governments aren't exactly known for being forthright and honest.

I am angry that we always have agendas.

Just as I am angry that children are abused, hearts are broken, and loved ones pass away.

But there must be something that makes all of this worthwhile.

There must be beauty in all in this ugliness. The world can't be a horrible place.

If a woman who lost everything because of a crack addiction that took half her life away can find something good ... then so can I.

So can I.

I have to believe that.

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