1:17 a.m. Can I confess something? I never know whether I have anything to say here when I try to begin to write each day, and so I often put off starting ... and instead I find things to putter with, delay with, fuss with. I keep waiting for that magic first sentence which, by the way, has only shown up once or twice.

Mostly, when I do manage to get a good first sentence, I'm totally unable to do anything about it. My hands will be in a pot of goo in the sink, pushing a foaming Brillo back and forth, or I will be just falling asleep with the covers pulled up tight and the light off. Or, I'll be in the middle of traffic, or a store, or on the phone -- any place but here, at the keyboard, staring in wretched disbelief at the screen for minutes into hours.

But. But if I can just blurt something out, I can get started. There. I needed to get that off my chest.

You see, I really want to do something special for the little Nativity scene that I've arranged and photographed today. I mean, something really really special. More than almost anything I own, this little bunch of figures is most precious to me, and I have so much to say ... my brain was full to bursting with memories as I moved the little dolls around ... but of course I was not in front of the machine.

So, I think I'll take closeups for the remaining Sundays in Advent and just upload my heart. The Three Wise Men. The shepherd and his wife and livestock. The kneeling Blessed Mother, stoic St. Joseph, and of course the little Baby Jesus.

I made the Nativity scene in 1966, just two and a half months after I got married. I was 19 years old and I was approximately two weeks pregnant at the time. I certainly knew. I was also alone the night before the night before Christmas, and feeling pretty low.

Office Christmas party. Husband's office. I was not invited. I was away from my family and my neighborhood for the first time in my life. I had left a really great job and I was quickly finding out that it had been a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, not just any old job.

I was a temp without secretarial skills, phone suaveness, or speedy typing. I was married to a friend who had become a stranger. There was a war on.

I was an old, washed-up married lady and what had happened? Where had my youth fled? I was green and white with jealousy and nausea ... and as the hours passed and the festive dinner got cold in the oven and midnight came and went and more hours passed ...

... I got out some scissors.

And I constructed this fantasy set of figures from what I had at hand: wedding fabric, office supplies, stuff from the medicine cabinet, and naturally, percatelli and rotini.

Looking at these little figures, I can still feel the emotions. The anger giving way to sadness giving way to concentration giving way to enthusiasm giving way to love. As the miserable minutes turned into homey hours, I forgot about my problems in the pursuit of creation.

I started with the shepherd. I am no artist, and he was not too demanding. Little by little his friends and family came into being, taking precedence over my real life hurts. Beings of your own creation will always transform you if you let them unfold and grow and speak to you.

I will tell you all about the shepherd next Sunday, and his wife and the animals. Detailed instructions and handy diagrams. They are just as alive to me today as if they were three hours, not 33 years old.

And yes, things turned out all right after all. I got other jobs. The war ended. I made other dinners. My first child spoke earlier than is believable, and in complete sentences.

She has a name from the Christmas season.

These are the actual cookies I just baked from the recipe I wrote about yesterday.

Pretty, eh?

I couldn't stand it. I had to have some.

And yes, I ate dough.