38

Today Mario and I celebrate 38 years of marriage. I've accepted a pretty challenging poetry challenge: write a love poem in the pattern of a love poem classic. I choose Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How Do I love Thee?" An ambitious comparison, but hopefully you'll see parallels. 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

I love the way you smell like lemongrass and taste like peppermints. Or when you're smoking cigars outside in the wind,  the freshness of it makes your face glow. When you come inside, you carry the aroma of a library book, one that keeps getting borrowed, its pages bursting with promise, because it's that good. Sometimes, our shared life has the scent of good cigars or favorite library books, right before the canoe tips over and spills everything into the raging river we're on. Sometimes our shared life is like the morning, when we first wake, then  reach up to the ceiling with a tall stretch, and there's sunlight streaming through the window and daffodils blooming in the garden, and you don't yet notice the mushrooms eating the wooden fence or the rats nesting behind the garden shed. Sometimes our shared life seems so warm  and hopeful until I remember how this world is sometimes cold and unforgiving. When I take  a step back, I  bump into you because you're usually near. I love you because you still enjoy the cigars and the sunshine and when I get up in the morning you say hello beautiful, want some coffee? Instead of saying can you believe those damn mushrooms eating our fence and those damn rats? Instead of leaving, and escaping the mundane, annoying distractions you love me enough to stay and build a life that sparkles. If I count the ways I love you, there would be too many flavors and aromas and too many reasons to love you. 

63

 

December 28, 2025 ~ I am 63 today

Today is December 28, 2025, the day I turn 63, and I will love this year.

I will love it because it will contain all the joy and sorrow that keeps the scales in balance. I’ll love it for the way it will kick my aging ass, and inspire me to get out of bed each morning. I will love it because I won’t be alone, even in the midst of loss and loneliness. I won’t be bored, even when I am forced to edit an AI-enhanced piece of work that some writer has given me. I am passionate about this, and most things: may I shout this from the rooftops again? Don’t use AI to write!! Your original voice matters!

My sixty-third year will remind me, on a daily basis, that beauty is mine if I look to see it and recognize it in the grain of a fine wood, the formation of wild geese flying above me, a unique sentence, or the radiance of a grandchild’s eyes. Love and friendship are mine if I stop what I’m supposed to be doing and remember the people around me. Today I spent a wonderful afternoon with my sister, a woman I value and cherish. 

On most days I feel an embarrassing and genuine sense of gratitude, knowing I don’t deserve most of the beauty and joy found in this life. I meet good people who smile, despite the hardships facing them. I pray with people who have greater faith than my own, and I get to borrow their hope. I enjoy a wealth of things I don’t deserve, like fresh oranges and grapefruits and occasional pomelo. I have noise reduction headphones that allow me to enjoy the passionate transitions from the third to fourth movements of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony as if I am in a concert hall. I have adult children who love me and still talk to me, despite my incomplete and flawed mother presence in their lives. They have their own children now, human beings I love and adore and who challenge me to be better. And then, there is Mario, a man I love and admire more than any other man. For some reason, he loves me back. It’s the greatest reward to have a partner who gets me.

All of this is true, but I have my share of cold, dark days, as well. This year has had too many, in my opinion, and too many of them in a row. Sometimes, I have to remind myself to be grateful for doctors and medication, rather than give into despair. I try to stay focused on life and activity, and if I can’t, I sleep.

In both light and dark, I know one thing: at my very core, I’m defined by God. I look to Him for my purpose, and this is a gift to me. Today, I read the Psalm assigned to my birthday: Psalm 63. It was written by David, the Old Testament king who once slayed a giant with a slingshot. He is writing from a dark place in the desert, yearning to feel God’s presence, hear His voice about his uncertain future. He longs to see the power of the Lord, the glory of the Lord, like he once did, but on the day he writes Psalm 63, David is desperate. Fleeing his enemies, people who want to kill him, David remembers God. He says he thirsts for God the way the desert thirsts for water. In the dark of night, without proper shelter, even a king will reflect on  what he’s had and what he’s lost. Whether it’s a dark day, where your soul is thirsty, or your days are filled with splendor, this is a Psalm that directs your eyes to God. I’ll share it with you here, hoping it will be a beauty and a blessing in your life:

 

 
God, You are my God; I shall be watching for You;
My soul thirsts for You, my flesh yearns for You,
In a dry and exhausted land where there is no water.
So have I seen You in the sanctuary,
To see Your power and glory.

 Because Your favor is better than life,
My lips will praise You.
So I will bless You as long as I live;
I will lift up my hands in Your name.
My soul is satisfied as with fat and fatness,
And my mouth offers praises with joyful lips.

When I remember You on my bed,
I meditate on You in the night watches,
For You have been my help,
And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
My soul clings to You;
Your right hand takes hold of me.

But those who seek my life to destroy it,
Will go into the depths of the earth.
They will be turned over to the power of the sword;
They will be a prey for foxes.
But the king will rejoice in God;
Everyone who swears by Him will boast,
For the mouths of those who speak lies will be stopped.

 

37

December 28, 1987 -- the night before our wedding

Mario and I will be married thirty-seven (37) years today—at 7:00 p.m. Our wedding took place four days after Christmas and one day after my 25^th birthday.

It was an unusual time of year to plan a wedding, but it was ours and we were happy. Our families, anticipating the usual holiday busy-ness, didn’t necessarily agree.  

“You’ve been complaining your whole life about your birthday,” my mom said, when I told her the date of our wedding. “Now you’re going to get married a day after it?”

“It’s what we want,” I said, a little embarrassed. Truthfully, Mario was a State Park Ranger, and I was a dispatcher for CalFire, so we joked about scheduling our wedding on December 29^th because it was our day off together—Tuesday.    

Despite the unusual-ness of it, our families got on board and looked forward to our wedding. The morning of December 29, 1987, Mario called me at my parents’ house, as I was getting ready to take a bubble bath, to tell me he had the stomach flu.

“I’ve been throwing up all morning,” he said. I could hear the muffled conversation of his groomsmen in the background, cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

“Are you sure it’s the flu?” I asked, more hopeful than I should have been. Mario was an athlete and knew his body well.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Can you go through with it?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Just don’t expect…. I’ll be there.”

He was there, but his face was as white as his tuxedo, and slightly damp. Nevertheless, he smiled and was able to remember his hand-written vows by heart. He endured the long service, gave me a double kiss to seal the deal, and walked down the aisle with me to applause and triumphant organ music. As soon as we exited the church into the crisp December night, Mario took a hard right and puked in the boxwood bushes.

When he was finished, he wiped his chin with the back of his hand and said, “Sorry, babe.” A moment later, during our silent walk to the vestiary, where we were supposed to meet the wedding party for pictures, he said something else: “I can’t believe I made it.”

Two days later, on our honeymoon, Mario was better, but I was sick. I caught his flu and was in bed, weakened by a night of vomiting. Unable to lift my head off the pillow, I mumbled something of an apology:

“If I had to get married with this flu, I don’t know if I could do it.”

So, that was our wedding day—not the fairy-tale version that lived in my head, or the “happiest day of my life”— the sobering reality that life doesn't always work out like you plan it. If our wedding was a precursor of our life together, it foreshadowed how we, a couple desperately in love, would have to have a sense of humor to roll with the punches.

Our wedding day was saved by an evening start time—Mario would have never been able to stomach getting married in the morning. The sickness he had, a 24-hour bug, was on its way out. After the post-ceremony puking, he felt a lot better. The church, still decorated with twinkling Christmas lights and poinsettias, glowed with warmth. Outside, the cold air, and the stars lighting up the sky, made the night feel magical and holy.

Our unusual wedding was the precursor of a genuinely unusual marriage. We’ve raised children together, have worked and volunteered alongside each other, traveled (and lived) all over the world, and have endured more hardships than most people I know. But, we also have joy. We treasure a deep, abiding love for one another—a romance that takes work to keep alive.

By most people’s evaluation, Mario and I are opposites. His athletic, analytical, gentle-hearted nature draws people into the warmth of  his friendship. He loves good cigars, aged scotch, and watching sports. I’m creative, impulsive, obsessive, and outgoing enough to be slightly annoying. I unwind by refinishing furniture, and when I do sit down, it’s to eat something, or read a book. Our marriage is solidified by great bonders—things we agree are the most important things in life—faith, family, and a shared love and respect for one another.

When people ask us about our wedding day, we usually pass on telling the story, but say something encouraging, like, “It wasn’t perfect, but it worked, maybe better than it should have.”

In truth, the best I can say about our wedding day, and maybe about our marriage, is that Mario showed up and made the best of it. Despite the flu, he did what he promised to do, and even more. He not only went through the cermony, he posed for pictures afterwards, and then headed off to the reception, all without complaining. He is a man of integrity and has earned a reputation with me for keeping his promises- even the hard ones.

Happy Anniversary, babe. You are truly, genuinely, my favorite human being in the whole world, and I genuinely don’t deserve you.

ILY ~Janet

Last night--at Capital Stage in Sacramento

62

 

Me at my desk this morning. Happy Birthday to me--62!

Today is December 28, 2024, the day I turn 62, and I will love this year.

I will love it because I choose to love it, because it will contain all the terrible and horrible things that will make my faith stronger and me stronger and remind me that I’m human, still breathing and given this gift called life. I will love it because it will contain the laughter and energy of my grandchildren, the ones close to me, as well as the ones far away. I will love 2025 because every day I’m alive is a chance for me to create beautiful things—on the page, in the garden, in a piece of wood, in a classroom, in the hearts of people I love. 2025, like all years, will be a year that contains all the freedom and trappings of human life, with jerks on the road who drive like idiots and strangers who are kind and friendly in grocery stores. I love the motion of life, even when it contains death and disappointment. I love that I have family: Mario, my children, my grandchildren, and a private, protected relationship with God.

This year, for my birthday, I want to share two things: One is something I always share: the Psalm that corresponds with my birthday, the one that reminds me that God is my strength. The second thing is a poem by Mary Oliver called “Count the Roses” –which I can never read without crying. For Oliver, who wrote about nature, it contained all the mystery and miracles that life did. Breathe deeply and try to read it aloud. I hope it will refresh your journey. 

I love you.

 

Count the Roses by Mary Oliver

 Count the roses, red and fluttering.

Count the roses, wrinkled and salt.

Each with its yellow lint at the center.

Each with its honey pooled and ready.

Do you have a question that can’t be answered?

Do the stars frighten you by their heaviness and their endless number?

Does it bother you, that mercy is so difficult to understand?

For some souls it’s easy; they lie down on the sand

and are soon asleep.

For others, the mind shivers in its glacial palace,

and won’t come.

Yes, the mind takes a long time, is otherwise occupied

than by happiness, and deep breathing.

Now, in the distance, some bird is singing.

And now I have gathered six or seven deep red,

half-opened cups of petals between my hands,

and now I have put my face against them

and now I am moving my face back and forth, slowly, against them.

The body is not much more than two feet and a tongue.

Come to me, says the blue sky, and say the word.

And finally even the mind comes running, like a wild thing,

and lies down in the sand.

Eternity is not later, or in any unfindable place.

Roses, roses, roses, roses.

Psalm 62 (NASB) 

Truly my soul finds rest in God;
    my salvation comes from him.
Truly he is my rock and my salvation;
    he is my fortress, I will never be shaken.

How long will you assault me?
    Would all of you throw me down—
    this leaning wall, this tottering fence?
Surely they intend to topple me
    from my lofty place;
    they take delight in lies.
With their mouths they bless,
    but in their hearts they curse.

 Yes, my soul, find rest in God;
    my hope comes from him.
Truly he is my rock and my salvation;
    he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
    he is my mighty rock, my refuge.
Trust in him at all times, you people;
    pour out your hearts to him,
    for God is our refuge.

Surely the lowborn are but a breath,
    the highborn are but a lie.
If weighed on a balance, they are nothing;
    together they are only a breath.
Do not trust in extortion
    or put vain hope in stolen goods;
though your riches increase,
    do not set your heart on them.

One thing God has spoken,
    two things I have heard:
“Power belongs to you, God,
and with you, Lord, is unfailing love”;
and, “You reward everyone
    according to what they have done.”

 

Augustine

 

Augustine Mario, born this day one year ago, was a surprise. He entered the world with a lot of prayer and a sigh of relief, two months before his actual due date. Only a week earlier, our daughter, Alicia, was life-flighted from Chico to Sacramento and Augustine was delivered to avoid severe affects of preeclampsia. 

Nevertheless, he was born relatively healthy, and we learned to rejoice despite the circumstances. His first two months, spent in the ICU, were marked by our visiting schedules, where we all scrubbed up and sanitized our phones before entering his room. Against all odds, our daughter kept her breast milk flowing to nourish him, but it was delivered with a feeding tube. He was held, cradled, cared for, and still separated from his family in the conventional way.

A child born under these circumstances is usually stressed and high maintenance. Instead, Augustine has become a child that seems satisfied, perfectly content in most ways. To this day, very simple things make him happy: the sight of his mother coming around the corner, his sisters coming home from school, windchimes, toys, his own voice, the cars that drive by on the road in front of their house. 

At one year old, a baby is a baby, but Augustine has our hearts. Even Mario, with his tough-guy exterior, melts in his presence. 

Happy Birthday, baby! Tomorrow we will ceebrate you as a family!

36

 I fell in love with Mario when I was a 23-year-old single mother, insecure, and afraid of losing everything. I clung to him, even though I knew he would leave me eventually. 

He wasn't like most guys I knew. He respected me, for starters. He suggested I go to counseling, with a licensed professional, and offered to pay. He loved Vince, sincerely, and took him into consideration when we had dinner plans. 

"Let's go to Cindy's," Mario would say, referring to a local coffee shop. "They have high chairs."

It was odd and beautiful and wonderful to date him. I wanted to believe he was my forever person, but I didn't trust it. Things were too good... So, when we got married, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, even when I knew it would end. 

Fast-forward to 1992, when Mario and I had been married for five years. We still loved each other, but life was not easy. Kids, pressures of the blended families, work concerns, fights, exhaustion, and expectations for happiness weighed heavy on us. We were on the brink of divorce. Together, we lived with our two (and sometimes four) children, in a beautiful house, somewhat financially stable--but we were both discouraged. Did we really have what it's took to keep a marriage together?  We knew that love alone wasn't enough to sustain our relationship, let alone make us happy.

One day in 1992, Mario came home from work, stood in the kitchen, where I was loading the dishwasher, and told me he had booked a week long 'intensive counseling vacation."

"We're going," Mario said. "That's it, and that's final." 

As he walked away, I felt relieved. At least we're not getting divorced.

This watershed moment, a mere five years into our marriage, marked the enduring mindset that continues to inform our partnership. When we need help, and we still do, we know where to get it. Good counsel offered us strategies, as well as mindsets, to help us grow stronger together. 

Today, Mario and I went to out to lunch at a coffee shop near us that reminds me of Cindy's, the unpretentious cafe we frequented when we were dating. It serves breakfast all day and Mario loves breakfast. After this, we visited friends in Folsom, who we love and cherish. 

"Someone once told me the secret of a long and happy marriage," one of them said. "It is to accept the fact that you'll have three or four marriages inside of yours over the years." 

I thought about it for a second, then said, "Shoot, that's me in one day." 

The real secret to a happy marriage is that there is no secret. Like everything else, marriage reflects what we put into it. If you and your partner recognize the marriage as a partnership, a contract, a sacred covenant worth preserving, you're already ahead of the game. 

If you have a partner like Mario, it really helps, too. No matter what, he always remembers the source of our strength. Even today, as he heard my friend tell us her secret of a happy marriage, he smiled at me. Just earlier, at the diner, he told me what he thought was the secret of our thirty-six year marriage enduring, even through the horrible trials we've encountered.

"There's only one reason we're still together," he said. "That's Jesus."

Even writing this here seems cheap. What Mario said can be seen as religious or reductive, unless you are us. Mario said this with sincerity. It hovered over my head like a hummingbird. It was tender, like a small flower that isn't supposed to survive a hailstorm or a tornado. Our shared faith was not the only thing he was referring to--it was divine intervention. He said this with all humility, and he meant it. And you know what? I believe he's right. 

💗💗💗

61

 

This morning at my desk

Today is December 28, 2023, the day I turn 61, and I will love this year.

In 2023, our newest addition to the family was born: Augustine Mario, the son of Alicia, our daughter. A few days ago, surrounded by family, he opened his first Christmas presents, unpacked his first stocking, and sang his first Christmas carols. Life is beautiful.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that life is a blessing I'm not entitled to. Today I'm going to a funeral for a man I barely knew and yet owe my life to: Alfred Ruiz Sr. I went to school with his son, a boy I knew as Alfred, who my grandmother called Alfredito. The Ruiz family were Spanish landowners who employed my grandfather when he first came to Tracy, California. Grandma knew something I didn't: without this family, ours would be like so many others: migrant workers who traveled with the harvests. With the help of the Ruiz family, specifically Alfred Sr's father, my grandfather, Ignacio Gonzalez, became a U.S. citizen and a permanent Tracy resident. He bought land and built a house that still stands today. In many ways, the man whose life we will celebrate today is a stranger to me; in many ways, he is a mench, a godfather, a sponsor. Life is impermanent, for the rich and the poor, we all enter and exit this world in the same way. 

Yesterday, I published my website: janetrodriguezwriter.com. Yikes. I'm not wealthy, so I built it myself... Which isn't as easy as it sounds. Today, at least for a writer, a website is like a business card with a fold-out resume. I've never liked writing a resume either. Please check out my new website and let me know what you think... Really.  

In my sixty-first year, I'm still learning how to speak Spanish, write with a sincere voice, be a good wife and mother, and make the world a better place. The greatest challenge is learning how to love others, and how to receive love from others - especially God's love. I want to live a life worthy of the gift of life. I'll never be able to earn His love, but let me be able to receive it without performing. 

In my darkest days, I cry out to God to make sense of this life. Usually, there is no answer (about how to make sense of this life) but there is peace. King David wrote Psalm 61, the one that marks my 61st year, in a very dark time. Let it be a reminder for all of us: our relationship with God is a personal thing, marked by transparency and truth.  

Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer. I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe.
 and take refuge in the shelter of your wings. F
or you, God, have heard my vows; you have given me the heritage of those who fear your name:  years for many generations. 

May he be enthroned in God’s presence forever; appoint your love and faithfulness to protect him a
nd fulfill my vows day after day.

From the ends of the earth I call to you, I long to dwell in your tent forever. Increase the days of the king’s life, Then I will ever sing in praise of your name.