Can't recall the last time I laughed so hard, for so many hours as I did last weekend. This is what happens when you put three women in a car for a good long road trip and throw in a few matching rainbow T-shirts.

My friend Tracy came out to Oregon for a quick spin through the state and lucky me, I got to ride along for the tour with her and another of our good friends.

The thing about travel is what it does to the soul, my soul anyway. There just is no quicker or more efficient therapy than driving away from life for a few days, for just long enough to fully appreciate everything you're coming back to.

Okay, of course there were a couple moments of "Hmmm, I could just keep going and never look back." Except, I couldn't. In every shop something took me home. Some little thing I couldn't resist buying for my girls, and for their dad, too. And then all the happy rush of waiting to see their faces when they opened the packages.

When we took a wrong turn, or more precisely, when we — slaves to technology that we are — mindlessly followed the GPS along a three-hour stretch of one-lane, shoulder-less forest service roads, all hairpin turns and death drop cliffs, straight up and over the Siskiyou Mountains instead of cutting down across the Redwood Highway through Northern California as we had planned, I just kept laughing. White knuckles and all. It's like that on the road. You take the adventure as is comes and let go of everything else. The plans we're so attached to.

I kept thinking on that drive, "This, this is the souvenir I want to bring home from the trip. Home to my relationship."

Every time my vision is jacked by an unfortunate turn into the wilderness, let me remember to drive slow, hold tight, and laugh myself all the way up and back down again.

I get to take a little break from my life today and go out on the road with a couple of my girlfriends. An actual road trip with no small people in the back seat asking how much further and chanting "I want out of this car right now!"

Yay!

It's only for two days and it's almost all of it driving, but the truth is I wouldn't care if we didn't stop at all. I love to watch the world through an open window, the way movement makes my mind turn faster and how my spirit feels freer and all my songs come louder to the rhythm of road.

It's a five-hour drive down into Southern Oregon where we are going, down through the northern most tip of the Redwoods and to the coast, and what I remember is how the trees grow more and more impossibly big around the bottom the closer you get to the water.

How I can tilt my head back, look straight up the trunk and everything in my periphery, both directions, is the bark. Up in the canopy is a world that goes on its way oblivious to us, and the smallness it brings in me is perfect. Forty percent of all the world's animals live up the treetops, a hundred feet above the ground.

We're always down here trying to negotiate with the little bits of information we can gather in our limited view. And everything we're in feels so enormous. The weight of tangled personal drama that we can't get high enough above to see where the edges blur out.

I want to climb to the tips of the trees, one branch higher and one branch higher, to where I can see how the pieces all fit together and everything makes sense. Breathe in and understand what it is to be small in the world and the universe and let go of the ways our crippled little vision keeps us trapped in the illusion that our confusion is desperate.

Roxie, Lila and I flew to Arizona last week for my niece's high school graduation. Most of my family is down there in the desert.

My parents live in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. They've been living in the same house for 10 years, and at night, I'm still not sure which on is theirs.

Every house is that suburban-Scottsdale tan adobe with a terra-cotta roof.

In May the weather is uniform like the architecture. Everyday is hot and sunny.

Our visits are always pretty scripted. They kids stay with my parents, I stay a couple nights there and a couple nights at my brother's, or my sister's.

And it's hot.

Last graduation here, my other niece's, I was pregnant with Lila. It was 100 plus degrees, my shear tank-dress was one layer too thick and no amount of bottled water could quench my desert thirst.

What I love about travel is the unexpected. Visiting family isn't exactly "travel," but it's a break from routine.

And this trip we got a great dose of the surprise. The temperature dropped 50 degrees from 108 on Tuesday to 57 on Thursday.

It was cold and rainy and nothing like late-May is supposed to be here.

The wind blew graduation caps across the fields, and while people huddled under blankets and umbrellas they laughed though the complaints.

And loved it for the great stories that come out of disaster even as it's happening.

For me, that's key to surviving these hard times. Loving them for the stories they will become and laughing a little right now, too.

Yay! Vacation. Bring it on!

Well, not vacation, exactly. But as close as I'm getting anytime soon.

We're headed to Arizona for some quality family time and my niece's high school graduation.

My girls and I have been packing this week. OK, technically, Roxie and Lila have been packing and I have been unpacking the inappropriate things they've chosen for the trip.

Replacing long-sleeve dresses and heavy jeans with tank tops, skorts, and cotton capris.

I love traveling alone with my girls. The adventure. Three girls alone on the road, or in the air, as it were. It's empowering to know we can do it ourselves. Even if, technically, I'm going to my family where my kids stay with the grandparents, I stay with my brother or sister and I have way more help than I do at home as the only adult.

Still, even on these totally scripted trips, where little room is left for spontaneous activity, travel feels like possibility.

Even on the "easy" trips, you can't leave home without learning more about yourself. Travel is the ultimate crash course in self discovery.

And there a few things I already know.

We can go anywhere. Do anything we want. Don't need anyone else.

If everyday could be like this.

Sam cam over for dinner Tuesday night and we walked a few blocks to the kid-friendly neighborhood brew pub. Decent food and good beer and two enclosed play areas.

Four blocks of new spring leaves and trees in flower. The kids stopped to play on benches and balance one foot in front of the other along the tops of low brick walls. Lila hunted for dandelions, not hard to find, that she called sunflowers and picked a bouquet that made me sneeze.

Roxie and I slowed to our own pace. While Sam and Lila kept on ahead, she told me kindergarten tales from her day and stretched her arms long to reach low branches.

At dinner the girls came and went from the table to the play area, while we sipped on iced tea, chatted easily about our days, and waited for dinner.

It was almost picture perfect, the way we must have seemed to anyone looking on.

I remembered our friendship. How good the comfort of just hanging out can feel.

Roxie and Lila tipped their ice-cream bowls to let the last drips run into theirs mouths. We smiled without correcting their table manners or suggesting the bowls were empty.

The walk home was honey sunset sky behind us, glowing gold in the space between the blossoms. Kids and dogs and parents playing. Bikes and skateboards and basketballs.

No jackets and no cares and we were just another family out walking in spring.

I can't keep myself away from Sam, I just plain suck at it. Every indicator points to the relationship not working.

There's no passion in it. Rarely sex anymore, and I'm not even interested in changing that. But oh, how nice the company is sometimes.

Last weekend I went over there for Easter — and this is part of the problem: We never fully severed when we split. We've lived apart for 18 months, but we still spend every holiday and birthday together. Anyway, I went over there for Easter, not wanting to go, but feeling obliged to take part in a holiday I don't celebrate, and despite my best efforts to maintain a cold distance, I had a really nice time with him.

Sure, there was the same quiet I always complain about. That lonesome sound of silence, but it was familiar and comfortable. It was nice not to be alone in my cold apartment. Such a simple pleasure, laughing at a movie, curled warm on the couch with my kids asleep in the next room.

My friend compared getting through this period of separation to kicking heroin. I shot back some snide remark about "once a junkie, always a junkie," but deep inside of here, I know she's right.

There's no getting out of something if you keep going back to it.

We met in line for Grateful Dead tickets. Summer Solstice shows, Deer Creek Music Center, 1993. I was first at TicketMaster and he was right behind me. Why I was in that spot on that day, that's another weird story.

But this is just background. I'm not talking about 1993.

I'm talking about the other night. Sam comes over to watch the girls and I get into van full of our friends, to go see Phil Lesh at the Crystal Ballroom. It's the second of two shows that have been sold out for months and there are $400 ticket offers on Craigslist.

Two nights before the show I didn't have a ticket.

My friend tells it best. We're dancing in the crowd and she leans in close to someone else I know, but not well, and shouts over the music to explain how I got there.

"So Sam, her..." she says. Pauses and looks at me. "... I don't even know what to call him anymore," she says. "Her husband, who she's separated from, babysat my kids last night until 2 a.m. We had an extra for tonight and told him if he babysat, it was his."

The other woman looks at me. I've been wearing this big grin so long it's hurting my face.

"And you ended up with the ticket."

"Yep," I say. "He gave me the ticket."

"AND," my friend says. "He's at her house watching their kids. Two nights home with kids while all his friends are out partying. You owe him HUGE for this. You have to do something really nice for him."

I have a few ideas.

Friday night. Blue dark outside my windows overtakes the apartment so the only light is a soft spot from the desk lamp. One spot of light, and me at the edge of it.

On the floor, from me all the way across the bookshelf, reside two stuffed kittens laying head to tail against each other. Baby dolls, books, a trail of Winnie-the-Pooh matching cards. Blue monster, Minnie Mouse, blue butterfly fairy wand, half-deflated green balloon, and Santa. Minnie's laying half under the kid-sized rocker. The rocker's under a pile of books that made it almost to the shelf.

My living room. My bedroom. My office. It's all one space.

I don't know a soul who can multi-task like this room does. Makes it seem bigger than 300 square feet.

I've been all day at this desk and, finally, the work is done. Now there's the question of what to do.

Fourteen months into single life, and freedom is still new. For the first year post-Sam, time was suspended. I had Roxie and Lila half the week, worked nights the other half. I moved out, but not on. Snuggled up to couch cushions and wrapped myself in the relief of not having time for more.

Pretty convenient, actually.

Didn't have to face the fear of dating after 14 years. Didn't have to face myself alone in rooms full of my favorite couples. Didn't have to face any questions about what I was doing, or not doing. Everyone who knew me knew I worked every moment to survive.

No need to question that.

Now it's Friday night and I'm free. The girls are with him, work is done, and my time is my own. I'm terrified.

This is how it goes. I walk away from the edge of soft light, step over toys, and head out to meet a friend for wine. It's night, I know, but one step forward is a new day. New day, new territory.