For some reason, Rob is less needy lately. When he isn't in constant monologue trying to describe every experience he had while we were apart during the day, I'm more curious about how he spends his time. I have questions for him and we can dialog. This works for me. I guess without Rob breathing down my neck, the time we do spend together seems more...pleasant!

Our trip to the meditation center was helpful — our program allowed us time together apart from the group, plus time apart from each other. We struck a nice balance.

Due to the quiet-hours rule and no television, we went to bed together at the same time — a big change in routine. At home Rob retires after 11 and I fall asleep on the couch. I usually wake around 1 or 2 and go to bed. That leaves no awake time in bed together. At Kripalu we stayed up comparing notes on the workshop and laughing about quirks of the other participants. I felt downright close to him! (I even let him spoon me as we fell asleep.) 

This closeness has come just in time for the stressful holidays. We're about to embark on a four-day family extravaganza covering 1200 miles, three families, and two turkey dinners. Into that mix throw a new step-father; a father with Alzhiemer's and a needy girlfriend; and a brother who says he's not going to show up, but just might, probably drunk, flask in hand. If there's a time I ever needed a partner, it's now. 

A friend forfeited her Madonna concert ticket when she went away on sabbatical to Italy. I'd rather be in her shoes roaming the Tuscan landscape, but since that's not possible, I was happy to accept her ticket.

I don't know Madonna's recent music, but can sing every word of her first few hits "Borderline," "Lucky Star," and "Holiday" — and even remember the grapevines and jazz hands of the routines I made up to go with them 25 years ago! Anyway, I knew the show would be a mixed-media extravaganza of video and dance — why not indulge in a little escapism, rock-and-roll style?

But hours before the show, Madonna publicist announced her and Guy Ritchie's plans to divorce. So what might have been for me a carefree evening of utter abandon, singing and dancing along with Madge, turned into constant analysis of her every move. Ooh, was that sadness in her voice when she sang that lyric? Was she referring to her own pain in that song?

When she spoke to the crowd I listened only for her to mention her impending divorce. When your own marriage is on the rocks, you are keenly interested to know how others in the same boat deal.

Certainly the crowd was responding to her specific situation and trying to buoy her through cheers when she sang the telling line "You must love me." But it wasn't abandonment she was feeling when she finally decided to address the elephant in the room.

"This song is for the emotionally retarded. Maybe you know some people who act like that. God knows I do." 

I noticed Sarah McLachlan's song about divorce made the First Wives World news blog, so I thought I'd give a shout out to pop singer Pink. Not that she needs it. Her single "So What," in which she sings about her divorce from her husband, motocross racer Cary Hart, has reached No. 1.

I don't know much about Pink, but clearly she has, um, balls. I'm not referring to her bad-ass styling and punky sound. I'm talking about how she not only exposed her raw and unsettled feelings about her ex-husband to the world through song, but she put her ex in the video!

But while the lyrics belie her need for a bit more closure ("So what...I don't need you...And now that we're done, I'm gonna show you tonight") in the video it's clear, these ex-spouses have moved beyond anger to place where they can deal with each other, as friends.

In fact, it's rather sweet. Even as she sings: "You weren't there, You never were, You want it all, But that's not fair, I gave you life, I gave my all, You weren't there, You let me fall," Pink and Hart go from play-acting, to playful, to a bittersweet caress. Check it out here.

Aww.

According to People.com, Pink wrote on her website that her divorce was "‘not about cheating, anger, or fighting" and that she still considers her ex a ‘good man.'"

I imagined a trip to the Greek Isles in my last post. I'd like it to be a month-long journey at least, so I could really drop out from my harried city life and revel in a slow life governed by the natural rhythms of day, night, and season.

It's not quite the same, but my Labor Day vacation will be an island getaway of a sort. Rob and I are flying out to L.A. and ferrying out to Santa Catalina, a hilly rock of an island off the southern Californian coast.

This is the first time in months Rob and I are going away together, and it's the first time in a couple of years I'm looking forward to spending time with him. What's different? I'm not sure.

I'm waiting and seeing rather than grasping for an immediate resolution to our discomfort. Rob is still working at therapy, and we're seeing a therapist together. We're both growing and changing. Apart or together? Not yet sure. But why not try to enjoy each other's company in the meantime?

Actually, this trip could be an important test. I've heard it's not a good idea to go away on vacation to try to fix a marriage because it's easy to get along in paradise, away from the stresses of normal life.

But if a successful romantic getaway can't predict successful romance back home, an unsuccessful romantic getaway — one plagued with fights or, worse, boredom — certainly can't predict one either.

So this weekend may be telling. Stay tuned.

I dream of visiting the Greek Isles and navigating the twists and turns of the road — between mountain, town, and beach — on a scooter. I lean into turns that open toward vistas dotted with bright white villages shining in the intense Mediterranean light. From every vantage point, ocean surrounds.

I can't make my dream getaway happen right now, but I'm not waiting around, either. I've manifested a bit of the experience here at home: I bought a Vespa to get me around the city in a style reminiscent of my dream, and at a fraction of the cost — to my wallet and to the earth (75 miles per gallon!).

I scoot between neighborhoods, from yoga studio to post office to library. My skin soaks up the sun but is also cooled by the breeze I create as I open the throttle. It's...freeing.

I haven't always felt free in my marriage. But freedom isn't about having the most comfortable arrangements — living in the house, working the job, and with the partner we always imagined. Freedom is an inside job, and inner freedom cannot be buffeted about by the vagaries of life. It is steady and true.  

I can't deny, however, that a solitary ride on a late-summer afternoon — waning sunlight and warm breeze on my face — doesn't jump start things for me.

Out on the leafy streets I capture a momentary sense of freedom. The Vespa is...my new joy toy.

A friend of mine who has a life coaching business dropped me a line recently: "Hi, thinking of you, what's up?"

His quick and light email ended with a thud: "Remember, being single is not a burden, it's an opportunity!"

Nice sentiment, but what? I had just made the decision to stick around in my marriage and try really hard to improve it, so the note seemed ill-timed, if not downright rude. I wrote to remind him, maybe not gently enough, of my change of tack.

Well, apparently that line was just his automatic signature, phrased to inspire the bulk of his clientele, and not a message to me personally. Oops. Hee. 

We sorted it out easily, but my quick and strong reaction was telling. I'm super-sensitive about my situation, and not always open to advice. Gotta relax.

It's hard, though. When I was young, marriage was made to seem a happy inevitability, a final destination where, having found my one true mate, I would dwell in peace. When instead it's a road pitted with doubts, the going can be rough, and I can get moody.

Life may be a highway, but ride it all night long? I need rest areas, exit ramps! 

As memories of six days of sea and jungle explorations sink in, my eyes open to an old truth about myself.

Years ago I toyed with thoughts of Peace Corp service, working my way around the globe, or a job "in country" with an NGO. When my ability was questioned by parents fearful of such a life, and as my debts rose, I abandoned those dreams. I came to think them ridiculous. (Handy mechanism, to reject away what you actually love but cannot have. It makes the not-having easier to bear!)

But seeking cross-cultural connections and serving others are the only things I've ever felt called to do. Now I'm curious: Can I tap into the strength of purpose I've always had down deep and honor my interests and pursue my dreams?

These days I have more tools in my toolbox and take much better care of my emotional self. Debt can be managed, and my relationship with Rob doesn't have to keep me stuck. Where before I saw obstacles, I now see creative ways to manage concerns. I see opportunity.

With Rob's evolving understanding and acceptance that I can't play the role of a typical wife, and a bit of saving and investigation, I might just be able to get what I always wanted.

This would not be an easy life, to be sure. But fearless exploration of my interior as I trek through new exteriors, and a strong home base from which to depart and return, no longer seem unattainable. Unconventional perhaps, but not unachievable.

I'm back from a girlfriend getaway in paradise. Travels with a best friend off the beaten path awakened more joy in me and soothed my soul, but also left me wondering...

Why can't I capture a sense of fun and wonder in the every day life I already have? Why do I put up with pressures and jobs and people I don't like? Because I think I'm resigned to my lot and can't effect change for the better?

Why do I feel so stuck here in Boston, but I was free as a bird in Mexico?

One idea: I was wearing no wedding ring. I wasn't seeking romantic or sexual attention from men. But I think the ringless finger — and people's assumptions about my lack of attachment — invited more open responses and deeper interactions than I would have otherwise experienced.

One afternoon my traveling companion and I looked up from our reading to see a man snorkeling in the heavy surf. Curious. He emerged onto the beach with a string of fish and spear. We dropped our books and marched over to investigate. He saw us approach and waited to show us his catch of red snapper, octopus, and lobster.

In bits of English and Spanish we learned were evening snacks to enjoy with some friends. He was perfectly sweet and answered all our questions, with no suggestion of interest beyond the subject at hand. But he told us if we brought some beer, we could come try some of the grilled fish. Fun!

Unfortunately, we had other plans. But judging by his manner and our rapport, I think if we had taken him up on the offer we would have found a relaxed local scene in which we felt perfectly comfortable: an evening on the beach with some new friends. But were a ring on my finger, this might not have come to pass.

When the pressure of work, family drama, and troubled marriage overwhelm, I fantasize about leaving town, changing my name, and dropping off the grid for a small but self-sufficient life in the southwestern desert. I don't have much money of my own, but then I don't imagine needing much.

A beat up truck, a dog as companion, and a cozy adobe cottage — that's all I'll need. A pressure-free job at a local dive would pay the bills. I'll be perfectly content writing, exploring desert canyons, and kicking back with a few new friends over beer on rusty porch chairs. No father with Alzheimer's disease to worry about, no student loans to pay, no ambitious career or lifestyle plans in a fast-paced, high-priced northeastern city to frustrate the calm.

Such is my escape fantasy. Do we all have one? Do some people act on them? Are they the brave or crazy among us? I suppose that depends on how troubled their lives were, on how likely they could heal or remain safe, staying put.

This week I depart for a short Mexican vacation. A dear friend who lives on the opposite coast is meeting me for an escape to the beach. We'll sleep in a cabana on the jungle's edge, read in hammocks, and practice yoga on the shore. I anticipate warm air, fresh seafood, and easy conversation.

The temptation to relinquish obligations back home will tug hard. I'll relish the thought of staying behind in a paradise marvelous not so much for its sand and sea as for its lack of strings attached. But no person is an island. I'll be back.

I went to New York for a little fun with an old friend this weekend. Left alone, Rob went on a drinking binge and played violent video games through the night. I came home to find him exhausted, ill, and depressed. This is not a new thing.

It takes a couple of days for him to physically recuperate and he feels down for a good week. He tells me he feels terribly guilty and sorry, that he doesn't want to do this to himself anymore. Clearly he wants my comfort. For the first few years, I complied.

Once he did this the night before an important morning meeting at work, when we were to leave on an international flight later that day. He was still drunk and playing when I found him that morning, eyes red and swollen from peering at the screen. Scary.

About six months ago I came home from an evening out with friends to find the apartment door chained against my entrance. After no response to my calls, I broke in to find him with some sort of communications headgear on, yelling to his platoon-mates in real time as battle waged on screen. What?

We've read books and consulted therapists. He has worked to otherwise channel his anxieties at my absence. I'm reassuring before I go out for a night or away for a couple of days, and supportive and careful with him as he recuperates. He has cleared the hard dive of games and imposed drinking limits on himself, but only to re-purchase more violent games and binge once again.

My patience has limits. I can no longer be the one to comfort him when he acts out in response to my independence within the marriage. I'm curious about other people's take on this dynamic and, short of leaving, how else I might deal with it.