When I was young and traveling with my family, I once saw a woman pull up in her car under the covered driveway along the front of a motel out west.  She was all by herself.  She was sexy and so was her car, yet neither was the most expensive one.  Her boots kicked up the dust as she got out of the car, and then she put on her black felt cowboy hat over her dark shoulder-length hair.  She was young and beautiful and confident in her blue jeans, like she knew exactly what she was doing.  And she had grown hard and strong and tough, at least on the outside, wherever she had been planted.  But she had no roots.  And all the storms she had survived only made her stronger and could not take away her beauty or her charm or the sparkle of the excitement in her eyes that somehow coexisted with her wisdom, or at least street smarts.  She seemed quite fit as she moved energetically, gracefully, and decisively.  She was renting a room in a motel all by herself during a long drive.  I felt so excited by her freedom as the gypsy in me awoke, and oh, I so wanted to be that woman…