Room with a View

We are back at Daytona Beach in a different room up on the eighth floor. The east wall facing the ocean is nothing but windows.

A person could almost imagine himself or herself to be aboard an ocean liner at sea with nothing but water in view. It is not until you stand within 6 feet of the windows that you are aware of the slim stretch of beach eight stories below.

It is also the level at which pelicans lazily float by as they make their way up the coastline in search of their next meal. Although they glance at me quite nonchalantly as they pass by, I am still amazed at how a creature could be so homely looking, yet graceful in flight.

As the sun and moon rise above the water, each at their appropriate time, they provide uniquely different backdrops to each changing scene in this drama of “The Beauty and the Beach.”

Twice daily I watch the ocean slowly devour its helpless prey wave by wave only to give it up again, allowing a respite of freedom to the soaked sand, knowing that shortly it will be suffocated once again in a watery grave.

I never tire of watching the waves and listening to the sounds of their crashing. It has a personality all it’s own, one of resolute, persistent purpose. The tide rolls in. The tide rolls out. It never asks permission nor seek approval. It simply does what it was designed to do.

It cannot perform contrary to its systematic, intentional design, nor could one expect it to violate its natural proclivity. Washing away sand castles of resistance without notice, it seeks only to achieve that which it was designed to accomplish.

Oh…to have the daring of an ocean!

It seems we can so easily resist our God-given design in order to be that which we were not meant to be. Our sandcastles become insurmountable deserts in our mind’s eye and we simply roll out with the tide and attempt to resist our destiny.

Who would dare to accomplish their purpose? Who would dare to achieve their calling? Only those with the perseverance of an ocean. Those who systematically and intentionally wear away their shoreline of limitation, day after day. Only those who see sand castles instead of deserts.

Only those who live their life in a “room with a view”…that’s who.

What see you from your window?

Seeing President Bush - October 16, 2004

After watching the last of three Presidential debates last Wednesday, we heard that President Bush was going to be in Daytona Beach on Saturday for a rally. Naturally we wanted to try and attend if at all possible.

On Friday, as I was taking a package to the DHL office, I passed by a normally empty outdoor arena abuzz with activity. Semi trailers were lined up to form a wall between the narrow street and the arena stands. A stage had been set up and the sound system was being tested. More stands and tents were being erected around the property and a news van was parked at one of the front gates.

I knew this must be the place that the President was going to be. Later that evening we drove out and talked to some of the people involved in the setup to see how we could get in for the rally. We were told that tickets might be available through the GOP headquarters in Daytona Beach.

The next morning, Rick called their office to find out if tickets were available. After getting directions to the location, he went and got tickets for us. After taking care of the things we needed to attend to, we set off for the rally around 1:15 p.m.

About two miles from the location, we were greeted with a traffic jam of people trying to get into the rally. After inching out way to a parking area, which was an open field of grass, we walked about a half of a mile to the first gate.

A handful of Kerry supporters, less than a dozen in number, were on hand at the first gate with their signs watching thousands of Bush supporters file by chanting “Four more years” and “Flush the John’s.” Rick and I wondered which news stations would give more attention to the handful of protesters while overlooking the 5,000 to 6,000 people who showed up in the heat of the day to support the President.

After filing through checkpoints, showing our picture ID, presenting our tickets, and discarding our water bottles, we finally made it to the metal detectors. These 10’ tall portable detectors, about ten to twelve in number, were set up under a large tent with their carrying cases lying on their sides in a “V” shape to form aisles on either side.

To the side of the detectors, security personnel behind tables were inspecting purses, cameras, cases, and cell phones, followed by secret service on the other side of the detector with a wand in case someone failed to make it through without setting off the alert.

Once through security, we made our way toward the stage along with the growing number of attendees until we could move no closer to the stage for the density of the crowd. We were standing about 50 yards from the podium where various speakers came to garner the support of those who came for their individual races.

It had taken a little over an hour to arrive at this point and would be another hour and a half before the President would arrive, but we were packed in with about 5,000 enthusiastic supporters who, like us, were willing to endure the discomfort for an opportunity to be involved in history.

As the speakers and the entertainment filled the time, we observed the increasing presence of security as time drew near for the President’s arrival. First was a surveillance helicopter flying overhead scanning the forest and entry roads that the Presidential bus would use. Closer to time for his arrival, secret service dressed in black swat gear mounted the top of a van with high powered binoculars scanning the tree line and the growing crowd of people.

Eventually others dressed in suits and wearing the typical radio earpieces worked their way through the crowd and positioned themselves with backs toward the stage, scanning the crowd of people. Soon the helicopter quit flying around the perimeter and took up a stationary position hovering over a point where the motorcade must be arriving. It appeared that two helicopters were in use to set up an aerial perimeter of surveillance while the President was speaking.

Soon thereafter the President arrived along with brother/governor Jeb Bush. The crowd erupted with enthusiastic cheers and banner waiving, as “W” waved to the crowd. Only the cheering applause to comments he made or the chanting of “Four more years” interrupted his speech. Any mention of John Kerry’s name, of course, was met with a chorus of booing and derogatory comments from the crowd.

Everyone was standing so closely together that if one were to have dropped something on the ground, it would have been easier to leave it there than to attempt bending over to pick it up. After the President spoke, he waved, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries with those fortunate enough to be up front, and then left in company of personal security.

Slowly the mass of bodies made their way to the exit and, ultimately, to their vehicles. Those who had arrived early and obtained the closest parking were now at the mercy of thousands of bodies surrounding their vehicle, preventing a hasty exit. The logjam of cars in the streets slowly inched their way to their next destination, while those who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time sat lamenting their choice of route on this particular day.

Rick and I both were glad to have had the privilege to see in person one of the most historic figures of our day, even if from a distance.

You know...I think it's time to write again.

Not for money or notoriety. Not because there is a "dead" line to meet or beat.

But, just for the very love of writing.

I mean, simply for the love of weaving together a web of words in such a way as to trap, for a single fleeting moment, the short attention span of a wandering mind...like a fly overcome by the enchantment of a spider's glistening design.

"Gotcha," the master weaver grinned. "But I shall let you go so we can play again."

The challenge. The intrigue. The sport of it all. Bouncing his words like a bouncing ball.

"I will let you go today. But come back soon so we can play."

A true master weaver weaves for others as easily as he weaves for himself. He spins and spins and spins and steps back to inspect his design, and then...

"Yes! Yes!" they would all exclaim. "That's exactly what I wanted to say! You took the words right out of my heart and placed them on the tip of your pen. Could you do it again?"

"But, of course," the weaver grinned. As he began to spin.

"Come see the Master Weaver," they would say. "He's really hot today!"

They didn't know it was all just "play" for the master weaver.

Time and time and time again he would spin and spin and spin. A brochure, a book, a fancy hat. A card, a badge, a fine place mat.

The logos came from a place beyond the land where immortal legends dawn.

Like something outside of time and space. Outside of reason and proper place.

There seemed to be no form or rhyme. And yet it seemed that every time the weaver would pause his time at play, the crowd around began to say, "That's what I meant. That's what I thought. I'll copyright this work of art."

The master weaver frowned a bit...cocked his head to one side and spit. "Ingrates, fools," he quietly said. "They'd watch me spin here 'till I'm dead. But I have other thoughts in mind. I'll wait my turn...I'll bide my time."

And so he would spin...on and on. Sometimes he would spin from dusk 'till dawn. Until one day he spun around and spun his way right out of town.

"Where's he going? What's he thinking? You think, perhaps, that he's been drinking? There's much to do, so much to say. He can't just run away and play. There's work to do! There're bills to pay! He must weave what we must say!"

They searched and searched but never found the place the master weaver wound.

Some say that he weaves in the field. Some say he weaves beyond the hill. Some think he weaves out by the creek. Some swear they saw him just last week.

But one thing is for certain...one thing is for sure. The weaver doesn't weave here anymore.

He weaves his own intriguing web, sometimes if only to clear his head of all the thought and all the clatter, of all the junk and mindless chatter. Sometimes he weaves to feel again the fun he felt some time back when he wrote for pleasure and not for price; the fun of weaving without vice.

Simply for the joy of weaving and not for someone else believing that they can capture the weavers web only to find it melt instead into a sticky formless mass that has no value...brings in no cash.

"Let him go...let him leave. He'll soon come back to us and weave."


Out in the still of a quiet forest, with whippoorwills and frogs in chorus, there lives a creature who spins designs that fascinates and boggles minds. He weaves his web in such a way that calls for wandering minds to play a silly game of wordy fun that's never tiring until they're done.

And though my little tale is true, I know you've better things to do.

So I will let you go today. But come back soon so we can play.