The Illusion of Freedom

If one were to drive down Fourth Street in Guerneville located along the Russian River, they would find an overbearing redwood fence shedding its rustic coat of auburn paint and protruding into the street as if it was a suitcase withholding luggage that was much too large for its capacity. The fence was malicious; it effectively seduced the average passerby to wonder what was inside but its coarse boards were bound together so lightly it suffocated all air that tried to squeak through leaving the person’s burning curiosity disdainfully suppressed. There was only one black steel gate that linked the world on the street and the secret world within; it moaned in pain as it creaked across the patchy uneven pavement to allow vehicles inside. On top of the gate perched upon a sturdy railroad tie was a statue of an eagle flying on top of a sphere carved to take the shape of a globe; this bold statement of freedom was oddly suppressed by the oppressive fence.

Directly beyond the groaning gate, there was a small building labeled spa. The building was camouflaged with its pale colors; the roof resembled the bark that clung to the redwood trees that surrounded the building and the walls were painted a dull Easter yellow that was worn away as if whiplashed by the violent ocean tides. There were only two windows on each side of the square building, each snapped shut afraid to let one ray of the radiant sunlight enter. Even the sign that carried the engravings of its distinguished title, spa, was lifeless and blended in with the fog of paleness that engulfed the building; the letters were simple and were engraved in the same manner and font as those that could be found in a tombstone in a veteran’s cemetery. They expressed no vibrant style that suggested that the room imprisoned behind the single door would present any life or freedom; they were products of machines that manufactured hundreds of labels that were not unique in any way.

From the door of this apparent lifeless building leaked the overpowering stench of bleach, in waves so powerful and rapid that the cleaning maids had to journey through the door with their noses compressed snuggly into their warm palms and their eyes were forced to reign in tears that were racing to fall. Sounds of men laughing bellowed out of the spa and muffled the maids who skated the rings of the shower curtains across a metallic rod as they went about their duties. To the right of the spa was a sign stated private, and a pair of old redwood stairs that disappeared up to a door concealed by a plastic yellow fence of bamboo so lively that it looked odd against the rest of the camouflaged building.

The courtyard surrounding the spa was silent; the silence was only pierced by occasional dogs barking as they met across the street or the blaring of sirens that echoed from the fire station only two blocks down the street. From the remote corner of this courtyard there was a break in the towering fence that revealed a vast vineyard with an undercoat of soft green grass whose blades looked like hair flying and tossing about in the wind. Underneath the rustic fork shaped trellises, mustard greens bloomed and embraced the energy carried through with the ocean breeze that sailed over the nearby mountains which poured slowly down into the vineyard. Running through the vineyard was a small creek whose water skipped over the pebbles in a race to join the Russian River. There were no fences here, no gates or curtains to prevent the Earth from displaying her natural beauty; this was the freedom that tourists who stayed at the West Sonoma Inn came for and would never see from the spa that was masked in thick trees and coarse redwood fences.

The innkeepers at the West Sonoma Inn boasted of the relaxation and liberation that their spa indulged on their unsuspecting customers; but their customers could not feel the adventure stir in their hearts as they looked off into the uncharted mountains and they could not immerse themselves in the purity of the mustard greens that grew as undesired weeds but blossomed into marvelous pastel yellow petals that twisted around each other to form miniature flowers. The coarse redwood fence that drove splinters into the hands of curious children just learning of the freedom they have in the world was a bitter deception; the fence was designed to keep the impurities of nature out of the inn and spa that was filled with modern luxuries but in actuality imprisoned those within from experiencing the creativity and joys of nature that cannot be manufactured artificially.

Serena