Sunshine Picklelime (15 page)

Ms. Naguri nodded wisely when PJ repeated Mr. Kanafani’s thoughts on cycles. Her own Zen Buddhist belief in cycles of birth, death, and rebirth in nature helped her make sense of a chaotic and often unhappy world. “We also learn to make sense out of nonsense, and nonsense out of sense. It keeps us balanced,” she added.

“I like that,” said PJ.

“PJ, remember everything about Ruth that made you
laugh. Her jokes. Her funny pigtail. This is how she would want us all to remember her. Not to mourn and walk around with long faces!”

When Ms. Naguri and PJ reached the other side of the pond, they sat together on a bench made out of logs. PJ tossed the koi the last of the treats and watched them swim away. The day had become warm and balmy, a sign that spring was easing into summer.

“What does ‘Zen’ mean, Ms. Naguri?” PJ asked.

“Very simple. It means ‘meditation.’”

“Is that what people mean when they say something is very ‘Zen’? It makes them feel they are meditating?”

“Hmmm, more than that, PJ. It means many things. Focus. Awareness. Your ability to see the essence and purpose of something. For example”—Ms. Naguri pointed at the wavy line of round stones they had just used to cross the pond—“those stones are very Zen, because you need to focus on each step to keep your balance and to be mindful as you cross the water. In that way, you are more observant. So were the koi. They came swimming to greet us. They wouldn’t have done that had we rushed across like folks running for a train.”

PJ pondered this for a few moments as she watched
dragonflies skim across the water. “How do
you
meditate, Ms. Naguri?”

“I sit in this same spot every morning and meditate, PJ. I let my mind float with the sounds. Listen!” Water trickled over stones in a shallow part of the pond close to their feet. “When it rains,” Ms. Naguri went on, “I love to watch
that.”
She pointed at a flutelike bamboo fountain that tilted down with the weight of water, and then, when the water flowed out, tilted up with a snap to capture yet more water.

“Did you make that? And your bamboo wind chimes?” PJ nodded at the chimes hanging close by. They were quiet because the air was still.

“Oh yes.” Ms. Naguri smiled. “I love to carve bamboo. I just finished a new rain fountain in my studio. It’s a bit bigger than mine. Would you like to have it for your garden, PJ?”

“Are you sure?” PJ asked. “Will it make
plink-plink
noises when it rains? Like a tiny orchestra?”

“More than that,” said Ms. Naguri. “You will hear different sounds in a light rain compared with a heavy rain.”

PJ knew about the different noises rain made as it rushed through gutters and downspouts into their barrels
at home. She’d place the fountain under her bedroom window so she could hear it at night. She also knew her bird buddies would enjoy drinking from it.

Then she had an idea. “Ms. Naguri, could you make bamboo wind chimes to hang on Ruth’s live oak after Mr. Splitzky brings me her tree house?” she asked. “So Josh and her parents can fill that space with music?”

“That’s a lovely idea!” Ms. Naguri said. “Then the whole block will think of Ruth each time breezes visit us.” She smiled, then added, “PJ, I know you love that tree house. But don’t hide in it too much. Keep finding new joy in your own garden and home.”

“PJ, why can’t you have a dog or a cat like other kids your age?” Mr. Picklelime complained when he met her later, carrying her new rain fountain through the front gate. “I’m tired of those scruffy seagulls pooping on the lawn. Aren’t they supposed to poop on the beach?”

“Oh, come on, Dad, they’re just fertilizing the grass,” said PJ. “They aren’t hurting anyone.”

“Well, it’s interesting the way they seem to follow you
home. The instant I come into the garden they make awful noises and fly off.”

“Maybe if you sat outside quietly they wouldn’t fly off?”

He didn’t reply but stared at the bamboo fountain in her hands. “What’s that contraption?”

PJ explained how it worked and then asked him to help her find a suitable spot for it under her bedroom window.

He pointed up at a corner in the rain collection gutter on the roof, close to a downspout. “When it rains heavily there’s always overspill in this area, PJ, so it’s perfect for your fountain just below. You can direct the spout onto whatever you are trying to grow up this trellis.”

“Jasmine,” she told him, hoping he wouldn’t ask why it was planted off center. She had to leave a space so she could scale down the trellis from her bedroom window.

Mr. Picklelime didn’t seem to notice. He scouted around, gathering rocks to secure the base of the fountain. “There,” he said, then, with a glance at the sky, added, “Now all we need is rain.”

“Dad,
thanks,”
said PJ. She went to get the watering can to try out the new fountain and also drizzle water over her new plants and herbs, all of which were beginning to grow nicely. Later, she joined her dad in the kitchen.

“Hungry? I think Mom left something here for us,” he said, opening the freezer door. “Lasagna? Ravioli?”

“No thanks, it’s too much,” said PJ. “I think I just want yogurt and fruit, Dad.”

“That’s all I feel like, too.”

Together they chopped apples, peaches, and bananas into a big bowl and stirred in a pot of strawberry yogurt with some crushed pecans from their past fall crop. PJ made tea from a fresh mint plant that Mrs. Patel had given her.

They ate in silence until Mr. Picklelime said, “Everyone’s talking about Ruth. It’s a tragedy when a child dies. Parents never get over it. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK, Dad. I’m working through this. It helps to know her tree house will be here soon.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to visit your other school friends?” he said as he stirred honey into his mint tea. “It doesn’t seem right somehow. You really want to spend time in a dead friend’s tree house?”

PJ shrugged. “Ruth isn’t a ‘dead’ friend, Dad. She’s someone I’ll always remember.”

Mr. Picklelime sighed and said, “Tree house or no tree house, PJ, don’t neglect school and your duties around here. I don’t want to come home and find cockroaches running all over a sink full of dirty dishes.”

“You won’t, Dad. I promise.”

“Thanks, PJ.” He finished his fruit, and chewing on the spring of mint from his tea, he left her alone.

After he was gone, PJ took the fruit peels and bits out to the compost. Luckily, none of her bird buddies had flown in. She didn’t want them to confront her dad. Reassured that the coast was clear, she went to her room to complete an essay for class, on neighbors. She wrote about everything she had seen that day, Mr. Kanafani’s lovely orange blossoms, Ms. Naguri’s pond with the koi, dragonflies, wavy line of stepping stones, bamboo fountain, and wind chimes.

She reached for her sketch pad and pastels to try to capture those images on paper. But somehow she still couldn’t seem to get the right mix of colors or forms. It was as though her hand just froze. She hadn’t been able to add any new sketches to the corkboard since Ruth’s death. Was this “freezing” something everyone experienced after losing a friend? How long would it last?

Squirt interrupted her thoughts by flying from a branch to the window ledge and onto her shoulder. He draped himself around her neck in the same way he used to drape himself around Ruth. Except he lay there quietly, very different from his usual chattering and twitching about.

PJ stroked his fur until he drifted off. She eased him from her shoulder and into his box beside her bed. Then she looked through the reading assignment Mr. Flax had given them to prepare for tomorrow’s class. They were going down to the beach to help coastal and wildlife crews clean up and document debris, and plant grasses on the dunes to replace those damaged by the oil spill. Feeling sleepy, she climbed under the covers and spent a restless night swimming across the ocean in a dream with koi fish the size of dolphins.

PJ felt some of her sadness lift as she ran around on the beach in a blustery wind with her botany class. Her mom was right. It was important to throw herself into regular activities. She was far from the area where her gull friends normally hung out, but even so, she found herself looking up each time she heard a familiar
caw-caw-caw
.

Decked out in protective gloves and boots, PJ and her classmates helped the crews fill garbage bins with junk littering the beach, like broken sandals and plastic buckets, soda and beer cans. They also documented the debris that washed up on shore from boats, wrecks, storms, and
distant countries, like ships’ timbers, bottles, anchors, entire palm trees, and even an old trunk filled with sand. They found dead birds trapped in huge clumps of seaweed, some still matted with oil. Any industrial waste they red-flagged for the coastal crews to document, remove, and trace back to points of origin to file complaints.

“Why do we need to help restore the dunes after storms and oil spills?” Mr. Flax asked when the class had completed their share of cleanup and gathered around him in a circle.

“Dunes protect the beach?” someone said.

“How?” Mr. Flax asked.

“They hold the sand together and prevent it from blowing away.”

“How?” Mr. Flax asked again.

“Grasses and plants help to bind the dunes,” said PJ. “Then birds can nest in them. It’s a whole other ecosystem.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Flax. Next to him was a trolley load of sea oats, beach grass, morning glory vines, and goldenrod he had wheeled onto the dunes. He handed out spades and trowels and told the class where and how to start planting to replace grasses that had been destroyed by the oil spill.

“Their roots go way, way down,” he said, “and they also help to filter out pollutants left by oil and anything else—which is why you must never pull up or destroy sea oats or dune grasses. Don’t feel tempted to pick the pink or yellow or purple flowers you see growing across the dunes on vines. Enjoy them, photograph them, but leave them alone.”

After the digging and planting activities, the class loaded their spades and trowels onto the trolley and trundled back to the school bus. Their cheeks were windblown to a bright cherry red. Salt spray made their hair, especially PJ’s, look like explosions.

When they returned to school, PJ asked Mr. Flax if she could have a few moments alone with him during the lunch break.

“Of course, PJ.”

“Mr. Flax, do plants have souls?” she asked. “Is that why seeds from a dead plant can create new flowers?”

He smiled down at her. “What do you think, PJ?”

“I know seeds have a special energy that makes them grow. People have different energies, but after they die they don’t sprout little people like seeds sprout little flowers. So where does their soul energy go?”

Mr. Flax said, “Hmmm.” He knew why PJ was asking
these questions. “PJ, in my church we talk about the soul going toward light, toward God. The soul comes from God, and returns to God, the highest and purest form of energy.”

“Doesn’t God need plants?”

“He gives us the gift of plants for beauty, and to nourish us. We best serve God when we honor and respect people, plants, and
all
forms of life,” Mr. Flax said.