Shiloh at 19 - A boy to a star

Many lifetimes ago, on a continent far far away on this day, I made my way through the clogged and humid streets, a melting Spider Man cake tucked up on the seat beside me…

I’m on my way home from the one bakery that makes these specialty cakes. It’s far and the traffic is crazy in the way only African streets can be. Stray goats, Police roadblocks, hawkers touting smoked fish and exercise equipment. But I had to do it. You love Spider Man. And Bob the Builder. Or maybe Bob the Builder was last year or the year before. I smile to myself imagining your beaming grin, the kind that lights your magical eyes from within when you see it. The pride in your eyes when you scan the crowd – your cousins, your friends, the kids from the compound. And then I chuckle, knowing you will be the least interested in eating a bite. My sweet sweet boy who needs no sweets. it’s your sixth birthday.  

I might have lost my patience in the busy streets. I might be silently cursing Spider Man or worried that his melting face will be unrecognizable by the time I reach home. I have no idea how much I will cherish this day. How I will physically ache for one more chance to light your birthday candles. To witness your outstanding beauty. To hear you whine or laugh or even cry. Just to be near your life force one more time.

I am oblivious to the cruel future, I am limited, human in my lack of understanding of this world. It is your last birthday on this earth.

Gramma H, Quinci, Wesley, Shiloh, Auntie Jaqui

Grampa and Shi

My precious boy

Flying planes!

Think i had more fun than him!

The Vespa girl and her cool crew

brotherly love

Shiloh the ladies man

Still the ladies man

My little ham

Shiloh and his favourite dog Bob

Kristyn and Shi

That unmatched smile!!!!!!!

Hamming it up

Mother and son

Today I cannot imagine the 19^th birthday you will never celebrate. There were no more cakes, no more parties, no bicycles or scooters. There was crushing pain. Emptiness where there had been laughter. Just void.

And now, so many lifetimes away, in a place under the stars, I celebrate only your ageless spirit. I can only walk the beaches and feel the sensory celebration of you. The roar of the ocean waves against the unyielding rocks at shore – that is your roar. The tiniest of delicate seashells that cushion my feet as I walk – these hold the whispers of your ancient soul. 

You were here with us as a child. You live forever in our memories, but you are so much more. Beyond the limits of our clumsy human form, you soar above in the shooting stars and today that is what I have to celebrate.

Shiloh Devon Nii Kpakpo Mingle January 9, 1999 – June 21, 2005

December Blues

It’s 6:23am, the obstinate deep honking of our anchor drag alarm has awoken us abruptly. John slides over me, bleary eyed, and trips up the stairs to check out the situation. And though the wind has been howling all night, we are not dragging. The anchor is holding well, buried deep in the sand no doubt. Just a 6am false alarm to remind us we are not in Kansas. Or anywhere in a secure land home for that matter. We are on a boat. And I’m up now…

Up in the galley/salon, my feeble efforts at Christmas decorations have been thwarted in the night. The beaded white anchor ornament that serves as our ‘tree’ which I hung with care on our mast has fallen, along with the little Christmassy animals… adhesives are no match for salty sea air. Ah well. I open the hatch for some breeze and the silver and white ‘Christmas flowers’ I had stuffed strategically into my bowl of seashells are blown out and around the floor. This is a boat. And it just doesn’t feel like December anyway.

The water all around us turquoise blue. 

However, it’s colder than I remember. We’ve never been in the Bahamas in November or December before. We have been welcomed back by disturbed skies and intermittent squalls. And chilly waters.

Three weeks ago we arrived back on the boat after a three month road trip. She was tucked into a safe hurricane hole but she was all closed up and the heat and humidity took their toll. As I cursed and scrubbed stubborn black mold from the ceilings, I was worried. Would the weather hold up for my boy’s visit? Would the water be warm enough? Would it all be perfect for him and his girlfriend?

And as usual I had to learn a life lesson the only way possible. By discovering for myself that it’s not the water temperature or consistency of the sand on the beach that makes a great family reunion/holiday. It’s the people. It’s the overwhelming, heart crushing love a mama feels for her baby. Her ‘all-growed-up’ focused, talented, gorgeous, charming, mature, well adjusted boy. The boy she sees no more than once a year if she’s lucky.

And it’s the bittersweet satisfaction of witnessing that he has made it out there on his own and has found love. True, honest, beautiful young love.

We had some amazing days together. Barbecues on the beach with the other boats in the bay. Walks on the beach, collecting shells, marveling at the power of the ocean. They swam with sharks, fed the sting rays, got more than their fair share of mosquito and no-see-um bites. Bahamas wildlife couldn’t get enough of them. Neither could I. And yet 10 days was over nearly before it began. Another dinghy ride with luggage in tow. The reality of the cruising lifestyle. Family is far away and the visits are too short.

Seems like five minutes ago I was a 27 year old idealist, headed from suburbia to West Africa; a single mom with her three year old boy headed into the unknown. Hoping the world would stretch out and embrace them both. Off to learn and live and love him as best she could. 

Time is a gift. Time is a gift and it’s slipping away. 

Swim in the chilly water. Hug your boy. Call your mom. Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s just stuff. Let the ocean carry you. Let life be the adventure it’s meant to be.

Miss people. Then smile for having known them. Kiss the sky.

Happy December.

Blue Ranger blues - Happy Birthday to an angel

Darth Vader stands tall on a random corner of Duval Street, strumming his banjo with the confidence you’d expect of an inter-galactic villain. A few blocks away, Spiderman sits cross-legged on the filthy sidewalk, a classic yoga pose, with his sitar on display.

Of course. The universe is at peace. This is Key West. Stray chickens dodge traffic. Hung over stag party gangs troll the streets like zombies. It’s a random Saturday in January.

But for me there is nothing random about it. In fact, for me, it’s a day like no other. 17 years ago - I can barely believe that number as my fingers stub the keys – that many years ago on January 9^th I gave birth to my baby boy Shiloh.

After a planned Caesarean, I awoke in a sick ward in a government hospital in Accra, Ghana, West Africa. Beside me, a man groaned as his elevated swollen foot oozed. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to drive away the confusion, the terror. Why wasn’t I surrounded by other happy new mothers? Where were the cries of newborns?! Where was my baby boy?!!! The possibility washed over me, a cold sweat of terror. I was alone and my baby was not with me. Could he have… not…made..it?

An hour later, with the help of a pushy Canadian friend who’d rescued him from the incompetent nurses, I had my gorgeous boy against my breast, his heart beating with mine. His tiny body rising and falling gently with each of my calmed breaths. Apparently there were no beds left in the maternity ward. Sigh. What a scare!

Fast forward 17 years. I wake knowing my universe is not at peace. I wake with a deep dull pain. It washes over me. As I rub my eyes and look up at the white ceiling, there it is. No baby boy. No big boy either to call or visit. My worst fear has long ago come true.

I could be in Key West or St Lucia, Toronto or Trinidad. This birthday is full of terror. And resignation that an open wound will remain. It does not scab over. So I must protect it. Protect the pain as I would protect my boy. If only I could.

As the years go by, it gets deeper. Nestled in somewhere behind my heart. Somewhere that allows the sunshine still to enter. That lets me smile and know joy.

And there are memories. Memories that stay in another place. They rest like warm blankets all about my soul. If I’m chilly I only need to walk through them and wrap one around me. Bliss for a broken mama. 

But today on the 17^th anniversary of Shiloh’s birth, I choose to celebrate. A life force like that must not be mourned. A boy with the energy of the sun, the smile of a cherub and charm unmatched, THAT boy should be remembered and not swept away in sorrowful grief.

If Shiloh were here today is a game I like to play. It makes me smile. I know that my Blue Ranger is sky diving in heaven. My naughty little boy now an angel, the brightest star above us.

Shiloh would love Key West. All the action, the people, the madness, the life pulsing through this place. The messy along with the beautiful, the rough with the smooth.  He would stop me as we walked along, and stand by Spiderman on the dirty sidewalk with unabashed curiousity and wonder. He would stop and rub the back of a homeless person. 

I carry him in my heart all day today, like I do every day. I let him see it all through my eyes and in turn I see it all through his. Innocent but an old soul. Wise, wide eyed, Shiloh’s spirit soars. He guides me in his awesome way.

He has shaped who I am today, and through all the sadness I would rather to have known and loved him, than to have never held him or known him in all his glory.

Happy birthday my little boy, my omnipotent angel. May the universe hold you when you are sad and help you along your other-worldly path. And know that if I could just hold you again, for one brief moment, I would give anything and everything.

Your ever grateful mama.

New Years and warm tears

This morning when I woke, there was a magical transition going on between night and day. A handover from darkness to light. The full moon, weary from his long night shift, sat at the water’s edge, sagging ever so slightly, ready to slip in. And when he slipped away so quietly, the sun called my attention to the other side of the sky, bringing up the new day. I felt a tingle, the privilege of the early riser, to witness something grand and divine that happens every day.

Of course I was not awake of my own accord, in normal circumstances I think it’s obscene and unnatural to be up before the sun! But this morning my mother left the building. Or the boat to be more accurate. We barreled along to shore in the dinghy with her luggage in tow, and handed her over into a pink car, and a tired looking cabbie who was getting off night shift. She has begun the day long journey on buses and planes, back to the bitter cold of home.

A few days ago I stood by a shuttle bus, choking back the inevitable hot tears as we also said goodbye to my son.

These are the realities of living ‘somewhere else’. We live hundreds and at times thousands of miles from family, but the moments we have together are special. They are held together in a finite number of days, a holiday, a visit. They can be calculated on a calendar but not in our hearts. There is no earthly definition for that kind of love. 

And love it, we did. Great holiday. We’ve been living on Shiloh for three years and finally at least some of the family have seen our home and experienced a snapshot of our lifestyle. I really hope it was fun. I know we’re not going to create any converts in my land lubbing family, but at least they had fun. No seasickness, no problems with the quirks of boat life (limited water supply, must dinghy to shore, wakes from boats, side on swells). Go family! 

We’ve made it down to Key West and it’s the kind of place everyone loves. You just gotta. It’s a milestone as the Southernmost (is that even a word?) point in America. Of course as we cycled around the town yesterday we saw the Southernmost café, the Southernmost bar, the Southernmost hotel and even the Southernmost beach hotel. So everyone is milking that for what it’s worth. Key West has a million restaurants, bars, café’s, drag shows, beaches, busker shows, and people. It’s the people. Weird and wonderful sums it up. Everyone should come here at least once. Preferably during their FantasyFest!

It’s the end of a season, of a lot of bucket list visits under our keels, and a finale with family. Couldn’t have asked for a more amazing 2014.

And 2015 is a blank canvas with so many adventures to be written. We have graduations and new babies in the family and in the meantime, sailing adventures to places and countries new and old.

So my tears today are joyful though sad. We’ve chosen a life far away, a life of new and scary and exciting and fun, but a life without mom and boy nearby. A life where my niece and nephew grow in leaps and bounds in our absence. Where babies are born and life goes on ‘at home’.

We’ve untied the bow lines and left the sight of our shores and I don’t regret it for a second, but when I have the chance to see my Mom’s green eyes light up, hold my boy tight, hear their laughter, those precious memories fill me up and I cherish them, I see them in every sunset and sunrise we are away.