I heard this week that Wes Nations died.
Do you know him? He spent four years traveling and wrote fantastic and honest pieces on his blog Johnny Vagabond. Raw is the word I hear most often applied to his writing. Things like how he almost killed a man who offered him an eight year old girl for sex. Or stories about the ethereal nature of travel.
Wes and I never made our acquaintance face-to-face, and normally, I wouldn’t write an ode to a man I’d never met. In the case of Johnny Vagabond, it’s just a bit different.
My connection with Wes began as the quintessential online travel blogger relationship. We liked each other’s Facebook posts, made silly comments and had plenty friends in common. These are generally no-strings things, not too much meaning, and nothing solid enough to call real relationships.
Sometimes, though, with some people something sticks.
I’d been reading Wes’ blog for a while when I ran across a post titled Depression, Burn Out and Renewal on the Streets of India. It hit deep with me, because I read it during a particularly complicated time in my life.
It was just one thing after another. Two good friends suddenly accused me of deception and theft, and our mutual friends stopped talking to me. Another woman threatened to report us to immigration in an attempt to get us kicked out of Argentina. I never thought immigration would care, but how shitty to think a friend would twist personal information to hurt me.
Then our landlord kicked us out of our house and tried to sue us. Then all of our money disappeared in the Argentine banking system, and we found out the government was investigating us for money laundering.
Then the hardest thing of all. A family member killed herself. She was only 32 years old. I still can’t believe it. I knew she was stressed and not feeling well, but I had absolutely no idea how low she felt.
I just kind of closed up and stopped wanting anything to do with other people. My bed, our house, anyplace alone seemed preferable to dealing with human beings. I shut down.
When I read Wes’ story of depression in India, I recognized myself and realized I needed help. Something in his words made me want to connect again, so I wrote him an e-mail. I didn’t really expect a reply, but he wrote back almost immediately to say that any time I ever needed anything, he’d be there for me. He showed an unbelievable yet unassuming kindness to me at a time I most needed it.
Now, after his death, when I look at his Facebook wall and talk with others who knew him, kind is the prevailing word used to describe him. Such a short word, one that seems too simple, perhaps too bland to describe the life of this particular man. It’s not.
Always be kinder than you feel.
I found this on Pinterest a while back ,and it has become a mantra of sorts.
I remind myself of this when I’m angry or hurt by those around me. When I think of my ex-friends here in Salta and how betrayed I feel, when I want to call them and release my hurt and aggression, I tell myself, no, you have no idea why people act as they do or what pain lies underneath.
I know when I am at my lowest, I am not easy to be around. I say hurtful things, lose my temper. I act brashly, childishly. selfishly to those I love, and most of all I hope that others see through my bad behavior and love me nonetheless.
The last time Wes and I chatted was last January, less than a year before his death. I shared with him the news I was pregnant with Charlie.
“Congrats! How far away is the wee one? Are you miserable yet?”
I congratulated him on his engagement. They didn’t have a ring, so he gave her a nut he found on the beach and sent me a photo of his hand with the big clunky thing on his finger.
We chatted for about an hour about growing up. He told me how his parents raised him to be a decent human being in spite of growing up in redneck country. We talked of the craziness of people in this world and joked that we should get our parents together for lunch one day, just so we could watch.
“People are funny,” I told him. “And nuts.”
“Thank the gods,” he replied. “Otherwise, I’d be bored shitless.”
I had no idea that would be our last conversation. But that’s just it isn’t it? You never know.
I’ve long since come to the conclusion that it is futile to measure each word as if it could be the last. That is no way to live life. Instead, I try to treat each person with kindness.
Wes allowed me to feel that there would always be someone out there to understand. Now, there is only a blank space where he used to be. There is no one who gets it anymore, not like he did.
I am thankful to Wes for being there for me as a constant. I am thankful for his stories and his happy, accepting nature. I am thankful for the simple, silly conversations that don’t seem too terribly significant until I remember I can’t have them anymore.
I cannot think of a better last conversation than the one we had. Both our lives were turning to new adventures. We were content and happy to be on a path that felt normal, not so full of demons. You know, we both wrestled with them sometimes, but not on that day.
When I think of our last chat, yes, I am sad, but I feel no regret, because a last conversation has no room for regret when it has been filled with kindness.
