There is a vast difference between feeling rich and being wealthy (although it would be nice to have money, too, I'm sure). Having done my time when the cupboards were bare, I feel secure when I see shelves of canned goods in the pantry; it's like money in the bank for me. Hanging laundry on the line in the sunshine yesterday, I didn't need a yacht to feel the breeze on my face or see the sheets billowing like sails. It didn't matter that I'd made the bed myself, a queen slipping between those crisp, sweet-smelling sheets last night could not have been more satisfied. My diamonds are in the night sky, more beautiful than any I could wear around my neck. The colors and artistry in the sunrise and sunset rival any painting in the Louvre. I have few friends in number, but they are true friends and I value them as treasures, far more precious than any amount of acquaintances. In my travels in this and other countries, I have seen many, many beautiful and astounding sights, but the ever-changing panorama from my deck never fails to delight without leaving home. My dog loves me, period, full stop. Working with the animals gives my days purpose and a feeling of being useful, better by far to me than sitting in a boardroom somewhere. My children and family are where my true wealth lies. They fill the coffers of my heart to overflowing.
What does it take to make me feel rich? Not much. In my little corner of the world, I'm richer than Croesus.