I often find myself remembering what true wealth is. It isn't, and never has been, what is in my bank account. Money is a tool I use to remain in the life I hold so dear, and besides paying bills and upgrading my backpacking kit, I don't really care to have it. You can't eat money. It only holds the import society and the federal reserve attach to it. But behold this! Behold a plate of roasted chicken and baked vegetables!
This entire meal came from the farm and my eyes are as big as Gibson's in this picture when it was presented to me as well! A Cornish Cross broiler cooked in our rotisserie! Beets, squash, onions, and peppers from the garden! More waiting for us in our freezer, bagged and blanched and waiting for our table as the months turn towards colder and colder weather. Magic. Blessings. True wealth.
I have a home protected from the elements by a mountain side. I have fresh springs of water flowing through my property. I have livestock, gardens, game, foraging and food stores. I have a woman that loves me, dogs that are so soft and kind, and the health to use my entire body. All eyes and fingers and limbs work. My teeth don't hurt. All of my troubles feel slowly and quietly surmountable. I need that money to buy the firewood and hay, and slowly I will find a way to earn it. I have been here a decade and hope for another of stories and horses and hawks and hunts, but realistically I must both appreciate the wealth I have already, which is this farm.