I glanced around Morrie’s study. It was the same today as it had been the first day I arrived.
The books held their same places on the shelves. The papers cluttered the same old desk.
The outside rooms had not been improved or upgraded. In fact, Morrie really hadn’t bought anything new,
except medical equipment—in a long, long time, maybe years.
The day he learned that he was terminally ill was the day he lost interest in his purchasing power.
So the TV was the same old model, the car that Charlotte drove was the same old model,
the dishes and the silverware and the towels—all the same.
And yet the house had changed so drastically. It had filled with love and teaching and communication.
It had filled with friendship and family and honesty and tears.
It had filled with colleagues and students and meditation teachers and therapists and nurses and a cappella groups.
It had become, in a very real way, a wealthy home, even though Morrie’s bank account was rapidly depleting.
There’s a big confusion in this country over what we want versus what we need,” Morrie said.
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