When I have lost my temper
I have lost my reason, too.
I’m never proud of anything
which angrily I do.

When I have talked in anger
and my cheeks were flaming red,
I have always uttered something
which I wish I hadn’t said.

In anger I have never done
a kindly deed or wise,
But many things for which I felt
I should apologize.

In looking back across my life,
and all I’ve lost or made,
I can’t recall a single time
when fury ever paid.

So I struggle to be patient,
for I’ve reach a wiser age;
I do not want to do a thing
or speak a word in rage.

I have learned by sad experience
that when my temper flies,
I never do a worthy thing,
a decent deed or wise.

You can use most any measure
When you’re speaking of success.
You can measure it in fancy home,
expensive car or dress…

But the measure of your real success
Is the one you cannot spend.
It’s the way your kids describe you
When they’re talking to a friend.

Martin Buxbaum

If you put a buzzard in a pen six or eight feet square and entirely open at the top, the bird, in spite of his ability to fly, will be an absolute prisoner. The reason is that a buzzard always begins a flight from the ground with a run of ten or twelve feet. Without space to run, as is his habit, he will not even attempt to fly, but will remain a prisoner for life in a small jail with no top.

The ordinary bat that flies around at night, a remarkable nimble creature in the air, cannot take off from a level place. If it is placed on the floor or flat ground, all it can do is shuffle about helplessly and, no doubt, painfully, until it reaches some slight elevation from which it can throw itself into the air. Then, at once, it takes off like a flash.

A Bumblebee if dropped into an open tumbler will be there until it dies, unless it is taken out. It never sees the means of escape at the top, but persists in trying to find some way out through the sides near the bottom. It will seek a way where none exists, until it completely destroys itself.

In many ways, there are lots of people like the buzzard, the bat and the bee. They are struggling about with all their problems and frustrations, not realizing that the answer is right there “above” them.

In my earthly temple there’s a crowd.
There is one of us that’s humble, one that’s proud.
There’s one who’s brokenhearted for his sins.
There’s one who unrepentant sits and grins.
There’s one who loves his neighbor as himself.
And one who cares for naught but fame and self.
From such perplexing care I would be free,
If I could once determine which is me.