The Long Game

Sarah drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, watching the seconds tick by on the dashboard clock. The kind of seconds that seemed to stretch, viscous and uncooperative, much like the line of cars ahead of her. Some truths come wrapped in ordinary moments, even those spent in gridlock traffic.

At 28, Sarah was what most would call a "rising star" in her tech startup. She had a knack for coding that bordered on the artistic, and an ambition that burned so bright it sometimes left scorch marks. But patience? That was a language Sarah had yet to master.

Her phone buzzed. Another message from Denny, her project partner:

"Where are you? Meeting started 5 mins ago."

Sarah's teeth clenched. She typed furiously: "Stuck in traffic. Start without me." Then, with a seething belied, she added a smiley face emoji. She wasn't blind to how out-of-place the action was, but she hit Send anyway.

Impatience, some would say, is a vice. For Sarah, it had always been more of a nuisance.

The traffic moved along inch by inch, its cacophony of honking and sputtering exhaust pipes sounding like a grating symphony. Her mind went ahead to the conference room, the pitying looks-the subtle eye-rolls. Her fingers tightened over the wheel; her stomach growled, reminding her she'd skipped breakfast in her race. The hunger gnawed her concentration, feeding her frustration.

A movement drew her gaze. In the car beside her, there was an elderly woman tenderly fussing with a little potted plant on her dashboard. The weathered hands moved with a gentle, unhurried grace, wiping dust from the leaves with a soft cloth. She seemed utterly content, as if this traffic jam was a gift rather than a curse.

Sarah blinked, transfixed for a moment. It was such a wild juxtaposition it bordered on funny. For one quick beat, she had the bizarre desire to roll down her window and ask this woman about her plant. She shook it off, attributing the urge to hunger-induced insanity.

The phone buzzed a second time. This time, it was her mom:

"How's that basil plant I gave you doing?"

Sarah winced. The basil plant. A well-meant gift that now sat, uncared for, on her apartment windowsill, a casualty of her frenetic lifestyle. She made a mental note to water it. Eventually. Though wasn't she sure she'd watered it just yesterday? Or was it last week? The days were starting to meld together.

Traffic lurched forward once more, and Sarah was parallel with the plant-tending woman. Their eyes met, and the woman smiled-a warm, crinkle-eyed smile that seemed to say, "Isn't this all rather silly?" Despite herself, Sarah felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward in response. Then, in a moment of impulsivity that surprised even her, she rolled down her window.

"I love your plant," she blurted out, immediately feeling foolish.

The woman smiled wider. "Thank you, dear. It's a peace lily. Been with me for twenty years now."

Twenty years. Sarah couldn't even begin to imagine taking care of anything for that amount of time. Before she could say anything more, a horn behind her started in blaring. The light was green. Giving a general wave of apology, she rolled up her window and drove on, the odd combination of embarrassment and something that felt tantalizingly like longing buzzing in her brain.

Finally, as traffic cleared and Sarah flew towards her office, a river of notifications cascaded down her screen: emails, Slack messages, app updates, digital noise personified. She felt the familiar tug on her brain to check them all now, right this very moment, while driving through morning traffic. Her hand twitched to her phone before she caught herself. "Not worth dying over," she muttered, though the itch to check remained.

When Sarah finally arrived at the office, the meeting was halfway done. She slipped into the room, her face flushed from both the run and embarrassment, saying, "Sorry". The cool A/C struck her warm skin, a light involuntary shiver rolling across her body.

Denny caught her eye, giving a slight nod. No judgment there, just acknowledgment. As she got settled, Sarah realized he'd already presented their progress report. A spark of irritation flared to life – she'd wanted to be there for that – but she tamped it down. At least it was done. She pulled out her tablet trying to catch up on the meeting while simultaneously checking her missed notifications. The split focus left her feeling slightly dizzy.

The day was one big blur of code and coffee. It wasn't until afternoon that Sarah found a moment to breathe, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her tired eyes. Her stomach growled again, reminding her she'd worked through lunch. Again.

"Rough morning?" Denny's voice came from behind her.

Sarah swiveled to face him, a wry smile on her lips. "You could say that. Thanks for covering the presentation."

Denny shrugged, his lanky frame folding into the chair beside her. "No biggie. You've done the same for me." He paused, studying her face. "You know, you've seemed. I don't know, wound pretty tight lately. Everything okay?"

Sarah opened her mouth to brush off the concern, then hesitated. "I just... I feel like we should be further along, you know? Like we're moving at a snail's pace while the rest of the tech world is sprinting." As she said it, a picture of the older woman with her peace lily flashed in her mind.

Denny nodded slowly. "I get that. But Sarah, what we're doing? It's not a sprint. It's more like... growing a forest."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "A forest?"

"Yeah," Denny grinned, taking up his metaphor. "You can't rush it. You plant the seeds, you water them, you make sure the conditions are right. And then. you wait. You don't see much happening on the surface for a long time, but underground?" He leaned in, eyes bright. "Roots are spreading. Foundations are being laid. And when it finally breaks through? Man, it's something to see."

Something in Sarah's chest loosened. She pictured the woman in traffic, gently ministering to her plant. Of her own basil, still clinging to life on her windowsill. A part of her wanted to dismiss Denny's words as trite motivational speak, but deeper inside-a place she often put on mute-a part reached out and resonated deeply with them.

"Maybe," she said slowly, "I need to work on my green thumb."

Denny laughed. "There's a project. Speaking of which." He nodded toward their shared desk. "Want to do another pass on that algorithm? I have a hunch about something."

Sarah nodded, pushing to her feet. As they walked back to their desks, she felt the shift-subtle, but unmistakable. The frustrations of the day hadn't disappeared, but they had... softened somehow.

That evening, Sarah was misting her basil plant on the windowsill of her apartment, with leaves not quite lush but with a stubborn vitality. She misted it, suddenly noticing that she had completely forgotten about a date she was supposed to go on that night. The old Sarah would have beaten herself up over the oversight. Instead, she found herself shooting off a quick text to reschedule, feeling this odd sort of relief.

"Alright, little guy," she was cooing to the basil. "Let's see what you can do. I promise to be better about checking in on you."

Outside, the sun was setting, stroking the sky into patient pinks and golds. Sarah watched the colors deepen, letting herself merely observe and not race ahead to what she needed to do next. Her phone had repeatedly buzzed in her pocket-emails, notifications, reminders of all she "should" be doing. For once, she let it buzz.

Another text came through. From her mother: "Don't forget to water that basil!

Sarah smiled, typing back: "Already done. Thanks for the reminder...and the lesson."

As she hit send, Sarah paused, considering if her mother had ever actually given her a lesson about patience. Had she misremembered, or simply clued in on a lesson from the gift? She shrugged, it didn't really matter.

Some of it happens so gradually that often we will catch sight of the growth only if we stop long enough to see. Sometimes, the most needed lessons are found in the most unlikely ways: a traffic jam, an overlooked plant, or the peace lily there on your side through two decades of dawns.

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