As long as we are persistence in our pursuit of our deepest

Host: The garden was quiet at dusk — that hour when the sun hangs low, when the world feels like it’s holding its breath between day and night. The air smelled of earth and lavender, and the faint hum of crickets rose from the hedges, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves. A bench, old and splintered, sat beneath a great magnolia tree, its branches heavy with buds that had not yet opened.

Host: Jack sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the soil between his shoes. A small shovel leaned beside him, unused, its handle catching the last glimmer of sun. Across from him, Jeeny knelt in the dirt, her hands covered in soil, her hair pulled back, her breath steady — planting as if the world depended on it.

Jeeny: (softly, without looking up) “Denis Waitley once said, ‘As long as we are persistent in our pursuit of our deepest destiny, we will continue to grow. We cannot choose the day or time when we will fully bloom. It happens in its own time.’”
(She presses a seed into the ground.) “You ever think about that, Jack? How much of life is waiting?”

Jack: (dryly) “Waiting’s just a polite word for wasting.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that?”

Jack: “I’ve spent half my life waiting for things that never came — promotions, forgiveness, peace. At some point, you stop calling it patience and start calling it delusion.”

Host: A light breeze passed through the magnolia tree, scattering a few petals onto the soil. Jeeny brushed one off her arm and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the waiting, Jack. Maybe it’s expecting the bloom to arrive on your schedule. Flowers don’t rush the sun.”

Jack: “Flowers don’t have bills to pay either.”

Jeeny: (laughing quietly) “You always turn poetry into payroll.”

Jack: “Because reality doesn’t care about metaphors, Jeeny.”

Host: The last of the light filtered through the branches, casting shadows that looked like veins of gold across her hands. She sat back on her heels and looked at him — the kind of look that didn’t demand anything, but invited thought.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what persistence really is. Not rushing, not forcing. Just showing up — again and again — until something in the soil finally believes you mean it.”

Jack: “Sounds romantic. But what if the soil’s dead? What if nothing grows, no matter how long you wait?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn. You grow somewhere else. Growth doesn’t always mean blossoms. Sometimes it’s just roots — deeper, unseen.”

Host: A pause. The air grew cooler. The first stars appeared faintly above the treeline. Jack rubbed his hands together, the grit of dirt under his fingernails reminding him of something human, something stubborn.

Jack: “You talk like the universe has timing. Like it’s keeping score of who deserves to bloom.”

Jeeny: “Not score — rhythm. Everything that grows listens to its own tempo. Even failure.”

Jack: “Failure doesn’t grow, Jeeny. It just stays.”

Jeeny: “No. It teaches. It composts into something that feeds what’s next.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, simple and grounded. The light shifted, turning the edges of her face to amber. A single bud overhead trembled — not yet ready to open, but heavy with promise.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in that. In timing, destiny, all of it. But then I realized destiny’s just a fancy word for luck.”

Jeeny: “And luck’s just another word for grace.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t pay the rent either.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it keeps you alive while you try.”

Host: The wind rustled again, lifting a few loose leaves into a slow, spiraling dance. The sound of life returning, soft and rhythmic, like breath.

Jack: “So you really believe that — that if you’re persistent, everything eventually works out?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. But enough. Enough to remind you that you’re still capable of growth.”

Jack: “And what if persistence just means repeating the same mistake with hope?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the mistake isn’t in the action. Maybe it’s in forgetting why you began.”

Host: Jack looked down at the dirt, at the rows of tiny seeds that lay hidden beneath. There was something humbling about them — invisible lives trusting a future they couldn’t see.

Jack: “You think people are like that? Seeds?”

Jeeny: “Exactly like that. Buried, tested, unseen for a while — but never wasted. Even dormancy is part of growth.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like you’ve been through it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “We all have. Some of us just remember it with softer words.”

Host: The sky darkened further, the stars now sharp and countless. The crickets’ chorus rose, an orchestra of persistence that had played since the beginning of time.

Jeeny: “Waitley was right. We can’t choose when we bloom. But we can choose to stay alive long enough for it to happen.”

Jack: “That’s the hard part — the staying alive part.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. But every day you keep showing up is proof that you’re still growing, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

Host: She rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her knees. The smell of fresh soil lingered in the air — that holy scent of potential.

Jeeny: “You see these seeds, Jack?” (She pointed at the small, dark mounds of earth.) “Each one looks dead right now. But inside, they’re just waiting for the right warmth, the right light, the right time. You can’t rush that. You can only trust it.”

Jack: “You make waiting sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Patience is just faith wearing work clothes.”

Host: He stood beside her now, the two of them framed against the silver light of the new moon. For a moment, neither spoke — they just stood listening to the quiet hum of life in progress.

Jack: “You know… maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong. Maybe the bloom isn’t the reward. Maybe it’s just proof that the roots were right all along.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” (She smiled.) “The flower’s just the world’s way of saying thank you for not giving up.”

Host: The magnolia tree shivered again, and one of its buds opened — not fully, just enough to reveal a sliver of white inside. Small. Subtle. Perfect.

Jeeny: “See?” she whispered. “Even the tree knows when it’s time.”

Host: Jack watched the bloom, something like awe flickering across his tired face.

Jack: “So we just keep going?”

Jeeny: “We keep going. We keep planting. We keep trusting that one day, the light finds us.”

Host: The wind softened, the night settled, and the first opened magnolia glowed faintly in the moonlight — a quiet miracle, right on schedule.

Host: And as the two of them stood there, dirt still on their hands, silence between them but peace within it, they both understood what Waitley meant:
that persistence is not noise or struggle,
but faith in motion,
that every delay carries its own promise,
and that blooming — like healing, like love —
always arrives on time.