In business, we say that people overestimate what you can do in a

Host: The city was wrapped in a quiet, post-storm haze. Streetlights flickered like weary sentinels, and the river below the old bridge murmured against the stones. Inside a dim restaurant overlooking the water, the air was heavy with wine, cigarette smoke, and the faint hum of a jazz piano from somewhere unseen.

Host: Jack sat by the window, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him, the amber liquid catching the glow of a single candle. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her brown eyes bright with that quiet fire that always came before a debate.

Jeeny: “Marc Benioff once said, ‘In business, we say that people overestimate what you can do in a year and underestimate what you can do in a decade. This is true in philanthropy as well.’ It’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it? The long game — the patience of impact.”

Jack: (smirking) “Beautiful maybe, but also naïve. The world doesn’t give you a decade, Jeeny. It barely gives you a year before it changes the rules. You plan long-term, and you’re already obsolete before your second step.”

Host: The wind brushed against the window, rattling the old frames. The light from the streetlamps outside danced across the table like ghosts of time, shifting between hope and doubt.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point, Jack. The short term is an illusion of control. You can’t measure change in quarterly reports or yearly summaries. The real transformations — in people, in society, even in yourself — happen in decades, not deadlines.”

Jack: (leaning back) “That sounds poetic, but it doesn’t pay the bills. The market wants results, not promises. Try telling your investors to wait ten years — they’ll replace you by Monday.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we need more philanthropy and less business thinking. Because goodness doesn’t work on a fiscal calendar. The kindness you plant today might bloom long after you’re gone.”

Host: The rain began again — slow, deliberate, like time itself dripping onto the city’s skin. A car passed, its headlights sliding across their faces — one skeptical, one earnest.

Jack: “You talk about philanthropy like it’s magic. But even charity needs strategy. If you don’t track results, you waste resources. I’ve seen too many well-meaning people throw money at dreams that don’t work.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen too many calculators forget what hearts can do. You think everything needs to be quantified, Jack — every act of mercy, every gesture of care. But not everything that counts can be counted.”

Jack: (sharply) “And not everything that’s counted deserves to count. Look, Jeeny — ten years is a lifetime in business. By then, the landscape changes, the players change. So yes, people overestimate what they can do in a year — because they don’t realize the clock is always ticking faster than they think.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every great story — every cathedral, every movement, every revolution — was built by people who believed in a decade. Florence wasn’t carved in twelve months. Gandhi didn’t awaken a nation overnight. Change grows in seasons, not sales cycles.”

Host: The music in the background shifted, a slow saxophone melting into the air like smoke. The candle flame flickered between them, its light bending with their voices.

Jack: “That’s fine for saints and dreamers. But the rest of us — we live in the real world. In ten years, companies collapse, people die, economies fall apart. Planning for a decade is like promising yourself an extra heartbeat — it’s arrogance.”

Jeeny: (with calm fire) “No, Jack. It’s faith. The kind that makes you build something you might never finish. The kind of faith that says, ‘Maybe I won’t see it, but someone will.’ That’s what philanthropy really is — love with a longer memory.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling between idealism and truth. Outside, a ferry horn sounded — low, mournful, like the voice of the river itself.

Jack: (softly) “You really think patience changes the world?”

Jeeny: “I think impatience ruins it. Look at the oceans, Jack. We didn’t poison them in a year, and we won’t heal them in one either. But give it ten, give it twenty — give it commitment, and even the salt can taste of hope again.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked. Her eyes, alive with belief. Her hands, trembling slightly as she spoke. The rain caught the light outside, turning into strings of silver, like the passing years they were arguing over.

Jack: (quietly) “You make time sound like a friend.”

Jeeny: “It is, if you treat it like one. But you keep trying to beat it. You measure worth by speed — and wonder why everything you build crumbles.”

Host: A pause. Only the piano played now, a few lonely notes drifting through the room like echoes of regret.

Jack: “When I was younger, I believed in long roads. I thought I could build something that would last. Then the recession hit, the partnerships fell apart, and I realized — ten years can erase everything.”

Jeeny: “Or it can reveal everything. Maybe what you built wasn’t meant to last — but what it taught you was. That’s what time does, Jack. It strips, but it also polishes.”

Host: The flame of the candle steadied again, as if listening. Outside, the rain had softened to a quiet drizzle, like the breath of something forgiven.

Jeeny: “Benioff wasn’t just talking about business or philanthropy. He was talking about vision — about daring to wait for your work to mean something. People chase years because they’re afraid of decades. But only decades tell the truth.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “So you’re saying… success isn’t about being fast — it’s about being faithful?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t rush meaning. It’s like planting a tree — you’ll never see the whole forest, but it doesn’t make the seed any less sacred.”

Host: The rain stopped. The reflection of the city lights rippled across the river, bright, fractured, beautiful — like the passage of time itself.

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, his eyes softer now, the sharpness of his reason giving way to something more like acceptance.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been trying to make time my enemy when I should’ve made it my partner.”

Jeeny: “You still can. The next decade hasn’t even begun.”

Host: The camera would linger here — the two of them framed against the dark window, the faint hum of the city, the candle burning low but steady.

Host: Beyond the glass, the river kept moving, as it always had — slow, patient, unstoppable. And in its reflection, for a brief moment, the light from their table seemed to float — small, enduring, defiant — like the quiet faith of those who believe that what takes ten years is always worth waiting for.