Since moving to the Holly neighborhood in Austin, TX, I’ve been getting to know my new surroundings, one of them being a particularly striking plant neighbor I’ve named Rodrigo. My dog and I pass by him several times a day on our walks, and over time, he’s become a bit of a daily check-in, a reminder that even quiet neighbors have stories. Rodrigo isn’t just any Agave americana—he’s a towering 20-foot symbol of patience, perseverance, and purpose. After years of steady, silent growth, Rodrigo has done something extraordinary: he’s flowering. Century plants don’t live for a century—more like 10 to 30 years—but what makes them remarkable is that they bloom only once, at the very end of their lives. All that time, they store energy, biding their time. And when they finally flower, they do so boldly, dramatically, with a stalk that can shoot 30 feet into the sky. And then... they die. Rodrigo has become something of a local mascot, and for me, a quiet teacher. His final flourish reminds me that there’s beauty in timing, in trusting the long process, in blooming when it matters most. As Emerson wrote: “The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them...” In a world that celebrates speed, Rodrigo is a quiet example of long-game wisdom. Years of stillness, followed by one grand expression of life. In his quiet way, he reminds me that transformation is sacred—and sometimes, we don’t bloom until the world most needs to see us.