We are not called just to wait around until this hope hits us. We are not simply supine before the winds of the moment; for such hope is always real, and our failure lies in our lassitude at cultivating our capacity not directly to be hopeful, but to see the hope that is offered to us. There is much work we can do to cultivate hope, for we must learn to be receptive to it—in a way, to suffer it, for in truth hope is disconsoling; where despair and presumption both try to resolve, to settle, hope is unsettling. Indeed, hope is part of a way of being in the world, a virtue whereby we come to shape ourselves as perpetually unsettled, or of recognizing our unsettledness—a way of enduring our begrudging recognition that the future is going to be genuinely surprising—surprising in a way whose “surprisingness” will never end.