I have never been a fan of hope. I mean the kind hope that leads to a paralysis of action while investing psychic energy in some hoped for future that will be better. It is said that without hope, there is only despair and dissolution. I do not think this is necessary. Recall that hope was the last thing in Pandora’s box. Was it a good thing, or was it also one of the evils that was loosed upon the world when Pandora opened her box? Scholars are uncertain on this point in analyzing the myth. But Norse mythology is crystal clear. Hope is the slobber dripping from the mouth of Fenrir, the monstrous wolf. And for the Norse, what is required is the courage to act without hope in the face of threat. Hope here belongs to the evil created by Loki. When I saw the weed bursting through a crack in the cement stairs, I thought, there is action. This is not hope but pluck. That is the word that came to me. Pluck. The word derives from the I-E root, sker-, meaning to “scratch through.” This scratching became what we now call writing. I sense here the idea of story whenever the paralysis of hope is abandoned for the sake of action. Pluck, indeed! Remember Leonard Cohen’s words: “There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.” Find the crack, gather your pluck and breakthrough.