The day before Thanksgiving always feels like a prep day for a major campaign. There’s food shopping to do, and errands to run, and prep work for cooking tomorrow that needs doing. And it doesn’t matter if you’re cooking at home or traveling. You still have this pile of stuff to be done.

My mother loves Thanksgiving as a feast. It’s all family and friends. You don’t give presents. All the menu is chosen already — and if your family is like my family, it’s been a preset menu for thirty-five or more years.

I like that. I know the holiday has some dark undertones. But I try to remember that the holiday was instituted nationally by Abraham Lincoln in the dark days of the Civil War. Our imagery is all pilgrims and mayflowers, because that’s more palatable to some than striking off the chains of slaves. But I hope we’re reminded of that tomorrow: that we are a nation of immigrants and refugees, who broke the shackles once and could do it again, who welcomed those who tired of war.

Sure. Maybe it’s a myth. It’s a little hokey and dishonest. But a myth is a story that never happens, and yet is forever true. And maybe it’s worth believing that peoples of divergent political, economic, social and religious status can come together and eat a mealtime together in common celebration for what we already have. That’s a myth worth believing in, worth working for.

One tai chi form today.