Category: Politics

A Reflection on Politics, Anarchy, and the Big Boat

Why Did I Write 25 Political Essays?

I meant to write about meditation, but the world kept intruding. The 2024 U.S. election. The 2025 Canadian election. Gaza. Tariffs. Trudeau’s exit. Carney’s arrival. Poilievre’s surge. Climate breakdown. The chaos of it all demanded clarity. I wrote to make sense of it. And now, with the elections concluded—Trump in the U.S., Carney in Canada—the series finds its natural end. The world keeps turning. I return to other subjects, other rhythms. Before I go, I ask: what did I learn?

Strategic Voting and True Values

A common thread runs through every essay: the need to reconcile political events with personal values. I’ve voted across the spectrum over the decades. Conservative as a young man, NDP as an idealist, Liberal as a family man, Green when hope flickered. If I could have voted in the U.S., I would have chosen Kamala Harris in 2024. A strategic vote, a form of harm reduction in the face of Trump’s authoritarianism. In 2025, I nearly voted Liberal for Carney. But confident in his win, I voted NDP. Voting closer to my values felt right.

Each election, the choice becomes harder. Every party drifts right, defending capitalism, pipelines, or wars. The Green Party imploded. The NDP waned. The Liberals caved. Even policies that once signaled climate ambition now serve economic survival. Strategic voting, as I argued in The Most Consequential Election, becomes a feedback loop that reinforces the very compromises we lament.

The real culprit may be the structure itself: political parties. They stifle adaptive coalitions, enforce compliance, and block cross-party problem-solving. Consensus politics, as practiced in the Northwest Territories, offers an overlooked model. Electoral reform remains vital. Trudeau’s broken 2015 promise still stings. A major plank, quickly abandoned when he couldn’t dictate its shape.

Anarchy, Mutual Aid, and Trump-Style Wreckage

Disillusionment with party politics led me to revisit the original meaning of anarchy. Kropotkin called it mutual aid—not chaos, but community. It imagines self-governing collectives grounded in cooperation and trust. Real-world examples exist: co-ops, care circles, Indigenous land stewardship. They work, especially in mature, local contexts. Absent that maturity, however, anarchy can collapse into opportunism. Still, it holds a hopeful edge—the belief that people, given time, might evolve toward it.

Trump-style anarchy is something else entirely. It wrecks for gain, not for community. As I explored in Disentangling from Globalization, Trump’s tariffs tore through the structures that held global trade together. A wrecking ball to NAFTA, the WTO, and the thin agreements that kept capital flowing. In their wake, an opportunity emerged. Space to rethink, to pause, to fall back and begin again with intention. A healthy fallback. A chance to re-anchor regional economics.

Globalization and the Colonial Continuum

Globalization promised connection but delivered dependency. As I argued in Holding a Globe in My Hands, it hollowed out local economies, prioritized scale over soul, and turned human beings and ecosystems into “externalities.”

That said, globalization is not without merit. It helped reduce extreme poverty, extend life expectancy, spread medical access, and connect cultures. Trade and cooperation across borders are not inherently exploitative. At its best, globalization fosters mutual learning, mobilizes resources to respond to global crises, and allows for economic uplift. But these benefits have come at a steep cost, especially when justice and sustainability are sacrificed for efficiency and profit.

The 1988 FTA marked Canada’s surrender to the logic of scale. Since then, our sovereignty has eroded—not through conquest, but through contract. Capital flows. Supply chains stretch thin. Culture dissolves into monoculture. The story of globalization is a continuation of colonialism, as I noted in Disentangling from Globalization. Different tools, same results.

Still, a window remains open. Tariffs, oddly, provide it. They interrupt the trance of inevitability. We can choose again. But this requires more than policy; it demands a cultural shift.

The Evolutionary Strategies: Billionaires and Bodhisattvas

In the film Lucy, Professor Norman describes life’s two strategies: immortality or reproduction. In hostile conditions, life seeks self-sufficiency. In nurturing ones, it reproduces. Billionaire consciousness, as I described in Billionaire Consciousness, is the first strategy—self-sufficiency for the few, fueled by detachment, power, and technological escape. Mars colonization. AI. Genetic extension. It is not merely greed but a survival strategy for elites.

But kings do not coexist long. And what becomes of the rest of us? Servants? Batteries? Expendables?

By contrast, climate consciousness is the second strategy—a big boat for all. The Buddhist metaphor of the small and big boat applies here. The small boat seeks personal liberation. The big boat carries all beings to safety. Anarchy and billionaire consciousness paddle alone. Climate consciousness builds something broader, rooted in interdependence.

Climate Consciousness: The Big Boat Strategy

Climate consciousness is not just a moral appeal. It is a systems perspective. Where globalization sees the world in terms of supply chains and cost efficiency, climate consciousness sees a living whole. It does not reduce people and ecosystems to “externalities.” As I wrote earlier, mainstream economics treats everything outside the transaction as irrelevant. Climate consciousness dissolves that illusion. It sees the atmosphere as shared breath, the forest as common lungs, the ocean as circulatory system.

This consciousness doubles down on diversity, equity, and inclusion—not as slogans, but as design principles for resilience. It recognizes that marginalized voices often hold the wisdom needed to restore balance. It prioritizes circular economies, renewable energy, ecological restoration, and community-based planning. It understands that sustainability is not a technical problem but a cultural one.

Climate consciousness says: we are not isolated bubbles. We are nested within one another, within each other, and within the Earth. If billionaire consciousness is escape and control, climate consciousness is reciprocity and care. If globalization is scale and abstraction, climate consciousness is rootedness and attention.

Climate Before Capital

In Climate Change is More Important than Tariffs, I argued that climate is not just another issue. It is the issue. Fires, floods, heatwaves—they’re here and compounding. The economy feels urgent, but the climate is existential. Our window for action narrows with every delay.

Carney, a global climate leader turned political centrist, offered credibility. But as I expressed in I’m Not Clear on the New Liberal Climate Strategy, his scrapping of the carbon tax signaled retreat. Poilievre offered no real strategy at all. The Liberals were not what they used to be, as I noted in The Most Consequential Election.

Meanwhile, the far right had called out the wolves. Progressives, I wrote, must do the same—not to mimic destruction, but to disrupt apathy.

Small Is Big

Some argue that Canada is too small to matter. But we are among the highest per capita emitters. We are a G7 nation, a signatory to Paris. We punch above our weight. And as I shared in Personal Responses to Our Difficult Times, every response matters: local mutual aid, spiritual grounding, informed dissent, cross-partisan listening. Quiet politics, rooted in relationship.

Climate consciousness isn’t just ethical. It is ecological. As James Lovelock taught, Gaia adapts. It seeks balance. The Earth will respond, with or without us. Our choice is whether to align with its rhythms or resist until collapse.

Conclusion: The End of the Series, The Start of Something Else

This concludes the political series. I wrote these essays not just to inform others but to clarify my own view—to know where I stand and why. I return now to meditation, to the quiet disciplines that steady the mind. But climate consciousness remains. It is not separate. It is the ground.

Politics pulled me in, but not away. It brought me here, more resolved, more rooted. There is still a future to write.

Trump’s Tariffs offer Canada a Window for Change

Canadians need to fall back from globalization. We need to disentangle from American economics and culture, reinhabit our own geography, and rebuild a local economy and culture that reflect who we are.

Resistance Fails with the 1988 Election

Canada’s deep integration into the global economy began with the 1988 Free Trade Agreement (FTA) between Brian Mulroney’s government and the United States. It marked a turning point. For the first time, Canada committed to binding trade rules that prioritized corporate cross-border interests over national economic autonomy. This paved the way for NAFTA in 1994, then the USMCA in 2020, accelerating Canada’s embrace of globalization.

The 1988 federal election was fought primarily over the FTA. Liberal leader John Turner, like Mark Carney, had inherited the role of prime minister without a general mandate. Turner opposed the deal, In the televised leaders’ debate, he accused Mulroney:

“We built a country east and west and north. We built it on an infrastructure that deliberately resisted the Continental pressure of the United States. For 120 years we’ve done it. With one signature of a pen you’ve reversed that… and will reduce us, I’m sure, to a colony of the United States.”

Turner lost to Mulroney, and with him, the last serious resistance to American economic integration faded. Since then, Canada’s economy has become deeply embedded in both North American and planetary systems of trade, finance, and information. Our manufacturing supply chains, auto, agriculture, and energy are tightly synchronized with U.S. markets. Cultural imports dominate our media and entertainment. Our market reacts not just to decisions in Ottawa, but to Washington, Beijing, and Frankfurt. Over time, our economic, political, and cultural autonomy has quietly eroded.

The Cult of Cheap

Free trade brought Canada a range of benefits. Export markets opened. Some industries modernized. Consumers got cheaper goods and greater variety. For the urban middle class and corporate sector, the gains were real. But these gains were not evenly shared. Rural economies were hollowed out. Factory towns disappeared. Wages stagnated. Cultural industries struggled under the weight of American content. In exchange for efficiency, we accepted precarity. For abundance, dependency.

And then came the more difficult truths. “Globalization is slave labour making things for the unemployed,” said Marine Le Pen (a name I invoke only for the words, not her politics). An indecent formulation, but one that reveals the indecency beneath the system. In pursuit of cost savings, corporations outsourced production to wherever wages were lowest and protections weakest. Sweatshops. Child labour. Unsafe factories that collapse on their workers. Supply chains engineered to maximize opacity. Accountability became a public relations issue, not a moral one. While human rights frameworks were drafted and conferences held, the basic ethic remained unchanged: profit first.

Globalization didn’t just make goods cheaper; it made desire cheaper. Fast fashion, disposable gadgets, novelty without function. Things to be bought and discarded, not repaired or cherished. Marketing became the true engine of consumption, turning manufactured abundance into perceived need. Our homes filled with items we didn’t ask for but somehow couldn’t resist.

The environmental costs are everywhere. Forests cleared to make way for export crops. Rivers polluted by synthetic dyes. Oceans choked with plastic waste. And all of it moved by fossil fuel—across oceans, over highways, through the air—because distance, once a deterrent, became irrelevant to the logic of capital.

Globalization is an Extension of Colonialism

Globalization is an extension of our colonial past. Where empires once used flags and armies, corporations now use contracts and debt. Control by other means. Former colonies remain stuck in extractive roles: raw materials out, cheap goods in. Infrastructure still follows the colonial blueprint—roads and rails designed not to connect communities, but to move resources out efficiently. Multinational corporations behave like modern imperial agents, profiting from labour and land in the Global South while evading responsibility.

Canada, a settler colony, remains both beneficiary and captive of this system. We extract, export, and import culture at a loss. We profit from exploitation while absorbing the dislocation it causes.

The Future of Globalization

The world is, undeniably, interconnected. When governed justly, global cooperation can spread knowledge, contain pandemics, mitigate war, and address climate breakdown. Trade, done well, can lift people out of poverty. Cultural exchange, approached with respect, can deepen understanding.

If globalization is ever to redeem its potential, it must be rooted in fairness, accountability, and restraint. Labour standards must be binding. Environmental protections must be non-negotiable. Trade must be reciprocal, not extractive. Cultural sovereignty must be protected, not flattened. We need not abandon the global—we need to reimagine it.

Tariffs and a Window to Rethink

Trump’s tariffs—erratic, politically motivated, economically disruptive—may nevertheless offer Canada a narrow window. The impulse to disentangle is rarely rewarded in a global system that punishes local initiative. But tariffs shift the calculus. They create space.

Yes, there will be costs. Prices may rise. GDP may dip. But GDP is a poor compass. It counts wildfire reconstruction as growth, but ignores the trees lost. It values speculation over community well-being. It is a tally, not a measure of health.

The deeper question isn’t whether we grow—but whether we grow wisely.

The Wisdom of Contraction

There is an ecological intelligence to contraction. Forests regrow after fire. Bodies heal in rest. Civilizations, too, need intervals of reflection and repair. The past few decades have been a phase of rapid expansion—for capital, for technology, for consumption. We have reached the limits of what this phase can sustain.

Falling back is not regression. It is rhythm.

To fall back now is to begin again with intention. It is to shorten supply lines and reconnect producer and consumer. It is to value durability over disposability. It is to invest in local industry, food systems, arts, and energy—all the things that make a place livable and resilient. It is to make room for silence in the cultural din, and listen to the stories that rise in its absence.

Re-entering the World Differently

This is Canada’s chance—not just to recover what has been lost, but to think beyond what was. To step out of the trance of inevitability, to remake our global connection.

We must name what globalization has externalized: the extraction of labour without rights, the erosion of ecosystems, the destruction of cultural diversity, the hollowing of local economies, the amplification of inequality, the soft tyranny of scale. These are not accidents. They are outcomes. And they can be reconsidered.

Imagine a future where nothing crosses a border unless it honours both human dignity and ecological sanity. Where corporations are taxed not only on earnings but on impact. Where communities are empowered to define their own development. Where technology is shared to solve shared problems, not to hoard advantage. This is not utopia. It is a matter of design.

And so, let us fall back—not to withdraw from the world, but to re-enter it differently.

I Urge You to Vote for Something Hopeful

Canada heads to the polls on Monday, April 28, 2025, in what many deem the most consequential federal election in the nation’s history, shaped by rising tensions with the United States, deepening economic challenges, and an urgent climate crisis. This election offers a stark choice between cautious adaptation and the real risk of democratic backsliding. Poilievre’s conservatism, driven by populism, nationalism, and a rollback of environmental and social protections, stands in contrast to Carney’s renewed liberalism, offering stability, institutional resilience, and continued action on climate. Poilievre taps into economic anger and cultural resentment, mirroring Trump’s populist messaging and downplaying threats to Canadian sovereignty. Carney presents a steadier, if cautious, vision of Canada’s future, openly criticizing Trump as a destabilizing force and emphasizing the need to strengthen democratic institutions and international alliances.

A record-breaking 7.3 million Canadians cast their ballots during advance polls held from April 18 to 21, marking a 25 percent increase from the 2021 election. This surge does not necessarily indicate a higher overall turnout or favor any particular party, but polling shows the Liberals under Mark Carney on track to secure a modest majority government.

The Liberals Are Not What They Used to Be

Over the past decade, Canadians have elected three consecutive Liberal governments under Justin Trudeau: a majority in 2015, followed by minority governments in 2019 and 2021. Securing a fourth term would be a significant achievement, given that until recently, a Conservative victory under Pierre Poilievre seemed almost certain.

Many Canadians say they want governance from the political centre. But the centre has shifted dramatically over recent decades. Traditional Liberal centrism focused on building strong public institutions, regulating markets to serve the common good, and protecting Canadian sovereignty through cautious engagement with international trade.

In 1988, Brian Mulroney’s Progressive Conservatives negotiated the Canada–United States Free Trade Agreement (FTA), aligning Canada with Ronald Reagan’s free-market revolution. At the time, Liberal leader John Turner strongly protested, warning it would erode Canada’s sovereignty and make it a satellite of the U.S. economy. Today’s Liberal centrism prioritizes globalization, free markets, and deregulation, defending cross-border economic integration even as they fight against tariffs imposed by Republican President Donald Trump—measures that disrupt the very trade structures earlier Liberals once feared.

Under Justin Trudeau, the Liberals positioned themselves as global climate leaders, introducing carbon pricing, committing to net-zero by 2050, and investing in clean energy. A key achievement was the 2018 Greenhouse Gas Pollution Pricing Act, which included a consumer carbon tax and regulations for large emitters. By 2025, however, public backlash and economic strain, amplified by Poilievre’s ‘Axe the Tax’ campaign, forced a shift. After Trudeau’s resignation, Mark Carney took over as Liberal leader and promptly scrapped the consumer carbon tax, citing affordability concerns. While Carney has retained emissions caps and supports green investment, he has also pushed for expanded oil and gas projects, prioritizing economic resilience over climate ambition—a marked shift from Trudeau’s approach.

Strategic Voting Is a Maladaptive Feedback Loop

If Canadians elect a fourth Liberal government on Monday, it will be a significantly different Liberal government than in the past, one increasingly compromised on sovereignty and climate. This shift reflects a defensive response to the rise of the far right. The Conservative Party has moved sharply away from the political centre, embracing populism, nationalism, authoritarian tactics, and conspiracy theories. Their rhetoric pits ‘us versus them,’ scapegoating immigrants, minorities, and dissenters, echoing historical patterns of fascism and posing serious threats to democratic pluralism and social cohesion. To block the far right from power, the Liberals have edged rightward themselves, hoping to contain extremism even at the cost of diluting their own progressive commitments.

Liberal policy keeps shifting right, and voters reinforce it by voting for them—a maladaptive feedback loop. Strategic voting happens when citizens cast ballots not for the candidate or party they most support, but for the one most likely to defeat a greater threat. It makes sense on the surface, blocking immediate dangers like Poilievre forming government. Unfortunately, it carries hidden consequences. By repeatedly choosing the ‘lesser evil,’ voters unwittingly become agents of the very shift they fear, pushing mainstream parties further right. Over time, this maladaptation hollows out genuine alternatives, erodes progressive ambitions, and normalizes compromises that once would have been unthinkable.

The Far Right Has Called Out the Wolves

In information theory, systems often settle into stable but suboptimal patterns, avoiding change because it carries risk and uncertainty. Strategic voting reflects this dynamic: voters choose major parties, not because they match their values, but because they fear losing to worse alternatives. In doing so, they entrench political compromises that cannot meet urgent crises like climate change. Today, the Liberals’ rightward shift is a clear example—stabilizing around survival rather than renewal, while deeper problems continue to worsen.

Theorists suggest introducing ‘wolves’ into such stable systems—disruptive forces that compel adaptation. Wolves raise the stakes, making the risk of staying put greater than the risk of trying something new. On the political right, wolves manifest as populist demagogues like Trump or Poilievre, spreading misinformation, stoking fear, and eroding democratic norms. The far right understands disruption. Their wolves frighten voters, pushing them into reactionary politics.

The far right has called out their wolves. Progressives must match that urgency. What might wolves look like on the left? To start, a correction: the wolf has long been used as a cliché for evil, but this view is misguided. Wolves are not inherently malevolent; they are essential parts of healthy ecosystems, balancing populations and maintaining natural cycles. There is nothing healthy about Trump.

Vote for Something Hopeful and Transformational

The climate crisis is certainly fearful. It poses existential threats that render cautious incrementalism irrational. Catastrophic wildfires, floods, and heatwaves scream urgency, making safe, incremental policies obsolete. Yet progressives hesitate, reluctant to risk bold action, continuing to vote strategically rather than for transformative solutions.

Another correction is required. Fear-mongering is not the right approach to inspire climate action. While fear can grab attention, it often leads to paralysis, denial, or despair rather than the sustained hope, courage, and collective effort needed for meaningful change. Animals that symbolize hope include doves, representing peace and renewal; swallows, harbingers of spring and safe return; and deer, symbols of gentle resilience and new beginnings.

Symbols aside, the left must call out visions of hope for which voters will take risks. I can give you a personal example. I live in Alcove, Quebec, through which flows the Gatineau River—the Tenàgàdino Zìbì in the Algonquin language. The river is central to community life, and residents have taken up a growing movement to recognize the river as a person with rights. Not surprisingly, this issue never surfaced in the federal election. I was very close to voting Liberal when I heard my local New Democratic Party candidate speak on it. Gilbert Whiteduck, a respected Algonquin leader and former Chief of the Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg First Nation, described the river as a living being, teaching that it be respected and cared for, and advocates for its legal personhood to protect its cultural, spiritual, and ecological integrity. At the ballot box, I made a last-second decision to vote for Whiteduck.

I urge you to vote for something hopeful. Think local and transformational. It is a risk. If enough people stop strategic voting, there is a risk of losing your riding and the election. But we must be willing to take risks, supporting candidates who advocate genuine, transformative change. It will signal politicians the direction to change policy. Strategic caution may feel safer, but in the face of planetary emergency, caution itself becomes irrational. If we continue to stabilize around survival instead of renewal, we risk losing not just elections, but the future.

Break the Pattern Before It Breaks Us

At this moment, we are not simply casting votes. We are shaping the patterns that will define our future. Fear urges us to cling to what feels safe, to compromise a little more, to delay real change a little longer. But the cracks in our world are widening. Climate collapse, democratic erosion, and rising authoritarianism are not distant threats—they are already here. If we vote only to survive today, we will lose tomorrow. Now is the time to vote with courage, to break free from decaying patterns, to demand bold action, and to take the risks that true renewal requires. Our future depends on it.

The Identity Politics of Trump and MAGA

On January 20, 2025, Donald Trump declared, “As of today, it will henceforth be the official policy of the United States government that there are only two genders: male and female.” The order mandates the term “sex” instead of “gender,” requiring identification documents like passports and visas to reflect what it calls an “immutable biological classification.”

Elon Musk publicly backed Trump’s order, applauding on his platform, X, that the “pronoun bs is finally going away.” This stance aligns with Musk’s history of criticizing gender inclusivity. Yet it has created personal turmoil: his daughter, Vivian Jenna Wilson, a transgender woman, legally changed her name in 2022, explicitly distancing herself from Musk. Notably, the U.S. passport policy now prohibits using “X” as a gender marker, a symbol Musk typically embraces in his ventures to signify openness, possibility, and innovation. The irony is stark: Musk champions “X” as limitless in branding but denies this openness in matters of human identity.

Trump swiftly dismantled numerous policies aimed at racial equity and protecting 2SLGBTQ+ rights, rescinding Biden-era executive orders designed to address discrimination based on race, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Additional orders aimed at improving conditions for Black, Hispanic, Native American, and Asian American and Pacific Islander communities were repealed.

Trump, Musk, and the broader MAGA movement loudly oppose what they dismiss as DEI. But let’s spell it out: they reject diversity, equity, and inclusion. They deride diversity as mere tokenism, failing to see that human difference in race, gender, ability, and background is a foundation for resilience and creativity. They resist equity, feeling threatened when inherited privileges are questioned and when fair outcomes replace entrenched advantages. Inclusion terrifies them, disrupting their imagined cultural purity, especially when it means fully embracing queer, disabled, or racialized individuals. By targeting DEI, they attack not just bureaucratic jargon but a moral vision of society where everyone’s dignity matters. Their campaign against DEI is effectively a war on the future.

MAGA spits out the word “woke” as if it’s poison. They wield it as a slur, scapegoating everything they fear. But “woke” originally simply meant being awake to injustice, a term rooted in Black American vernacular urging alertness to racism and oppression. Its meaning expanded to encompass awareness of systemic harm against women, LGBTQ+ people, immigrants, and the environment. To be woke is not perfection but consciousness.

When MAGA mocks “wokeness,” they reveal they’d prefer to remain asleep. Asleep to human suffering, asleep to climate catastrophe, asleep to the historical shadows of colonialism and slavery. Sleep is comfortable, feeding myths that the past was pure and progress is dangerous. Being woke demands attention, demands questioning power, demands caring.

MAGA refuses this call, weaponizing “woke” to silence dissent and reinforce old hierarchies. But the world is waking up, and they can’t hit snooze forever.

When Trump, Musk, and the MAGA movement say they’re ending “identity politics,” they aren’t rejecting identity politics; they’re masking their own version. Their claim is that politics should be neutral, colorblind, meritocratic, free from “special treatment” for minorities. But identity politics is universal; everyone practices it, consciously or not.

What MAGA actually promotes is an identity politics centered around wealthy, white, heterosexual men. This identity is falsely presented as the neutral default, with all other identities treated as deviations. Attacking identity politics allows them to defend their privileged position without naming it. They assert race shouldn’t matter, ignoring how centuries of racial injustice have shaped today. They claim gender shouldn’t matter, despite rules historically set by male dominance.

Their identity politics pretend objectivity but are deeply personal, the identity politics of billionaires masquerading as common sense. It’s never about unity; it’s about maintaining power.

MAGA proclaims “America First,” echoed in Canada by Pierre Poilievre’s “Canada First.” Ostensibly patriotic, the slogan quickly reduces to something smaller: “Me First.” Trump’s preferred pronouns might as well be “me, me, me.”

There’s a kernel of logic in prioritizing oneself during a genuine crisis. But that logic collapses as a permanent worldview. America isn’t in existential crisis. Its crises are largely self-inflicted, marked by democratic erosion, widening inequality, and manufactured culture wars.

“America First” twists cooperation into weakness and empathy into betrayal, ignoring that survival alone is insufficient. Solidarity defines humanity. Under normal circumstances, “Me First” turns prudence into greed, justifying power grabs and resource hoarding. Thus, “Canada First” isn’t merely policy; it’s a warning sign.

However, there is another, richer set of pronouns we might embrace: Martin Buber’s “I and Thou.” Unlike the self-centered “me, me, me,” Buber’s “I and Thou” involves genuine meeting, openness, humility, and mutual recognition. It honors differences rather than erasing them, viewing identity not as a threat but as a pathway to deeper understanding and connection.

Recall Musk’s fixation with “X,” symbolizing openness, the unknown, infinite possibility. Yet when applied to human identity, Musk closes that door. The passport no longer bears an “X” for nonbinary individuals, even as Musk uses the symbol prominently on his platform. Buber’s “I and Thou” challenges us to consider the true potential of “X” beyond branding, to see it as a symbol of openness to human diversity and authentic relationship.

In embracing “I and Thou,” we move beyond divisive slogans and self-centered pronouns. This richer form of engagement invites genuine openness, the real possibility Musk’s “X” symbolizes but fails to deliver. It offers a vision of society in which our deepest identities become doorways to meaningful, compassionate human connection.

Beyond Billionaire Fantasies to a Collaborative Economy

In my previous essay, Billionaire Consciousness, I explored how extreme wealth accumulation distorts the human psyche and encourages escape fantasies, from bunkers in New Zealand to colonies on Mars. These dreams of departure are not just personal delusions, but symptoms of systems designed to benefit the few while severing ties with the earth and one another. If we are to resist these gravitational pulls away from shared reality, we need to examine one of the core infrastructures that makes billionaire consciousness possible: money.

Money has always had a social life. We share it, manage it, and worry about it together. But the design of money tells a different story, one of private possession and individual control. That story is not natural or eternal. It is the result of relatively modern choices in financial infrastructure and ideology.

Historically, money emerged not as a private commodity but as a social technology, a way to record obligations, coordinate exchange, and manage trust in communities. As Felix Martin argues in Money: The Unauthorized Biography, early forms of money resembled collective ledgers, not coins or bills. Value was relational, not possessive.

But in modern financial systems, money has been reframed as something that must belong to a single person, stored in an individual bank account, accessed by a personal password or card, and tracked as a personal asset. This individualization of money, as Brett Scott explains in Cloudmoney, is embedded in the architecture of digital finance. Every transaction flows through personally identifiable accounts, routing wealth through centralized infrastructures controlled by a small number of institutions and beneficiaries.

This design, of money as an individualized, digital possession, scales. It empowers those who already own capital to move it faster, deploy it more flexibly, and accumulate more of it. It also isolates those who need support, making collaboration in money management feel like an exception or a workaround. In short, the very architecture of money contributes to its concentration. The more individuated and abstract money becomes, the easier it is for it to pile up in a few hands, giving rise to billionaires whose financial power exceeds that of many nations.

But for those of us who intend to stay, to live together on a warming, interdependent planet, this design is insufficient. It is not just unjust; it is impractical. Our real lives are collaborative. People share financial responsibilities with partners, caregivers, friends, and family. Financial life is social and dependent on informal arrangements. These improvisations, from shared bank cards to verbal agreements, are risky, often breaching terms of service and exposing users to fraud or loss. People persist with them because the systems they rely on do not reflect how they actually live.

The concept of collaborative payments begins with this recognition. It is not a technical product, but a shift in design philosophy, a reimagining of money as something we often manage together. It invites us to move beyond the all-or-nothing mechanisms of power-of-attorney and joint accounts, toward models that support consent, context, and care. It is not a return to the past, but a design for people rooted in the present, investing in a shared future here on Earth.

Collaborative payments can be understood as an extension of programmable money, a growing area of interest in financial technology. At its core, programmable money refers to conditional, automated payments. A certain trigger leads to a specific financial action: if this, then that. The conditions can be personal, environmental, or social, anything from a recurring bill to a pattern of overspending.

These conditional rules can introduce new forms of financial cooperation. For example, someone might configure a system to alert a friend when their spending exceeds a limit, not to hand over control, but to invite support. Another person might automate a series of payments tied to seasonal needs, income thresholds, or shared responsibilities. In all cases, the point is not surveillance or dependency, but the ability to shape money in ways that reflect life as it is lived, embedded in relationships, rhythms, and shared responsibility.

To support these possibilities, systems must be designed for configurable consent. This means giving people the ability to choose collaborators, define their roles, and set boundaries for what is shared. A person should be able to invite others into their financial life without forfeiting autonomy. And they must be able to adjust or revoke access at any time.

Of course, configuring consent requires its own kind of ability, a form of digital literacy that not everyone possesses. Children may need guidance. Seniors may need support. People with cognitive or emotional challenges may need options that are both protective and empowering. In some cases, oversight by a trusted institution or third party may be necessary. But this does not negate autonomy; it reinforces it by making it real and usable.

Importantly, collaborative payments are not only for the vulnerable. They offer value to anyone managing financial complexity, from families coordinating budgets, to friends co-planning travel, to small business owners juggling multiple streams of income and expenditure. Even intelligent systems, digital agents that flag unusual activity or automate repetitive tasks, can be integrated into this collaborative frame.

What matters most is the shift in orientation. Money is not just a tool for personal freedom or accumulation. It is also a medium of relationship, of care, accountability, and shared decision-making. Collaborative payments reintroduce this idea at the level of design. They challenge the myth of financial individualism, not by rejecting technology, but by bending it toward our real lives.

We do not need to return to paper money to rediscover the social nature of finance. But we do need to rethink the assumptions that shape digital systems, the ones that prioritize isolation over connection, control over trust, and scale over inclusion. Collaborative payments point toward a future where money serves not only individuals, but communities. Not only transactions, but relationships. Not billionaires escaping Earth, but earthlings learning how to stay.

The Delusion of Capitalism at the Edge of Collapse

There is a peculiar kind of consciousness emerging in our time, not spiritual, not collective, but intensely personal and hyper-capitalist. Billionaire consciousness. It is not defined by the size of one’s bank account alone, but by a way of seeing the world shaped by unimaginable wealth, power, and detachment. Think of Musk launching cars into space, Bezos building rockets named after freedom, or Trump, endlessly proclaiming his greatness while leaving wreckage behind. These men are not simply rich. They inhabit a different psychological planet, orbiting far above the daily concerns of ordinary people. And the tragedy is not just that they live this way, but that the system is guiding us all toward their altitude, or at least toward believing that we should want to.

In many ways, billionaire consciousness is the logical endpoint of capitalism. It begins with the promise of opportunity: work hard, innovate, and success will follow. But the slope is steep and slippery. Capitalism rewards accumulation, and once a certain threshold is passed, wealth multiplies without work. The rich get richer not because they are smarter or more moral, but because the game is rigged. What began as aspiration hardens into separation. Billionaire consciousness forms in this altitude, where basic needs are long forgotten and control over systems, people, and even reality itself becomes the obsession.

It is a mindset defined by detachment. When you can buy anything, time, labour, even influence, the idea of shared sacrifice becomes abstract. The billionaire does not wait in lines. They do not worry about bills, healthcare, or housing. Their concerns become strategic, global, often absurd: how to colonize Mars, how to upload consciousness to the cloud, how to outlive death itself. These are not merely ambitions. They are escape plans, crafted from a deep fear of falling back to Earth, to vulnerability, to being like the rest of us.

And yet, the rest of us carry the cost. The billionaire’s freedom is built on the exhaustion of others, warehouse workers, gig drivers, unpaid interns, drained ecosystems. While they shape narratives of disruption and innovation, the public sphere withers: schools starve for funding, hospitals close, housing becomes speculative. The billionaire believes they are solving the world’s problems. But more often, they are bypassing them, privatizing the solutions and charging admission.

Worse still, billionaire consciousness spreads. It infects culture. We begin to admire them, even defend them. We internalize their logic: hustle harder, scale faster, be your own brand. The dream of becoming a billionaire, or just escaping precarity, keeps us in line. But it is a dream, and like most dreams, it is not shared equally. The vast majority will never join the club. Meanwhile, democracy erodes, inequality widens, and attention becomes the most mined resource of all.

What makes billionaire consciousness so devastating is not its extravagance but its emptiness. It is a hollowing out of human connection, of the idea that we rise together. It replaces meaning with metrics, relationships with transactions, and wonder with spectacle. The billionaire may escape to space, but they leave a scorched Earth behind.

And so, we must wake up. Not just from the illusion of ever becoming billionaires, but from the system that tells us we should try. There is another kind of consciousness worth cultivating, one rooted in community, in limits, in care. A consciousness that sees freedom not as personal detachment but as shared dignity. The billionaire may live above the clouds. The future, if we are to have one, must be grounded here, with each other.

Understanding Trump’s Appeal Through Fear, Identity, and the End of Globalization

When Donald Trump won the presidency in 2016, like many, I was stunned. When he lost in 2020, I believed the country had turned the page. His comeback in 2024 was unprecedented and baffling. To make sense of it, I turned to trusted sources: science, sociology, and history.

Fear and the Conservative Brain

Part of the answer lies in the way our brains are wired. Neuroscientists Daniel Z. Lieberman and Michael E. Long, in The Molecule of More, explain how dopamine, the brain’s chemical of desire and motivation, drives human behavior. It governs our engagement with the future, pushing us to seek, plan, and imagine.

Liberals, they argue, tend to be more dopamine-driven, drawn to change, exploration, and progress. Conservatives, by contrast, lean more on the “here-and-now” chemicals like serotonin and oxytocin that foster connection, stability, and contentment with what exists. Complementary findings show that conservatives have stronger activity in brain regions linked to threat detection, like the amygdala, explaining their heightened sensitivity to danger and preference for order.

Trump speaks directly to this psychology. He doesn’t offer a hopeful future, he offers protection from a fearful one. His message is not about building something new but defending what’s being lost. For brains wired toward security, this is a powerful appeal.

Alienation and the Deep Story

Sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild offers another insight in Strangers in Their Own Land. She embedded herself in conservative communities in Louisiana, trying to understand what she called the “deep story” of the American right. It wasn’t just about policy; it was about identity.

Many of these communities suffer from pollution, poor infrastructure, and economic decline, yet they resist environmental regulation and progressive reforms. Why? Because they feel insulted, ignored, and stereotyped. Hochschild describes their worldview as one in which they’ve played by the rules, worked hard, and waited patiently, only to see others “cut in line.” The result is a potent mix of pride and resentment.

Add to this a fractured media environment. With traditional journalism in decline, many turn to partisan outlets like Fox News. Without broad exposure to differing viewpoints or tools for critical thinking, disinformation thrives. Trump’s messaging, rooted in grievance and emotional appeal, finds fertile ground.

The End of Globalization

Underlying it all is a deeper shift: the decline of the globalization era. From the 1990s to the 2010s, globalization promised prosperity through free trade, open borders, and technological exchange. But while it enriched some, it devastated others—offshoring jobs, hollowing out industries, and widening inequality. Entire regions were left behind.

By 2024, Americans knew exactly who Trump was, a vindictive, self-serving felon with a well-known policy playbook: mass deportations, trade wars, tax cuts, and environmental withdrawal. And yet, they voted him in again. Why? Because he spoke to the disillusionment globalization left in its wake. People feel angry about immigration, fearful for their jobs, distrustful of government, and helpless in the face of climate change. These raw emotions are not just political; they are personal, embodied, and deeply human.

A New Lens

Understanding Trump’s enduring appeal requires more than disbelief or outrage. It demands empathy, science, and attention to the long arc of history. Beneath the bluster lies something elemental: fear of loss, longing for order, and the ache of being left behind. It’s not just about Trump, it’s about the world that made him possible.

This time, the storm wears red

When the U.S. crosses the forty-ninth parallel in a brash bid to claim water, energy, and land, Canadians don’t flinch — they quietly rally. “Maple Storm” follows a ragtag, deeply Canadian resistance: farmers, First Nations land defenders, francophone hackers, and immigrant nurses turned field medics. No capes, no glory-seekers — just good people standing their ground.

There’s Asha, a Toronto paramedic who grew up on Bollywood films but never imagined herself racing snowmobiles through fire zones. Jean-Claude, a gruff but brilliant Quebecois hydro engineer who re-routes an entire dam to flood an advancing tank battalion. Mary Cardinal, a Cree matriarch who leads her community’s strategic defense of northern pipelines, channeling centuries of Indigenous knowledge. Gary, a retired prairie farmer with a tractor, a radio, and an unshakable calm. And Liam, a Newfie fisherman-turned-hacker whose online misinformation campaign confuses U.S. forces so badly they bomb their own GPS markers.

Together, they use Canada’s best weapons: the harsh climate, deep forests, relentless politeness, and a mastery of logistics honed over years of surviving ice storms and health-care lineups.

When the final act erupts, our heroes ride snowplows and ski-doos down Pennsylvania Avenue, maple leaves flapping, to set the White House ablaze once again — not in hatred, but as a reminder: Canada may be quiet, but it is never weak.

“Maple Storm” is a bold, unexpected war epic — funny, moving, and defiantly Canadian. It’s not about domination. It’s about defending what matters — with grit, humility, and a toque pulled low.

Victory, the Canadian way.

Political consciousness is essential to strength, solidarity and change

People respond to difficult political times in many ways, shaped by temperament, values, and circumstance. Few of us have a direct way to influence politics, so the news creates anxiety. We struggle to stay mentally healthy. Here are some different personal responses:

Withdrawal. Some don’t believe they can understand the complexity or make a difference. They limit exposure to news, avoid political conversations, and focus on personal well-being or family. It may not be apathy, but self-preservation.

Cynicism. A darker response. When overwhelmed, people may grow cynical or desensitized. It can be a defense, or the first stage before choosing a different path.

Social Media. Courageous, perhaps, but social media often spreads misinformation. These participants operate on the level of folk politics: emotional, localized, moral appeals that may feel right but miss the bigger picture. It can escalate into rage and lead to burnout.

Spiritual Practice. Faith, meditation, or ritual can help people hold despair and hope in tension. For some, politics becomes sacred; for others, it’s set aside to seek peace.

Study. Some turn to books, history, or philosophy. They look for patterns, deeper causes, and long-term perspectives. Wisdom becomes a way to steady the mind.

Bridging Divides. Some make it their mission to talk across lines, listen deeply, and build understanding. It’s slow and frustrating work, but necessary for healing.

Creativity. Artists and writers channel the chaos into stories, paintings, or poems. Expression becomes resistance, or at least a way to stay sane. Comedy disarms fear, helps us make sense of absurdity, and builds solidarity. Think late-night monologues or political memes.

Community. Rather than fight the whole system, some focus locally: mutual aid, neighbourhood projects, or care networks. Quiet politics, rooted in relationships.

Activism. Some people dive into action. They protest, organize, and write to their representatives.

While minding your boundaries, political consciousness is essential to strength, solidarity and change. Personally, I find myself studying and bridging divides, rising in mutual aid and intentions to mindful activism. What is your response?

I count on Mark Carney to remain a climate leader

A Shot at Forming the Next Government

Mark Carney has long hovered at the edge of Liberal politics, ever since his high-profile return to Canada in 2020 with advisory roles on climate and economic recovery. His keynote speech at the 2021 Liberal convention, in which he praised Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and called for bold climate action, was widely seen as a political trial balloon. Earlier speculation about a 2019 run had already signalled his growing alignment with the party, positioning him as a credible future leadership contender.

More recently, rumours swirled that Carney was about to be appointed Minister of Finance, replacing Chrystia Freeland to handle the escalating U.S. tariff crisis. Freeland’s exit intensified pressure to replace Trudeau, ultimately opening the door for Carney to run for party leadership.

Now, Mark Carney has won the Liberal leadership and become the new Prime Minister of Canada. He has turned the Liberal Party’s fortunes around and now has a real shot at forming the next government. Much of this rebound is driven by new threats to Canadian sovereignty and the economy from Donald Trump. But it also reflects Carney’s appeal: a steady, globally respected economic leader who marries fiscal discipline with progressive values on climate and social issues.

In recent weeks, the Liberals have seen a notable rebound in the polls, reversing a long decline. Carney has injected credibility and gravitas into the party’s image. His reputation as a serious, pragmatic thinker with international experience is resonating with Liberals fatigued by Trudeau but also with fiscally cautious progressives and centrists across the political spectrum. Appointed by Stephen Harper as Governor of the Bank of Canada in 2008, Carney helped steer Canada through the global financial crisis. Even Harper’s Conservatives once held him up as a symbol of sound financial management. With an election call expected this weekend, the odds of a Carney victory are rising.

Carney is a Climate Leader

I’ve followed Carney closely since his departure from the Bank of England, particularly in his role as a global climate leader. As UN Special Envoy for Climate Action and Finance, he played a central role in mobilizing private capital to meet climate goals. He helped launch the Glasgow Financial Alliance for Net Zero which united major financial institutions around the goal of net-zero emissions. He consistently advocated for carbon pricing, clearer climate disclosures, and sustainable investment. His influence helped shift the global climate conversation from government policy to the role of financial markets in driving the transition to a low-carbon economy.

The carbon tax, though politically fraught, remains a sound policy. It penalizes large emitters, rewards green spending, and redistributes revenue to lower-income Canadians. Unfortunately, Pierre Poilievre successfully weaponized the carbon tax, turning it into the central ballot-box question. Though originally a conservative idea, the tax became a symbol of Liberal overreach. Poilievre branded it as a tax grab, despite its revenue-neutral design. The tax isn’t meant to fill government coffers—it’s meant to shift behaviour. Most of the revenue is returned to households through rebates, making it more of an economic signal than a tax.

For a time, Poilievre’s attacks worked. He soared in the polls, capitalizing on inflation and Trudeau fatigue. By early 2025, he was poised to crush the Liberals in the next election.

That changed when Mark Carney became Prime Minister. One of his first actions was to eliminate the consumer carbon tax. It was disappointing, but not surprising. The move immediately undercut Poilievre’s central message, sending him scrambling and plummeting in the polls. With Trump looming and economic tensions high, Carney prioritized political survival and economic stability.

What’s Next for Climate Policy?

I asked my prospective Conservative MP for Poilievre’s climate strategy. He replied that it involved innovation and, catch this, oil production. Nothing about reducing carbon emissions. I am no longer clear, however, on the Liberal climate strategy.

Scrapping the carbon tax may have been politically necessary. Still, I’m counting on Carney to remain the climate leader he’s shown himself to be. While he must focus for now on securing an election win and countering the Trump threat, climate remains the more important issue. I’m watching his messaging closely. He promises to fight U.S. tariffs, but I suggest that tariffs could become part of a short-term climate strategy, a chance to add remission reduction guarantees to outdated free trade agreements.

I’m also wary of his talk of megaprojects, which seem tied to resource extraction. That path leads to more emissions. I assume Carney will keep his climate policy close to the vest for now, avoiding distractions during the campaign. But I also expect him to return, after the election, to the climate leadership the world knows him for. In the long-term, climate remains the more important issue.