Good things happen when Canada and the United States work together ❤️
The Artemis II mission is a powerful reminder that collaboration can take us further—literally and figuratively.
Politics aside, as a Canadian (born and raised) who loves the United States, I hope we continue moving forward side by side.
Congratulations on a successful mission! Looking forward to more accomplishments!
In a world that relies on WhatsApp, emails, and—when something more official is required—snail mail, I assumed fax machines had quietly disappeared. Before this week, I thought Japan might be one of the few places in the world where faxes were still commonly used, largely because older systems and habits can be slow to change.
That assumption changed when I had to submit a document to a government organization. The instructions listed only one acceptable method of submission: fax.
I was genuinely surprised that it was still an option—let alone the only one.
After struggling with the machine for almost two hours, I was quickly reminded why this technology has largely fallen out of favor. There is never a complete guarantee that a fax will go through successfully. Sometimes it sends, sometimes it fails, and it’s not always clear why. If two parties attempt to send something at the same time, the line simply appears as busy and the process has to start again. It feels less like a reliable system and more like a matter of timing and luck.
Another frustration was the speed. It took more than 44 seconds to fax a single page. Just one page. In a world where entire documents can be sent instantly with a click, the wait felt unusually long.
For a moment, I realized how much technology has changed the way we think about communication. Fax machines once represented efficiency and modern convenience. Now they feel like a relic from another era—still functioning, still required in certain places, but noticeably out of step with the tools we use every day.
Perhaps that is the strange thing about technology. Even when something feels outdated, it rarely disappears overnight. Sometimes it simply lingers quietly in the background, waiting for the one moment when we are unexpectedly required to use it again.
The American format of things isn’t always as bad as people make it out to be.
For example, their date format—mm/dd/yyyy—often makes more sense to me than the typical dd/mm/yyyy. The standard format sometimes confuses me, especially when I’m searching for information or doing research. With the American format, it’s easier for me to quickly identify the month and the date without having to stop and think about it.
Another American convention I’ve learned to appreciate is the spelling. Words like color instead of colour. I never thought one extra letter would make much difference, but when writing quickly—especially when taking notes—it does. That single letter adds a tiny bit of time and effort. Over many pages of writing, it starts to add up.
I’m fairly neutral when it comes to feet and inches versus centimetres. That feels more like a matter of habit and preference than anything else.
Of course, there are still some things that frustrate me. Temperature is one of them. I much prefer Celsius.
0°C = freezing point
100°C = boiling point
It’s simple and intuitive.
Fahrenheit, on the other hand:
32°F = freezing point
212°F = boiling point
Those numbers have never felt as straightforward.
Perhaps what this really shows is that many of these systems are neither right nor wrong. They simply reflect different habits and histories. The longer we interact with them, the more we realize that what once seemed strange can eventually start to make sense.
I recently learned that the sugar cookies we eat today were first “invented” in the early 1800s. Eating one somehow makes me feel like I’m stepping back into another time—into the world of Little House on the Prairie, where food was simple, deliberate, and made entirely from what was on hand. There is something quietly grounding about knowing that I can still taste something people enjoyed nearly two hundred years ago.
As a child, when I read books set in the 1800s—whether frontier stories or novels by Jane Austen—I was often puzzled by how restrained people seemed with food. Parents were frequently described as “stingy,” limiting treats and refusing to let children indulge freely. I assumed this was because resources were scarce, that food had to be rationed carefully out of necessity.
But after tasting a more authentic sugar cookie, I realized that assumption wasn’t entirely fair.
Traditional sugar cookies are exactly what their name suggests: flour, granulated sugar, and butter—rich, dense, and unapologetically filling. After eating just half of one, I understood why moderation was built into the culture around them. These cookies aren’t light snacks; they are heavy, satisfying, and capable of spoiling an appetite all on their own.
For most of my life, my reference point had been the modern, store-bought version—smaller, lighter, and noticeably less rich. Compared to those, the original feels almost excessive. And suddenly, the behaviour of mothers in the 1800s made more sense. They weren’t necessarily withholding out of desperation; they were exercising restraint out of practicality and care. One cookie really was enough.
There are variations to the recipe, of course, but the core ingredients remain the same. And it’s that simplicity that makes the lesson clearer.
This isn’t really a rant about sugar cookies, or even about my complicated relationship with them. It’s about how easily we misjudge the past when we view it through modern assumptions. Without understanding the context—what food was like, how filling it was, how it functioned in daily life—it’s easy to mistake restraint for scarcity, or discipline for deprivation.
Context matters. Historical context matters. Without it, our interpretations become shallow, shaped more by bias than by understanding. Yes, people in the 1800s lived with fewer resources than we do today. But no, they were not so desperate that every limit was born of lack. Sometimes, limits existed simply because they made sense.
While standing in front of Costco’s food court counter, waiting for my number to be called, I’m reminded of how something as temporary as an order number can suddenly become important—even if only for a moment. It’s strange how, all at once, a number like 396 becomes my identity. My attention narrows, my awareness sharpens, and for a brief stretch of time, I am no longer a person waiting for food—I am a number waiting to be announced.
It’s not unlike student numbers or employee IDs. Numbers that once carried weight, structure, and meaning quietly lose their relevance the moment we graduate or leave a workplace. I remember holding my high school student number with a surprising sense of importance. It mattered then. It signified belonging, progress, and position.
Now, if you asked me what that number was, I wouldn’t know.
Perhaps importance is not a fixed quality, but a temporary assignment—something we inherit briefly, respond to, and eventually outgrow. The number changes, the context disappears, and we move on, rarely noticing when the importance quietly slips away.
As I look back at the posts I wrote 19 years ago, I can’t help but notice how much my language skills have evolved. When reading, I unintentionally want to correct and fix wording to make it sound smoother or just flow better.
For example, I can’t believe I used to say “born and grew up” whereas for the past 10 years (at least) I have been saying “born and raised“. It goes to show how someone, including myself, can change so much.
19 years is a long time… but I never thought that my way of speaking and expressing myself would change this much!
It goes to show that we never know how we will change, and how we see ourselves now is not necessarily how we will see ourselves in a few years, or even in a few decades!
I was talking to ChatGPT, and I asked what it thought of my writing style, and it said I sound very academic :O… I was a bit surprised, but when I think about it more, I guess it makes sense. I haven’t worked enough for work culture to influence the way I write. I also haven’t stayed in one industry long enough to get the industry jargon incorporated into my vocabulary… well, academia it is… 😛 Forever a student… untainted by the professional work life.
I recently had a conversation, and the person asked, “What are you?” (in a polite way)
My reply: Hong Kong hardware with a Canadian software and a Japanese expansion pack 😛
When consensus isn’t global, it’s worth asking why.
I woke up to news about Mark Carney’s speech at Davos yesterday. A lot of media praised it for being “impactful,” with headlines like “Carney’s speech to the World Economic Forum draws praise, calls for action” appearing repeatedly. My Canadian friends were proud of our Prime Minister and of what they described as a well-written, well-received address.
On the surface—and perhaps within Canada—this was indeed news.
But as I kept reading, something stood out. Every piece of praise I encountered was written by a Canadian journalist or published by a Canadian news outlet. Curious, I checked news sites from other countries, across languages—English, Japanese, Chinese, and more. There were no mentions of his speech. Not a summary. Not a critique. Not even a brief reference.
That absence was striking.
Shocking… or perhaps not.
What this moment quietly illustrates is not necessarily a judgment on the quality of the speech itself, but on how information is framed and amplified. News does not exist in a vacuum. It is filtered through national interests, editorial priorities, and, at times, political or ideological agendas. What is presented as globally significant in one country may be considered peripheral—or irrelevant—in another.
The danger lies not in consuming news from one’s own country, but in assuming it represents a complete or objective picture. When we rely too heavily on a single region’s media ecosystem, especially one with a strong narrative incentive, we risk mistaking reinforcement for consensus. Over time, this can lead to a form of intellectual narrowing: a confidence that we are well-informed, while remaining unaware of what we are not seeing.
A healthy media diet requires discomfort—seeking out perspectives that do not automatically affirm our own, and recognizing that silence elsewhere can be just as telling as loud praise at home. Without that effort, it becomes easy to confuse national validation with global relevance, and information with understanding.
Whenever it is the holidays, I find myself disoriented, I lose track of my usual routine and end up not knowing what day of the week it is… it is just like today… I know and am aware it is December 26th, but… is it a Monday? a Thursday? or Saturday? No clue (and don’t care!)
This enables me to “be free”… set free from the constraints of daily schedule grinds and for once, allow my brain and nervous system to relax, knowing whatever I do within these 2 weeks is allowed and accepted… free from schedules and appointments, free from stress and free from my phone and emails!
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Simple Thoughts 