Nancy's Notes

UPDATE to todays OP. Bill C-5 has now passed final reading in the House, with both sections, one tackling interprovincial trade barriers and the other fast-tracking major project approvals, receiving enough support to move forward. The trade portion sailed through with near-unanimous support, while the more contentious infrastructure powers cleared thanks to Conservative backing. The bill now heads to the Senate, which has signaled it will complete its review by June 27, meeting Mark Carney’s campaign promise to deliver a unified Canadian economy by Canada Day. This ia a rare moment of actual momentum in a country that usually needs a decade to build a damn bridge.

________________________________________________________________________It’s time to review Bill C-5: One Canadian Economy Act-The Good The Bad and The Ugly! Not necessarily fun reading but this bill could pass today so let’s educate ourselves a bit.

Let’s be honest, this is one of the most important and complicated pieces of legislation Canada has seen in a long time. It’s bold. It’s overdue. And yes, it’s a little terrifying. There’s a lot to admire. A lot to worry about. And a whole lot of potential to either bring this country together, or pave it over in the name of progress. So let’s talk about it.

This bill is Mark Carney’s attempt to stitch together a fragmented economic map, to bridge regional divides, unlock internal trade, streamline permitting, and finally build the kind of energy and transportation infrastructure that connects Canadians instead of pitting us against each other.

It’s not just a corridor plan. It’s a full economic pivot. And it could reshape how we move, trade, build, and power this country for the next generation. But if we’ve learned anything, it’s that big national projects come with even bigger risks, especially if they’re pushed through with “efficiency” as the excuse to bulldoze environmental or Indigenous concerns.

Because make no mistake: if this bill steamrolls rights, waters down climate protections, or becomes a playground for deregulated ambition, it will fail. Full stop. And we’ll be left cleaning up the mess with fewer protections, less trust, and no credibility.

Carney’s pitch is strong: “We will grow our economy and reduce emissions by investing in clean energy, resilient infrastructure, and Canadian innovation, proving that climate action is economic action.” And I believe he means it. He spent years at the Bank of England sounding the alarm on the financial risk of climate change while others hit snooze. His role at Brookfield Asset Management wasn’t to profit from pollution, it was to help steer one of the world’s biggest asset managers toward ESG goals that actually meant something.

But good intentions don’t build trust. And Canada has had its fill of “consultation” that starts after the permits are approved.

Carney’s platform made a critical promise: “Reconciliation means a new nation-to-nation relationship grounded in trust, respect, and the recognition of rights. Projects must be built with, not for, Indigenous Peoples.” That has to be more than a campaign line. It must survive legal translation, regulatory execution, and political pressure. It has to shape the spine of C-5, not just its talking points.

And let’s be real, First Nations, Métis, and Inuit leaders know exactly what real partnership looks like. As the Indigenous Clean Energy Social Enterprise said: “True economic sovereignty for Indigenous Peoples means equity, ownership, and leadership, not tokenistic consultation after the deals are done.” That’s the bar. If C-5 doesn’t meet it, we’re just repeating history with better branding.

Now, I want this to work. I want to believe in this bill. And I want to believe in Mark Carney, not because I trust any politician blindly, but because I’ve seen enough empty promises in my lifetime to spot the ones that still carry some weight.

And maybe you’re wondering why I’m so invested in this. Here’s the truth: I’ve seen how resource-based economies rise and fall. I live a in places where pipelines aren’t just political symbols, they are paycheques, lifelines, the reason families hold on. My husband spent decades consulting in oil and gas. I’ve stood in both camps: one foot in the industrial economy, the other in the reality that we can’t keep doing it this way forever.

But I’ve also lived long enough to know that transitions, real ones, don’t come with easy buttons. They need leadership, courage, and a deep respect for the people and the land that have carried this country on their backs.

And that land? I’ve seen it change. I lived and worked north of 60 in the early 1980s, long before “climate crisis” was a headline. When I returned in 2017 to bring a series of airshows across the Arctic, the transformation was staggering. Melting permafrost. Vanishing ice. Shifting ecosystems. What had taken millennia to form was unraveling in half a generation. It shook me. It still does. That’s why I’m as committed to protecting this planet as I am to defending our economy, because in the end, they’re the same damn thing.

And while we’re at it, let’s not underestimate the quiet power beside Carney. His wife, Diana Fox Carney, is no political accessory, she’s one of Canada’s sharpest climate policy minds. Canada doesn’t do First Ladies, but we do have strong women who keep the compass pointed true north. Sometimes literally.

So yes, support Bill C-5. But don’t sleep on it. Don’t let it slide through unchallenged, unread, or untested. Our job is to make damn sure the net underneath isn’t woven out of broken promises and shredded land acknowledgements. Because if we get this wrong, it won’t just be another policy failure, it’ll be a paved-over country with a plaque that says “Unity Project, est. 2025.” I voted for Mark Carney because I believe this bill matters, and because I believe he’s the kind of leader who doesn’t just juggle stakeholders, he actually listens to them. If anyone can walk the line between profit and planet without selling out either, it’s him.

And spoiler alert: You can’t build a One Canadian Economy on a foundation of eroded trust and bulldozed consent.

Here’s a link to the draft bill if you are a policy geek like me. https://www.parl.ca/docume…/en/45-1/bill/C-5/first-reading

We were driving earlier, talking the way you do when the news feels heavy and the road ahead feels uncertain. And in the quiet my husband suddenly said, “In the animal kingdom, it’s the strongest and smartest who lead the pack. But with humans, especially right now in the U.S.? That doesn’t seem to apply anymore.” And immediately I couldn’t get The Lion King out of my head. And just like that, I knew I was going to have to speak again, to the folks across the border. Because what’s happening there matters. It matters to all of us.

Now, I didn’t grow up with The Lion King, I’m far too old for that. But I do remember sitting in a movie theatre with my older son, watching it unfold as his very first film. Oh and then having to watch the VHS tape almost daily with him. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being a cartoon and started to feel like prophecy.

Because The Lion King isn’t just a children’s tale. It’s a story about power, illusion, betrayal, and the slow rot that happens when the wrong one wears the crown.

It begins, as all stories of kingdoms do, with a king who understands the weight of responsibility. Mufasa tells his young son: “A king’s time as ruler rises and falls like the sun.” That line stayed with me, even back then. Maybe because we all want to believe there’s dignity in passing the torch. That leadership is borrowed, not owned. That strength means wisdom.

And then comes Scar. Scar is charismatic, bitter, clever in all the wrong ways. He manipulates the truth, blames others, and uses fear as currency. He unleashes the hyenas, opportunists who thrive on leftovers and will tear down the land just to keep him in power. And then, in one final moment of pure arrogance, as he lets Mufasa fall to his death, he hisses: “Long live the king.”

It’s hard not to see echoes of that now, not just in one man, but in a movement. In a culture that mistakes cruelty for strength, chaos for strategy, and grievance for governance. Scar doesn’t build anything. He devours.

And here’s the question: Who is Mufasa now? Maybe Mufasa isn’t a single man anymore. Maybe he’s the last shred of leadership that remembers how to serve something bigger than ego. Maybe he’s the memory of leaders like Barack Obama or Ronald Reagan, different ideologies, but both capable of carrying the weight of the office without making it all about themselves.

And Simba? Simba is the American public. The people. The ones who left, who tuned out, who got tired, or disillusioned. The ones who were told to forget, or made to believe that nothing matters anymore. But Simba hears a voice from the past, a whisper that cuts through the noise: “You have forgotten who you are, and so forgotten me.”

That line, that’s where Americans are now. In the in-between. In the moment where remembering who they are is the only way out of this mess.

Because the hyenas are laughing. The land is crumbling. Scar is still on the throne.

And if they don’t remember who they are, not as parties, not as pundits, not as slogans, but as citizens with a responsibility to something bigger, then the sun’s not coming back. Not until someone decides it’s time to fight for the kingdom again.

And if that sounds dramatic, good. Because what we’re watching isn’t politics anymore, it’s a damn fable. And if we don’t turn the page soon, we’re all going to be stuck in the part where the villain wins.

Because let’s be honest: Scar isn’t fictional anymore. He lives in gold-plated towers and screams into social media voids. He feeds on division, hires hyenas to bark on cable news, and claims he’s the rightful king while everything burns behind him.

The hyenas? They’re everywhere, selling merch, stoking rage, rewriting history in real time. They don’t care if the kingdom dies. They only care that they get a seat at the table when the carcass is carved up.

Simba is still lost. Distracted. Waiting for someone else to fix it. But Simba has one job: to remember.

And Mufasa? Maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this time, you don’t get to be rescued. Maybe this time, you are the ones who have to rise.

Because if Scar gets another sunrise, it won’t be a kingdom he rules, it’ll be a graveyard. And the hyenas will still be laughing.

Abandoning the G7:Trumps Ego, and The World’s Crisis. While the G7 was taking place, Donald Trump walked out. I don’t believe his departure was primarily to manage the Middle East situation. I feel he left because, in his mind, it wasn’t all about him. The G7 didn’t feed his ego the way a rally does. And so, he left. He walked away because he needed to be somewhere his ego could be fed, and that sure as heck wasn’t happening for him in Kananaskis. Note Air Force One has the ability to act as a situation room.

But, maybe that was a blessing in disguise. Because what we saw in his absence was something remarkable: world leaders from the G7 and invited guests stepping up, not stepping back. They collaborated. They brought calm and clarity to a moment that demands it. Canada’s Prime Minister, Mark Carney, showed exactly what quiet, principled diplomacy looks like; strong, steady, and unshaken by spectacle. Carney doesn’t need a spotlight. And he knows how to bring substance.

And although it may seem small in the grand scheme, I had a private moment of delight watching Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy sitting in the chair Trump had abandoned. There was something poetic in that. And the leaders continued with the hard work. Some may have felt that the meetings would lose their effectiveness without Trump there but I personally feel the room likely got a lot smarter..

And that’s where this shifts from farce to fear. Because while those leaders were working together to steer the world off the edge of a cliff, Trump is inching us toward it. There is intel suggesting he’s warming to the idea of deeper U.S. involvement with Iran, despite concern from some Republicans. That terrifies me.

I know there’s a lot going on right here at home, in our province, in our country, and it’s easy to say, “Let’s just focus on our own backyard.” But sometimes, the world kicks down your front door whether you invited it in or not.

I can’t ignore what’s unfolding in the Middle East right now. This isn’t the same as a one-off drone strike. Maybe those are sometimes necessary, maybe. But this? The idea of American troops being deployed into Iran without a direct threat to the U.S.? That’s a whole other scale. And I don’t believe it’s justified.

So when people say, “Mind your business, Nancy. Stay out of it. This isn’t ours to worry about,” I call bull. Because it is ours. Because this is terrifying. Frickin’ terrifying. And we’d be naive, willfully naive, to pretend it doesn’t affect us.

Yes, the U.S. is a close friend of Israel, as is Canada, and yes, we stand by our allies. But at some point, we also have to ask: What does standing with an ally actually mean? Blind escalation? Endless retaliation? Or helping chart a path out of catastrophe?

Once again, we’re on the precipice. Once again, we’re waiting to see what the President of the United States will do. And maybe more importantly, what those around him, including his own party, will say if and when they disagree. Because they damn well better.

And as we wait, I sit here thinking of my own family members who could be called to serve if Canada aligns with the U.S. in a wider conflict. I think about our kids. Our future. Our shared humanity. And I ask, how the hell did we get here?

There was a time, not long ago, when all the talk was about Joe Biden’s fitness for office. And I get it. People questioned his cognitive strength. Maybe some of that concern was valid. But what I know for sure is this: whatever questions we had about Biden then are dwarfed by what we’re seeing from Donald Trump now. Because Trump’s not just struggling with cognition. He’s struggling with reality. With rationality. With restraint. And when you’re standing at the edge of war, those are the bare minimum requirements.

Already, there are 30 U.S. air-to-air refueling aircraft in the Iranian region. There’s an aircraft carrier on station. And if we start seeing the big bombers lifting off U.S. soil, that will tell us everything we need to know about the decision Trump has made, long before he announces it from a stage in Washington or on Truth Social.

And if you think the maga-supporters, the ones who were promised no new wars, are suddenly going to walk away? Think again. They still believe in him. They still think his decisions are rational, objective, and in the best interests of all. Dear God!!

This is a frightening moment. My gut aches. My heart hurts. And I suspect I’m not alone in feeling like the world is teetering.

And what’s most disturbing? That one of the loudest, most dangerous figures on the world stage, the one whose shadow still looms over this entire mess, is masquerading as the leader of the “greatest democracy on Earth.”

Yeah. Wrap your head around that oxymoron. But sure, let’s keep pretending the guy who walked out of the G7 to go feel important somewhere else is the one who’s going to bring world peace. What could possibly go wrong?

P.S. I chose the image to accompany this post, the “family photo” of G7 leaders, very deliberately. It’s the one without Trump. And honestly, it looks better that way.

Wheels Down at YYC, And the World Is Watching

We landed last night at YYC, Calgary International Airport, after two weeks away. As we taxied to the gate, the flight attendant reminded us of heightened security. And out the window, there it was: a surreal row of state aircraft on the tarmac. Not your standard vacation arrival scene. But a congregation of global power, because this week, the world has landed in Alberta for the G7.

It hit me with full force: the weight of what’s happening, and what could happen.

In just a few days, we’ve watched chaos multiply. A devastating air crash in India. The horrifying escalation in Los Angeles, where American soldiers were deployed against their own citizens. A grotesque Trump parade that felt more like a despotic flex than any kind of public appearance. The worsening spiral in the Middle East. And yes, the shootings in Minnesota, this time aimed at left political figures and a written manifesto targeting progressive leaders and institutions.

Meanwhile, the G7 summit tries to hold its shape, though let’s be honest: how do you even draft an agenda when every day feels like a geopolitical earthquake?

But looking at those aircraft stirred something else in me: hope.

Because Canada isn’t just the host of the G7 this year. We’re a moral compass in a disoriented world. And it matters that we have Mark Carney at the table, a leader who understands markets, yes, but more importantly, understands moments. This is one.

And this year, it’s not just the G7 countries in the room. Leaders like Claudia Sheinbaum of Mexico, stepping onto the world stage as her country’s first female president, and Volodymyr Zelenskyy of Ukraine, who embodies resilience under fire, are here too. The room isn’t just filled with power, it’s filled with potential.

This post, this messy, overdue, emotionally splattered post, isn’t just about what’s gone wrong. It’s about where I’m placing my hope this week: in a summit happening under the shadow of the Rockies, in a country that believes power is measured in vision, not volume. In leaders who don’t have to scream to be heard.

And Canadians, whatever your stripe, you should be grateful that we are not living under a Trump-style authoritarian. And very worried that a Poilievre-style one is knocking, armed with a slogan and no costed plan. (That door leads to a basement. No windows. No exit.)

Last week in Mexico, I had some striking conversations with Americans. Many were decent. Many overwhelmed. And too many who have simply checked out. “I trust others will figure it out,” one said. That’s exactly how democracies die.

And I get it. I know who reads my posts. Boomers-thank you for showing up. But we need the younger generations to plug in, to push, to care. Because this isn’t abstract anymore. It’s here. It’s visible from seat 11F at YYC. It’s loud, close, and dangerous.

I can’t cover everything I’m feeling. But I can stake a flag in this moment. The world has come to Alberta. And somewhere, on that tarmac, among those flags and fuselages, sits a fragile opportunity for leadership to matter again. I came home encouraged by small conversations. I came home discouraged by large events. But I’m here, grateful, grounded, and not giving up.

Because if we can’t recognize the stakes now, while the world’s leaders are literally parked outside our arrivals gate, then when exactly do we plan to wake the hell up?

The Gray House

“There is no literature or poetry in this White House. No music. No Kennedy Center award celebrations. There are no pets in this White House. No loyal man’s best friend. No Socks the family cat. No kids science fairs. No times when this president takes off his blue suit-red tie uniform and becomes human, except when he puts on his white shirt- khaki pants uniform and hides from Americans to play golf. There are no images of the first family enjoying themselves together in a moment of relaxation. No Obamas on the beach in Hawaii moments, or Bushes fishing in Kennebunkport, no Reagans on horseback, no Kennedys playing touch football on the Cape. I was thinking the other day of the summer when George H couldn’t catch a fish and all the grandkids made signs and counted the fish-less days. And somehow, even if you didn’t even like GHB, you got caught up in the joy of a family that loved each other and had fun. Where did that country go? Where did all of the fun and joy and expressions of love and happiness go? We used to be a country that did the ice bucket challenge and raised millions for charity. We used to have a president that calmed and soothed the nation instead of dividing it. And a First Lady that planted a garden instead of ripping one out. We are rudderless and joyless. We have lost the cultural aspects of a society that makes America great.

We have lost our mojo. Our fun, our happiness. The cheering on of others. The shared experiences of humanity that make it all worth it. The challenges AND the triumphs that we shared and celebrated. The unique can-do spirit Americans have always been known for. We have lost so much in so short a time.”

I’ve read the above poem written by Elayne Griffin Baker many times now, and each time it hits me harder. Because this isn’t just a poem about a house, it’s about a country. A people. A collective soul. An entire world in fact. And what happens when power is stripped of poetry, stripped of empathy, stripped of everything but self-serving force.

There was a time when joy in the White House wasn’t about frivolity. It was about relatability. A dog curled at the feet of a president. A first lady who planted a garden. A president tossing a football with his kids, or showing up to a science fair and actually caring. Those weren’t photo ops, they were signals that leadership still had a heart.

What the poem calls out so clearly is the emotional poverty of what came after. A man incapable of joy because the only emotion he traffics in is dominance. And it’s not just him. The people he lifts up, admires, and aligns himself with, from authoritarian strongmen to domestic enablers, share that same joyless core. They smirk, but they don’t smile. They gloat but never laugh with warmth. And most importantly, they don’t lead, they rule.

And it shows. Not just in policies, but in tone. In what has been normalized. In what our children are growing up believing is “strong.” We’ve watched the humanity drain out of institutions, not because feelings don’t matter, but because they do, and some people fear them.

The White House doesn’t have to be some fairytale castle of laughter and light. It’s a seat of serious responsibility. But leadership, real leadership, includes the capacity to reflect the best of us, and yes, that includes joy. The joy of connection. Of shared humanity. Of being more than the office you hold.

It is not just lose of the traditions of pets or poetry or play, it’s the lost tone of decency that made those things possible. The photo of a president laughing with his child, or high-fiving a science fair winner, isn’t fluff. It’s a signal to the world: “We’re still human here. We still feel.”

Because what message is being sent, not just to Americans, but to the world, when men are elevated who see vulnerability as weakness and joy as irrelevant? When the only thing that gives a leader pleasure is domination?

Trump may be the embodiment of this, but he’s not the only one. Across the world, we are watching the rise of strongmen who sneer at laughter unless it’s aimed downward. Who confuse control with leadership. Who rip up gardens instead of planting seeds.

And people feel it. Even if they can’t name it, they know something is missing. The absence of joy is not invisible. It’s a heaviness that settles over everything. It’s the dull ache of a country that no longer pauses to cheer for each other, to laugh, to mourn, to dream.

Personally, I think about what brings me joy. The messy, magnificent chaos of family. The way my pets greet me like I’ve returned from war after a five-minute trip to the store. The jokes that land at the dinner table. The absurd beauty of community when it works. And I wonder: what kind of leader, what kind of human, feels nothing when surrounded by those things? Or worse, feels contempt for them?

Without joy, what are we even fighting for? What are we building? Power alone is not a vision. Authority without empathy is not greatness. A nation without joy is not leading the world, it’s warning it. So let’s stop pretending this is just about policy. The mood of a leader shapes the mood of a country. And when that tone is mean, vindictive, hollow, and cold, it spreads. It settles into the bones of a nation. People are not machines. We are not here only to consume, to obey, to win. We are here to live. To feel. To connect. And to make something beautiful together, even if just for a moment.

I say this as a Canadian: because what happens in that joyless house doesn’t stay there. It echoes outward, quiet and heavy, and the whole world is carrying it now.

“When memory fades, comfort takes its place in the sand.” Yesterday, all hell broke loose in the craziness of American politics. And today? Today we mark 81 years since the hell that was Juno Beach, the day when young Canadians stormed the shores of Normandy, not for ego or empire, but for freedom. For democracy. For the world.

And yet this morning, I’m sitting on a beach in Mexico surrounded by tourists arguing over which billionaire grifter is more righteous, Donald Trump or Elon Musk. Honestly, it’s hard to believe this is what we’re actually talking about.

Yesterday, Elon Musk, under pressure, or perhaps just playing one of his usual tech-cult chess games, teased the release of the Epstein files. Yes, those Epstein files. The ones that have been passed around like ghost stories for years. The timing? Not accidental. There are very real whispers that government contracts tied to SpaceX and Tesla may be on shaky ground. And just like that, Musk suddenly found his moral compass, or his panic button. Predictably, Trump couldn’t let it go unchallenged. Musk, once held up by MAGAland as the messiah of free speech and dogecoin-fueled disruption, was now a backstabber. A traitor. And the same people who, less than 24 hours earlier, had practically deified the man were now blaming him for “betraying” Trump.

Let’s not pretend this is about principles. This is about power. Money. Blackmail. Leverage. And control. And I’ve got a front-row seat, poolside. I didn’t say much. I’ve been trying to behave. Trying to enjoy this trip without jumping headfirst into the madness that seems to follow wherever Americans gather in a group larger than three. But I swear, it’s getting harder. The level of disconnection from reality, or maybe the full submission to a manufactured version of it, is exhausting.

I hear conversations that start with Elon and end with Hunter Biden. I hear people still claiming Trump is the victim of a political witch hunt, still insisting he’s the smartest, most persecuted man on the planet. I hear praise for his “brilliance,” while ignoring the fact that he just congratulated the German Chancellor for his English, the same Chancellor who studied and worked in the United States for years and could probably recite Trump’s real estate fraud charges in fluent legalese.

And what’s most alarming is that these aren’t people without resources or access to information. Many of them are educated. Employed. Some are in positions of influence. But somehow, that hasn’t stopped them from falling hook, line, and conspiracy into the abyss of Trumpism.

It’s cult behavior, not just politically, but psychologically. Trump isn’t just a man to these folks; he’s an identity. A belief system. A golden calf with a spray tan. And now, apparently, Musk is being cast out for failing to bow deeply enough.

The irony, of course, is that both of these men have more in common than their fans want to admit: towering egos, trail of lawsuits, disdain for institutions, a thirst for chaos, and an allergy to accountability.

And all of this, this circus, this crumbling pageant of power, is unfolding on the very day we remember Juno Beach.

Eighty-one years ago, young Canadians (and their allies, men many still teenagers, landed on the shores of France in one of the most pivotal battles of the Second World War. They didn’t do it for fame. They didn’t do it to trend on social media. They did it because the world was in peril, and they answered the call.

And today? We’re watching billionaires play truth-or-dare with international secrets while half the internet cheers and the other half shrugs. The contrast is nauseating. What was once sacrifice is now spectacle. What was once duty is now branding. And we wonder why the world feels like it’s teetering.

It’s not just that we’ve allowed people like Trump and Musk to gain this kind of power. It’s that we’ve normalized it. We’ve handed them the megaphone, the microphone, the stage, and called it leadership.

And now, we’re left with a global reality that feels more like a satire. War in Europe. Authoritarianism rising. Environmental collapse accelerating. Democracy unraveling. And instead of facing it head-on, we’re consumed with loyalty tests between two of the most self-serving men alive.

The world is on fire, literally and figuratively, and we’re still arguing about which one of them has the bigger, better truth.

We owe more than this. To history. To each other. And to those who died believing we would do better.

Tonight, I’ll go to dinner. I’ll raise a glass. And I’ll keep listening, because I always do. But I’ll also remember who I am, a Canadian, a believer in democracy, and someone who still thinks that truth matters more than ego.

Because 81 years ago, our young men waded into hell for something real. The least we can do is recognize when we’re living through a cheap, hollow rerun, and call it what it is.

There are days in a country’s life that feel bigger than headlines, days that echo, quietly but clearly, with history. Yesterday was one of those days.

From the horse drawn carriage arrival of King Charles III and Queen Camilla, to the Speech from the Throne, to the laying of the wreath at the National War Memorial, it was one of those rare days in Canadian political life that hits at something deeper than just policy or protocol.

I’ve said before, and I’ll say again, I don’t quite know where I stand on the monarchy. I teeter. I hover somewhere between acknowledging the symbolic weight they carry, and questioning whether we still need that weight at all. But… yesterday felt different.

There was something quietly profound in the way it all unfolded. The King’s interactions with Canadians; from people walking the streets, to students, to Members of Parliament and justices of the Supreme Court, felt authentic.You could see it mattered to him, perhaps especially after the difficult first year of his reign. And I imagine, standing where his mother once stood, that meant something deeply personal for him as well.

The weather could not have been more perfect. The backdrop of Parliament Hill, even with the ever-present cranes that have become a permanent part of the skyline, stood tall and dignified. And then came the moments of tradition and ceremony that hit me harder than I expected. The Usher of the Black Rod, summoning MPs to the Senate chamber with purpose and ceremony, felt both formal and commanding. It was fun, yes, but it was also weighty, steeped in centuries of history and meaning. The Riverdance drummers, their rhythm and cry echoing in the air, brought an emotional charge that caught me off guard.

When the procession reached the National War Memorial, and O Canada played just as the F-18s roared overhead, it was one of those full-body moments. My breath caught. And as those jets tore across the sky, I felt the same wave I always do in those moments. You all know that military flyovers are personal for me. They always have been.

And of course the centrepiece: the Speech from the Throne.

Now I’ve already read and studied the mandate letter. I know what’s expected from this government in terms of policy. The speech did its duty on that front. But that’s not what stayed with me.

What stayed with me was the tone. The intentionality. The message that was for Canada, but also very much for the world.

“When my dear late mother, Queen Elizabeth II, opened a new Canadian Parliament in 1957, the Second World War remained a fresh, painful memory… Today, Canada faces another critical moment.”

That line alone bridged generations. It reminded us that history doesn’t live in textbooks alone, it walks beside us in real time. And that once again, we are standing at a crossroads.

“Democracy, pluralism, the rule of law, self-determination, and freedom are values which Canadians hold dear…We must be clear-eyed: the world is a more dangerous and uncertain place than at any point since the Second World War.”

This wasn’t filler. This wasn’t just constitutional fluff. It was a deliberate signal, a reaffirmation of what we stand for, not just in theory, but in practice. And it wasn’t just domestic reassurance. It was international positioning.

And then, this line, one I will not forget:

“All Canadians can give themselves far more than any foreign power on any continent can ever take away.”

That’s it. That’s the essence of sovereignty. That’s the sentence we should be talking about. It’s pride without arrogance. Strength without noise. It’s Canada telling the world: we are here, we are prepared, and we are not alone.

And here’s the part that was so strategically elegant: the name of the President of the United States was not mentioned by name. Despite his being the obvious audience for this speech that omission was powerful. Intentional. His presence hung in the air, referenced obliquely in the contrast between Canadian values and the rising threats abroad.

This speech was about Canada, standing in its own authority, reaffirming our sovereignty, our alliances, and our unwavering sense of who we are on the global stage.

This is the Canada that welcomes, that leads, that builds. This is the Canada that doesn’t chase relevance, it earns it. The speech made clear that while the world may be in turmoil, our path is steady. Thoughtful. Collaborative. And yes, sovereign.

I’ll review the government policy parts of the speech in the coming days. But I wanted to get this down while it was still raw, before the political analysts pick it apart and before the news cycle moves on.

Because when King Charles ended his remarks, he left us with a line that deserves to be remembered far beyond this single day.

“As the national anthem reminds us, the true north is indeed strong and free.”

And I, for one, believe that. I believe it in the skies above the War Memorial. I believe it in the sound of our anthem. I believe it in the weight of our history and the promise of our future.

Indeed!

Today, I Packed My Pride

As I was preparing my suitcase yesterday for an upcoming trip out of the country, I did something I’ve never really done before: I stopped to admire the little red Canadian flag tag clipped to my luggage. It’s plastic. Nothing fancy. But in that moment, it felt like everything. That simple red tag reminded me of who I am and where I’m from, and this morning, I’m feeling it deeply.

Because yesterday, Canada reminded me why I love this country. From the opening of the new session of Parliament, to the respectful election of the Speaker of the House, to the first words spoken by our new Prime Minister, Mark Carney, it just felt good. It felt hopeful. It felt like democracy, not chaos. And yes, I know there will be debates, disagreements, and challenges ahead. But I also know that what we saw wasn’t performative or rage-fuelled. It was respectful, steady, and real.

And that’s something we can’t take for granted right now.

Because let’s be honest, the contrast with what’s happening south of the border is staggering. There, leadership is defined by late-night rants from a man who seems one social media post away from igniting a global crisis. There, Memorial Day is overshadowed by narcissism instead of solemn remembrance. There, tone has been obliterated, and decency has become optional.

Today in Canada, tone still matters. We still show up for each other, for our institutions, and for the values that have shaped this country, even when we don’t always agree.

And while not everyone loves the monarchy, I’ll admit: I’m kind of into the pageantry today. King Charles and Queen Camilla will ride in a carriage through Ottawa, welcomed with full military honour, before delivering the Speech from the Throne in Canada’s Senate. It’s symbolic, yes. But sometimes symbols matter. Because structure, tradition, and dignity help us remember who we are. And right now, I think we need that.

We have so much in common with the United States, European settler roots, immigrant foundations, a shared border, a deep cultural bond. But we’re also different. And we need to hold onto that difference. Especially when we hear things like the President of the United States claiming our border was “drawn with a ruler.” Really? I’d love to know what map he’s looking at. From Ontario and the Great Lakes to the twists and turns of Quebec and Atlantic Canada, our border is anything but straight. It’s complex, beautiful, and hard-won, just like the country it outlines.

And that’s the thing. Canada isn’t perfect. We have work to do, on reconciliation, on inequality, on defending democracy against disinformation. But we still show up. We still respect the process. And we still understand that a functioning democracy doesn’t have to be loud to be strong.

So maybe this post is just a love letter. A bit of ramble. A bit of red and white. A bit of “Yay, Canada.” But it’s also a reminder.

A reminder that today, our democracy is on full display. A reminder that tone is everything. A reminder that some plastic luggage tags carry the weight of a lifetime of pride.

And maybe, just maybe, in a world that sometimes feels like it’s spinning off its axis, Canada is still one of the few places quietly holding the centre.

So Canada, please, be who you are. Know who you are. Know how fortunate we are to live in this incredible, imperfect, determined country.

And for anyone watching from afar, especially from south of the border: Our sovereignty is not up for discussion. It is absolute. It is earned. It is non-negotiable.

Long may we wave our flag.

While the House Burns, Two Guys Bring Buckets

There’s a fire burning in Alberta, slow in some places, raging in others, and most days, it feels like the people in charge are too busy stoking the flames to care about the damage. But while the government fans the smoke of fake sovereignty and political theatre, two guys have shown up with buckets but we are going to need more buckets and people to carry them.

Because there’s a particular kind of madness unfolding here. The kind where a government that can’t deliver health care or transparency suddenly wants to deliver us from Canada. Cue the fireworks, the federal finger-pointing, and the WestJet seat-sale version of a sovereignty conversation. It’s tempting to ignore it. I did. For a while.

Because surely no one is actually buying this snake oil in bulk, right? But then you start to realize: while you were rolling your eyes, someone else was rolling out the velvet rope to their own little constitutional cosplay convention. And even if it’s a circus, it’s still dragging the whole crowd with it. That’s when it stops being funny.

Which is exactly why I want to talk about Thomas A. Lukaszuk and Ken Chapman, two guys who are doing the opposite of that. They’re not chasing a spotlight. They’re not selling us an identity crisis with a side of fake nationalism. They’re just trying to make things actually better. And let me tell you, in this province right now, that is borderline subversive behaviour.

Thomas came to Canada as a kid from communist Poland, grew up, served this province in a number of cabinet roles, including in education where, yes, we occasionally butted heads. But unlike the current crop of ideologues, Thomas showed up. He answered the tough questions. And when Russia invaded Ukraine, he didn’t just post a flag emoji, he got on the ground and helped send resources across the border via Poland. Real work. Real effort. No hashtags.

And Ken Chapman? Ken is the guy who keeps showing up to the fight with nothing but reason, research, and his belief that Alberta still has a soul. He’s been quietly leading @ Reboot Alberta for years, long before it was trendy to talk about democratic reform. And while dealing with serious personal health challenges, he’s never stopped trying to drag this province back toward something resembling sanity.

These two just teamed up again, not to win power or cash a consulting cheque, but to help us rethink what Alberta could be. Not separate, but smarter. Not angrier, but accountable. Not louder, but better.

Now, here’s the kicker: they’re doing this during a time when the UCP would really prefer you didn’t ask questions about, say, education, health care, environmental fraud, or pension theft. And if you think the sovereignty sideshow isn’t part of that, I have a privatized ER in Fort Mac I’d like to sell you.

Look, I still don’t believe Alberta will separate. But I do believe in sleight of hand. While we’re all shouting about flags and feds, the real damage is happening in the background. To kids. To seniors. To democracy.

So, if you’re asking me who deserves attention right now? It’s not the ones trying to pick a constitutional fistfight with a ghost. It’s the guys filling buckets while the house burns.

Their names are Thomas Lukaszuk and Ken Chapman.

And if the arsonists in charge want us distracted, maybe it’s time we stop watching the smoke, and start following the people carrying water.

Stay tuned to learn how you can help.

When Journalism Sells Its Soul for a Book Deal

I didn’t plan to write last night. I planned to read and relax. But once again, the media landscape served up something so ethically bankrupt, I can’t let it go. What I saw yesterday on CNN wasn’t journalism it was opportunism.

Let me be clear: I’m not a journalist. I write opinion. I try to be accurate, but I don’t wear the press pass. That title belongs to people who once chose truth over profit and public interest over personal branding. But those people are becoming harder to find.

For weeks, CNN has been running what amounts to built-in promotional segments for ‘Original Sin’ written by anchor Jake Tapper and Alex Thompson. Not labelled as ads, just conveniently timed “discussions” and “buzz-building” that blurred every line between news and marketing. The book, which drops today, centers on allegations that Joe Biden’s declining mental and physical health during his presidency was known inside the White House and deliberately concealed from the public. If Biden’s health was newsworthy, and you had inside information, why wait until book launch day to unleash it? The answer is obvious: this wasn’t about informing the public. It was about cashing in.

That’s not journalism. That’s PR with better lighting.

And yesterday Jake Tapper and assorted other CNN anchors spent the day interviewing oncologists and urologists about Biden’s newly revealed cancer diagnosis. The day before the book launch day. Let that sink in.

An anchor with a financial and reputational stake in a book about Biden’s health and presidency, interviewing medical professionals live on air about Biden’s health. One doctor from Yale refused to be dragged into the spectacle. He calmly explained that prostate cancer can progress quickly and without symptoms, and that PSA testing isn’t routinely recommended for men over 70.

But Tapper kept pressing. Kept prodding. Kept trying to extract something headline-worthy that would support the thesis of his book. And here’s the question no one at CNN seemed to ask: Why was he even on air? Jake Tapper should not have been there yesterday, and he absolutely should not have been assigned to cover Biden’s diagnosis on the day before his own book about Biden’s hidden health issues was released. The ethical breach is glaring.

To be fair, CNN isn’t the only one failing us. Canadian and American media alike have turned interviews into performance art. Last week, Vassy Kapelos, of CTV, someone I usually admire pressed Prime Minister Mark Carney three times on his “feelings” about trusting Donald Trump. He answered. “We will work together.” But she kept pushing. “Do you trust him?” “My answer stands,” he said. Because clarity doesn’t trend. Drama does.

We talk a lot about the pressure placed on journalists by political actors, especially Donald Trump. But let’s stop pretending that’s the only problem. Many journalists are complicit. This isn’t just external, it’s internal. These are editorial choices. To delay, sensationalize, monetize.

Contrast that with people like Ira Rosen, the 60 Minutes producer who resigned from CBS rather than compromise his integrity under political pressure. That’s what ethics looks like. That’s what saying no looks like.

What CNN did today wasn’t just a misstep; it was a betrayal of trust, of standards, and of a man battling cancer with grace. It’s not difficult to see when someone’s pain is being turned into a talking point. And before anyone thinks I have developed an afinity for Fox News don’t worry that conversation isn’t a social media post, it’s a fiction novel.

I still pay for subscriptions to outlets I trust, because I want journalism to survive. But what I saw today wasn’t journalism. It was a circus. And Tapper wasn’t the ringmaster. He was the carny selling the fixed games.

This may be the moment cable news hit bottom for me. Not because of partisanship. Not because of spin. But because it took something so deeply human, illness, mortality and tried to turn it into a product launch.

If this is what the industry thinks truth is worth, I want no part of it. The newsroom is no longer where stories are told. It’s where they’re sold. And yesterday, the price was integrity.