A methodical practice, first learned with greasy hands on steel frames, now applied to clean abstractions in cloud architecture. This is a story about two kinds of tools, and the single mind that uses them.
My journey into professional bicycle mechanics began at Bike Pirates, a non-profit co-op in Toronto’s west end, where I learned the fundamentals. From there, I transitioned to Urbane Cyclist, a worker co-operative that profoundly shaped my approach to technical work. Urbane was more than just a shop; it was a hub for Toronto’s cycling scene, a community held together by shared values and, often, shared roti meals from Gandhi’s during staff meetings and parties.
Our relationship with technology: a tree that grows from our own needs but may overshadow our original selves.
We often imagine technology as a ladder—each rung lifting us higher, granting clearer vision and greater mastery over our world. But what if it is something else entirely? What if our grand narrative of human progress shares an unsettling kinship with the story of an addict chasing a high? This metaphor—technology as a dependency, civilization as an addiction—offers a provocative lens to examine our trajectory. From the first controlled fire to the looming specter of artificial general intelligence, our journey may be less one of sober ascent and more a compulsive search for the next, more powerful alteration of our own condition.
On the value of tools that reward investment with understanding, not just output.
Looking back, the most valuable skills I possess share a common origin: they began with a choice to engage with a system deeply, rather than merely consume its output. My journey with bodywork started not with seeking a quick fix, but with studying shiatsu—learning the meridians and the principles of pressure to understand my own health. My relationship with transportation transformed when I learned bicycle mechanics, not just to save money, but to know every component that carried me through the city. This pattern of choosing the path of understanding over convenience found its ultimate expression in my choice, years ago, to build my digital life on Linux and open source. That choice, often met with bemusement, has proven to be less about software preference and more about cultivating a fundamental literacy.
A personal synthesis of timeless wisdom for navigating the complexities of modern life.
The search for happiness often begins with the assumption that it’s something to be acquired—a destination reached through the accumulation of achievements, possessions, or experiences. But the wisdom traditions I’ve explored—from yoga and meditation to Shin Buddhism, Aikido, Tai Chi, and shiatsu—suggest a different possibility: that happiness is not something we get, but something we uncover. It’s the natural state that emerges when we stop fighting ourselves and the world around us.
My journey through martial arts in Toronto began not with a desire to fight, but with a curiosity about movement and the ways different disciplines frame the problem of conflict. From the solitary, meditative forms of Tai Chi to the cooperative dynamics of Aikido, and finally to the demanding physicality of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, each art offered a distinct language for the body and the mind. This is a record of that education.
Ancient wisdom for the modern information age: A map of the territory beyond the threshold of questioning.
Each hand feels one part
Declares the whole elephant known
Truth requires many hands
There’s an ancient story about blind men encountering an elephant for the first time. One feels the trunk and declares the elephant is like a snake. Another touches the leg and insists it’s like a tree. A third grasps the tail and argues it’s like a rope. Each is certain they understand the whole animal based on their limited experience, and each is wrong in their certainty.
A map is not the territory, but a good map reveals where the ground is firm and where the quicksand lies. This is a map for walking, not for framing.
When confusion feels solid and suffering feels permanent, we long for a way through. The Buddha’s Eightfold Path is not a list of commandments from a mountaintop, but a set of interlocking observations from the middle of the road. It suggests that the cause of our anguish is not life itself, but how we stand in relation to it—through misunderstanding, craving, and rigidity. The path offers a way to reorient. It is a framework for untangling the knot from the inside, cultivating not perfection, but a wise and compassionate responsiveness.
A practice of movement and stillness, learned in a studio that no longer exists.
My journey with yoga began at the Octopus Garden Yoga studio in Toronto’s Annex neighborhood, located at 440 Bloor Street West, 2nd Floor, Toronto, ON M5S 1X5. The studio operated for 18 years as a vibrant yoga studio & wellness clinic before closing its doors on July 20th, 2023, but remains vivid in my memory. It was there that I first encountered the disciplined practice of Ashtanga yoga, a system that demands both physical rigor and mental clarity. The studio had an atmosphere of focused dedication that I found both challenging and comforting—a place where the outside world could be temporarily set aside in favor of inner work. I had the privilege of practicing with teachers Pat and JP during my time there.
A journey through traditional healing, dashed hopes, and the return to familiar ground.
My path into shiatsu began with a promise that never materialized. The school I attended in Toronto—originally known as the Shiatsu School of Canada and later evolving into the Acupuncture and Integrative Medicine (AIM) Academy—assured us that regulation was coming soon, that our credentials would be recognized and valued in the Canadian healthcare system. Founded in 1986, the school had been operating for decades and had built a reputation as one of Canada’s leading institutions for traditional healing practices. This promise of legitimacy and professional opportunity drew me into a three-year program of study, where I learned the art of healing touch, the meridian system, and the subtle energies that flow through the human body. But the regulation that was supposed to validate our training never came, leaving many of us in a professional limbo.
We do not find a city. A city finds us—as a feeling, an atmosphere, a sudden knowing in the body. This is the simple, profound magic of perception.
Step into a busy street. Before you see the shop, the sign, the face, there is only a torrent—light, shadow, echo, hum, scent, and the press of space. This is the city’s raw offering: a blooming, buzzing confusion. It is overwhelming, total. Your task is not to list the parts, but to receive the whole. Your mind’s great work begins here, in the chaos, turning the cascade into a world you can inhabit.
A reflection on the human machinery of knowledge, the intuition that questions it, and the diverse landscapes of knowing it often ignores.
In fourth grade, a girl newly arrived from Hong Kong taught me origami. She didn’t use words I fully understood, but her hands spoke a clear, folding language. We made cranes from stolen memo paper, a quiet conspiracy of creation in the back of the classroom. That was my first conscious lesson in a profound truth: there are ways of knowing that live outside of official textbooks, transmitted through gesture, patience, and shared focus. Years later, when I would explore wellness practices from cultures not my own, I would remember that feeling—a legitimacy that needs no external stamp.
