Have you ever looked at the state of the world—the climate crisis, the social inequality, the fact that a lettuce recently outlasted a British Prime Minister—and thought, "Man, this is properly forked"?

Well, over my Christmas holiday (when I should have been eating ham and ignoring my emails), I went down a research rabbit hole so deep I nearly bumped into Alice. And I found out something terrifying: we actually are forked. But not in the way you think. It’s not just our politics or our economics that are broken. It’s our words.

We are trying to run a complex, living, breathing planet using a linguistic operating system designed for a steam engine.

Have you ever wondered why we struggle to solve 21st-century problems like climate change, social inequality, and ecological collapse using the tools of our current economic system? My recent research with The Quantum Whakapapa Project suggests the problem isn’t just in our policies, our technologies, or our politicians—it is in our words.

Over my Christmas holidays, I've been conducting a forensic investigation into the "source code" of our reality (Research Reports #228 and #229). My investigation explores the critical intersection of language and ontology. Put simply, ontology is the study of the nature of reality—it asks what things actually are and how they relate to one another. If your ontology is flawed (e.g., you believe the world is made of dead, separate objects), your economy will be destructive. If your ontology is accurate (e.g., you understand the world is a web of living, entangled connections), your economy can be regenerative.

Long before the "Leaky Bucket" economy hit our shores in the North, the blueprint for extraction was drawn on a tiny island in the Atlantic called Madeira. In the 15th century, Portuguese settlers looked at a sub-tropical paradise and didn't see an ancestor; they saw a commodity. They named it "Madeira"—literally meaning "wood"—and then they proceeded to burn and fell every tree in sight to fuel the world’s first great sugar boom.

This was the birth of "Babylonian" capitalism. It wasn't just about trade; it was about the "boom-bust-quit" cycle. Using slave labour and "free" natural wealth, they achieved unimaginable productivity. But it was thermodynamically unsound. It took 60kg of wood to refine just 1kg of sugar. Within decades, the forests were gone, the soil was exhausted, and the "embodied energy" of the island had been exported to the banks of Europe. When the Mauri of the island was depleted, the capital simply "quit" and moved to Brazil and the Caribbean, leaving behind a high-entropy residue of social and ecological disorder.

Standing at the edge of the world at Te Rerenga Wairua (Cape Reinga), you can feel it in the air—a tension between the physical and the spiritual that defies the logic of a spreadsheet. This isn't just a scenic lookout for the tourist brochures; it is the most sacred portal in Taitokerau. It is the place where the spirits of our deceased make their final leap into the afterlife, returning to the ancestral homeland of Hawaiki. For generations, we have understood this as a transition, a movement from one state of being to another.

For too long, the "Babylonian" system has tried to convince us that this world is just a collection of separate, dead objects. It views a place like Te Rerenga Wairua as mere "real estate" or "scenery." This is the Newtonian error—the belief that the universe is a clockwork mechanism where things only interact if they bump into each other. In that cold, mechanical worldview, death is an absolute end, and the spiritual is just a "nice story" we tell ourselves to feel better.

The afternoon sun is baking the volcanic stones and warming the kiwifruit orchards here in Maungatapere. Looking out over the land, I’m reminded of what Reverend Māori Marsden called the "Woven Universe"—a reality where everything is a process of interconnected threads rather than a collection of separate things. If we are to transition Te Tai Tokerau from the extractive "Babylon" to the regenerative "Zion," we must understand how every person living here—tāngata whenua, tāngata Tiriti, and our new immigrant whānau—fits into that fabric.

For too long, the "Babylonian" operating system has relied on the "Newtonian Error". This is the bad explanation that views the universe as a clockwork mechanism made of separate, isolated parts. In our community, this manifests as the "Rational Individual," an atomised agent seeking to maximise their own utility at the expense of the collective Mauri. But modern physics and ancient Mātauranga agree: separation is an illusion.

In the Quantum Whakapapa Nexus, we recognise Whanaungatanga as literal Quantum Entanglement. When tāngata Tiriti or immigrants move to the North, they are not just "units of labour" or "consumers"; they become entangled with the life force of this whenua. Their skills, their capital, and their presence become part of the local energetic field.

Three Threads, One Kākahu: The Harmony Of Physics, Faith, And Whakapapa

I’ve spent a lot of time on the porches of Taitokerau, listening to the old people talk about the "good old days" while watching the logging trucks carry our whenua away. It’s a heavy sight. You see those logs—61% of our timber exported raw—and you’re watching the sunlight, the rain, and the very nutrients of our soil leave the harbor. It’s what we call the "Leaky Bucket" economy. It often feels like we are caught between three different worlds that don't speak the same language: the Whare Wānanga, the science lab, and the Bible. But here in the North, we are realising they aren't competing; they are three threads of the same Kākahu.

We are currently drowning in data but starving for wisdom. If you walk into any boardroom in Whangarei or sit in a council meeting in Kaikohe, the air is thick with spreadsheets, GDP forecasts, and ROI percentages. We’ve become experts at measuring the "price" of everything while remaining completely blind to the "value" of anything.

The old Babylonian operating system has convinced us that if the line on the graph goes up, we are winning. But look out the window. If that profit comes at the cost of a silt-choked awa, if it’s built on the backs of whānau who can’t afford to live in the towns they were born in, then that "growth" is just a polite word for entropy. In the physics of the Woven Universe, we are exporting order and importing chaos. We are measuring the speed of the car while the engine is melting.

I was standing on the side of the road near Maungatapere the other day, watching another line of trucks hauling raw logs toward the port. It’s a sight we’re all used to in Te Tai Tokerau. But if you look at those trucks through the lens of physics, you aren't just seeing timber. You’re seeing a massive export of embodied energy.

For decades, our home has been treated like a "Leaky Bucket." We send away the best of our whenua—the sunlight, the rain, and the soil nutrients that grew those trees over thirty years—and in return, we get a few low-wage jobs and some fiat currency that usually leaves the region the moment we spend it on petrol or power.

I was sitting in a DAPAANZ workshop in late 2023, surrounded by addiction practitioners, listening to stories that defied the standard script. We’ve been told for a century that certain chemicals are like a "hook" that once it grabs you, it never lets go. But the data doesn't back that up. Why does one person use a substance recreationally and walk away, while another loses everything to it? Is it just bad luck in the genetic lottery, or is something deeper happening in the fabric of our community?