Even worse than the incompetent, careless or insensible doctor, is the ungrateful and personally irresponsible patient.

When did doctors become responsible for our health and happiness? When did we forget that their medicine, which sometimes treats symptoms, remains poisonous to our livers, kidneys and blood? When did we begin to substitute synthetic concoctions for wise counsel? When did we forget that we reap what we sow? Why is the doctor responsible for curing conditions which have taken lifetimes of consent to manifest?

When did we begin to believe that a narrowly specialized doctor was preferable to a widely wise physician? When did we begin to prefer numbers and measurement, rather than the keen senses, experiences and intuition of a physician?

When did we begin to shrink the causes of illness to the invisible realms, instead of expand our connections to greater magnitudes of life and consciousness?

When did  we begin to believe that naming an illness or disease signified that someone actually understood the nature, origin and operations of the thing named?

When did we begin to accept long waits in order to see a doctor for seven minutes? When did  our medicine become disaster, catastrophe and calamity oriented? When did we first imagine that medicine was about illness, instead of health and vitality? When did we decide to spend billions and our time studying diseases, instead of  those who are healthy? When did medicine become more about money than compassion? When did it first go unnoticed that rich doctors were constantly whining about “shrinking” wealth, while living in ever larger houses?

When was the last time a doctor sighed in your presence?

– Raphael O’Suna,   Haiku