Prescription pads crumble into compost. The wind hums a second opinion.
Healing isn’t in the pill, but in the soil, in the hands, in the rhythm of breath.
The council of healers is vast—grandmothers, rivers, fungi, grief.
What does medicine look like when it stops rushing? When it listens?
My friend Amy Walsh M.D., an emergency room doctor, joins me for blue-sky dreaming of what health care could be.
A conversation on restoration, reciprocity, and the art of being well.
Read Amy’s wonderful writing here.
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