There was never a moment when Rigpa was not here.
But somewhere along the way, I forgot.
Not with thunder, not with tragedy.
Just a quiet fog settling in—
soft as breath,
blurring the edge of things without ever touching them.
I slipped a filter between myself and myself.
Not between me and the world,
not even between me and others—
but between me and the simple, shining fact of being.
This veil had no color, no fabric, no scent.
It was made of thoughts.
Of names.
Of stories.
“I am this.”
“I am not that.”
“I should be…”
“I once was…”
“I will be when…”
Each thought, a thread.
Each thread, a soft tether pulling me just slightly away—
until I was no longer resting in the center,
but orbiting it,
as if something more was still to be found.
They said it helped me see.
But it only helped me interpret.
And in that interpretation,
I split.
There were two of me now—
the watcher,
and the watched.
Rigpa, once seamless,
now divided.
Not in truth,
but in the telling.
Like mist on a mirror—
no real obstruction,
yet I could no longer see myself.
Still, awareness remained.
It did not waver.
It waited, without waiting.
It is not that Rigpa returned.
It never left.
It was the grasping that dissolved.
The reaching gave way.
The seeker bowed down and vanished into what was always already here.
I simply closed my eyes. I only needed to open them again.
And I realized it, at last:
What I searched for
was what I searched with.
The light looking for itself.
The eye trying to see the eye.
The sky forgetting it is the sky.
No more steps to take.
No more veil to lift.
No more effort to be made.
And so—
Rigpa—
not a place to arrive,
not a thing to grasp.
We were never two.
And the hand that reached
was already open.
Rigpa—
no distance to cross,
no journey to make.
We were never separated.
Rigpa—
there is nothing to reach for,
And nothing to reach with,
for there was never anyone outside it to begin with.
What I’m seeking for is what I’m seeking with.
Master Po—
Though we were never truly apart,
we will meet again.
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