Even though we know better, sometimes we miss you. Unable to clearly discern between movement and emptiness, we've been misled by our own fickleness. And because of that, we think you are separate from us — so we miss you. Now, our only solace is memory — which is simply the flicker of mind's motion itself. So we cling to thoughts of the past. And so we miss you. Your hand wielded the unconquerable Vajra of the true teachings. And yet, your gentle touch could heal the puncture wounds of Samsara's unkind barbs. Your mastery of the lesser vehicle taught us that every detail in the fabricated world, could lead us to awareness of the unfabricated state. You were the kindest person we ever met — which became the truest example of the Bodhisattva's selfless love beyond any teaching. And your magical display of the trikaya was the Mahamudra of deathless action itself. You reminded us again and again, that true to your name you were a servant. And thusly, you acted with the utmost humility. A true Chakravartin, the riches of your teachings made even the poorest of us wealthy with the joy of discovering basic goodness. As the Rigden's Herald, you brought the brilliant colors of Shambhala's magic into the grey world of Samsara's predictability. From every corner, the Four Dignities awakened us to the promise of our own heritage — and for the first time, we felt truly at home. And now, with the arrival of spring we welcome the sparrow's song with a broken heart — for we cannot hear your voice. The Kingdom of Shambhala is within our hearts — yet our footfalls echo back from the Palace's lonely hallways, reminding us how much we love you. And yet, from the depths of grief we know you are present. Undeniably kind, heart-strong and relentlessly loyal you will not let us forget the riddle of minds appearance: self-created, self-arising, self-empty. And with that, you've given us a key capable of unlocking the mystery that never was. Indescribably, our sadness is suddenly lifted. In the frivolity of Impermanence's trickery, we now understand the nature of phenomena without origin. This is the gift of the only father guru — may we repay your kindness by staying vividly aware. Watching myriad displays of so called ‘emotions', we see the wave-like motion of movement itself: This is the gift of the only father guru - may we repay your kindness by meeting the dismal cry of Samsara with the joyful laugh of the warrior-monk. The heat of ego's desperate anger is cooled by placing Akshobhya's crown upon our head. This is the gift of the only father guru — may we repay your kindness by never forgetting to wear the crown and scepter. You gave us the Warrior's-Sadhana, transcribed from the Rigden's mind into the language of sentient beings. This is the gift of the only father Sakyong — may we repay your kindness by gathering werma and drala by the coincidence of authentic presence. And finally, we can hear the sparrow's small song — refreshingly free from the confines of our presumption. It's delightful and sad, but genuinely so. And taking delight in the simplicity of life's expression is perhaps your greatest gift of all. And for that, may we never be separate from you. This is a simple song, offered by a sparrow fortunate enough to once share the sky with the mightiest Garuda. -Dana Fabbro