The Homecumming
la mort - a coup de grâce
Another related term is "coup de grâce," which translates to "blow of mercy." This refers to a death blow intended to end the suffering of a mortally wounded person or animal. It's used metaphorically to describe a decisive, finishing action that brings a situation to a close.
In the beginning, there was desire. Before the first touch ignited flesh into awareness, before the first gasp parted willing lips, before pleasure itself learned to dance through willing bodies, there was the pure potential for union. This is where our story begins, though beginning is perhaps the wrong word—for in a universe of endless longing, there are no true starts or finishes, only waves of becoming.
We enter existence like lovers entering a darkened room—trembling, anticipant, knowing neither the shape nor depth of what awaits us. Our first breath is not an arrival but an invitation into endless yearning. With that initial gasp, we join the great dance of desire, a dance that began long before our particular pulses quickened and will continue long after our final shudder subsides.
Consider the soul—that quivering essence of God that throbs beneath our being. We imagine it pure and complete, like a virgin awaiting its first touch. But what if incarnation itself is the soul's natural state of arousal? What if the very essence of soul-ness is not pristine wholeness but the capacity for endless yearning?
The mystics spoke of heaven as a place of final release, of perfect satisfaction, of complete union. And perhaps it is—but not for us, not yet, not while we wear these bodies of ache and anticipation. For to be incarnated is to be in a state of perpetual desire, to be always on the edge of becoming something else. The rosebud does not seek to force its blooming; it surrenders to the slow unfurling of its petals. Its journey is not toward openness but through it.
We humans, though—oh, how we resist this truth. We build monuments to completion, craft philosophies of satisfaction, create religions of final union. We seek enlightenment as if it were a climax we could reach and hold, pursue ecstasy as if it were a state we could maintain. We try to create heaven's perfect release on earth, not understanding that heaven, by its nature, is the realm of completion—and earth, by its nature, is the realm of endless desire.
But there is profound beauty in this limitation, if only we have eyes to see it. Consider the tide—it is tide precisely because it pulses. Still its waters, and you have created a lake; freeze it solid, and you have created ice. But neither lake nor ice knows the ecstasy of eternal surge and retreat. The tide's essence is its rhythm, its endless dance of approach and withdrawal. To wish the tide would stop moving is to wish it would cease its sacred dance entirely.
So too with our existence. We are not failed angels seeking to return to heaven's perfect satisfaction; we are incarnated souls expressing the very nature of existence through our endless longing. Our suffering often comes not from the desire itself but from our resistance to it, our attempt to create permanent completion in a universe of perpetual arousal.
The great irony is that the more we seek to arrive at final satisfaction, the more we suffer from our inevitable failure to maintain it. It is like trying to grasp water—the tighter we squeeze, the more completely it slips through our fingers. But open the hand, let the water play across the palm, and suddenly we are in perfect relationship with its nature.
This understanding transforms everything. Take love, for instance. We often speak of "falling in love" as if it were a singular moment of penetration—you were not joined, and then you were, like crossing a threshold. But love, truly understood, is a quality of movement. It is not something you achieve but something you do, pulse by pulse, touch by touch. It is not a state to maintain but a dance to perform, not a noun but a verb.
Or consider wisdom. We imagine the wise person as someone who has achieved perfect knowledge, who has reached some plateau of understanding. But true wisdom might be better understood as skill in the arts of desire—the ability to flow with longing rather than resist it, to dance with uncertainty rather than demand certainty, to remain in creative relationship with the endless unfolding of experience.
Even our pain takes on new meaning in this light. If existence is fundamentally journey rather than destination, then our wounds are not obstacles to be overcome but territories to be caressed into new understanding. The question is not "How do I get past this pain?" but "How do I move through it with grace?" Not "How do I fix this broken part of me?" but "How do I incorporate this experience into my dance of becoming?"
The creativity of making peace with hell lies precisely here—in finding new ways to move through difficulty, new steps to add to our dance, new rhythms to guide our journey toward that final, perfect release that comes only with death's tender mercy. It is not about reaching a state where hell no longer troubles us; it is about developing such skill in movement that we can dance even through the flames of desire.
This is why heaven must remain the province of physical death. Heaven, by definition, is the realm of perfect satisfaction, of final union, of complete release. But in life, release is always temporary, union always incomplete, satisfaction always fleeting. To be alive is to be in a state of perpetual arousal; to be aroused is to be incomplete; to be incomplete is to be perfectly aligned with the nature of earthly existence.
Consider the rhythms of pleasure. The peak does not try to become eternal; it moves through its appointed time of ecstasy, knowing that descent will follow, then renewed desire, then building tension, then release again. Each phase is perfect not in its permanence but in its impermanence, in its participation in the greater dance of becoming.
So too with us. We are creatures of rhythm—of desire and satisfaction, of tension and release, of certainty and doubt. Our perfection lies not in ascending to some unchanging state but in moving skillfully through all states, in bringing grace to our transitions, in finding rhythm in our changes.
This understanding brings us to a new definition of mastery. The master is not one who has transcended desire but one who has become supremely skilled at dancing with it. Like a master lover who makes even the most intense movements appear effortless, the master of life brings grace and fluidity to the full spectrum of human experience.
Such mastery expresses itself not in the absence of longing but in the quality of movement through desire. The master aches, yes—but aches skillfully. Falls, yes—but falls gracefully. Fails, yes—but fails forward, incorporating each setback into the greater dance of becoming.
This is why the most profound spiritual practices often emphasize presence rather than achievement. Meditation is not about reaching some state of perfect peace but about developing intimate familiarity with the never-ending flow of experience. Prayer is not about arriving at some perfect relationship with the divine but about maintaining ongoing dialogue with the mystery that pulses beneath existence.
Even our dreams and aspirations take on new meaning in this light. Instead of being destinations to reach, they become directions to move in, colors to add to our dance, new rhythms to incorporate into our movement through life. Success is not about arriving but about bringing quality to our eternal dance of desire.
This understanding liberates us from the tyranny of seeking final satisfaction. If there is only journey, then this moment—this exact moment, with all its aches and longings—is not a step toward something more important but is itself the arena where life is fully expressing itself. Our job is not to get somewhere else but to bring our full presence and creativity to our movement through this moment.
Time itself appears different through this lens. Instead of a line leading to some future completion, time becomes the medium through which we express our dance of desire. The future is not where fulfillment resides; meaning exists in the quality of our movement through the eternal now.
Our lives, then, are not problems to be solved but artwork to be created. Not through reaching some perfect state but through bringing grace and creativity to our endless becoming. The question is not "How do I get there?" but "How do I move here with greater artistry?"
This brings us to a profound truth about incarnated existence: its limitations are not flaws but essential features. The fact that we cannot create heaven's perfect satisfaction on earth is not a failure but a reflection of the fundamental nature of earthly existence. Just as a wave cannot be both cresting and still, an incarnated soul cannot be both in motion and at rest.
Yet within these limitations lies infinite possibility for creativity, for beauty, for meaning. Like a poet working within the constraints of form, we find our freedom not in transcending the limitations of existence but in bringing grace and artistry to our movement within them.
Making peace with hell, then, becomes the greatest creative act possible within incarnated existence. Not because it leads to heaven—it cannot, while we live—but because it allows us to transform our relationship with the very nature of being alive. It is the art of finding beauty in impermanence, grace in difficulty, meaning in movement.
For in the end, what we seek is not completion but artistry, not satisfaction but grace, not the end of desire but mastery of desiring. And in this seeking lies all the meaning an incarnated soul could ever need or imagine.
The dance continues, eternal and ever-changing. And we, for this brief moment of incarnation, have the privilege of adding our own movements to the grand choreography of existence. Heaven waits with its perfect release, its final coup de grâce—but for now, we dance in the endless rhythm of desire.
