I was twelve, perhaps thirteen years old. I had already earned a marksmanship merit badge in scouts, and loved shooting a 22 rifle for target practice. I desperately wanted to prove my manhood, and placing a tight group of bullet holes around the center of a small paper target, fifty feet away, was something I was actually quite good at. Target shooting was a traditional male activity that helped me feel as if I somehow fit into a confusing world of ever-illusory gender roles.
One spring day, some friends encouraged me to go rabbit hunting with them, and I quickly agreed; I had never been hunting and it sounded like it might be fun. Early on a Saturday morning we found ourselves on the edge of a large irrigation canal, situated slightly above a farmer’s corn field, just a mile or two from the edge of the small sage-brush-surrounded town where I lived in central Washington State.
As I stood perfectly still, my gaze was attracted by movement about fifty feet away. Quietly placing my small 22 rifle to my right shoulder, I anxiously stared down the sites at a scrawny jack rabbit—a small furry creature that was foraging for food in the thick underbrush at the edge of the field below.
As I gently squeezed the trigger, the loud sharp bang of my gunshot echoed throughout the nearby area, startling nearby birds that suddenly launched from the fields, scattering into the open air above.
I was totally unprepared for what happened next.
The little rabbit fell to the ground and began to helplessly squirm, letting out a loud series of squealing sounds as it attempted to find the strength to flee.
I too watched helplessly as the innocent little bunny rabbit suddenly transformed in my perception. No longer seeing the rabbit as merely an inanimate target, I awakened to the fact that the rabbit was a living, sentient being. Guilt and regret pulsed through my consciousness as I powerlessly watched the rabbit struggle on.
I shifted internally that day. While I harbor no judgment towards those who hunt—I knew in my heart that I would never, could never, be a hunter myself—especially for sport. Watching an animal suffer and die at my own hand nearly tore apart my tender young heart.
An Unexpected Fight
In my innocent childhood, the idea of facing and fighting a mean ferocious bull using nothing but a red cape seemed so courageous and daring. The movies I had watched in those early years portrayed such a glamorous image—the beautiful costumes, the cheering crowds, the romantic architecture of the arena, the adrenaline-pumping drama of risking one’s life in a fight for survival, and the captivating lure of the rich Spanish culture itself. Yes, in those days of innocence I dreamed of one day experiencing the seeming magic of a bullfight for myself. I even vaguely remember participating in childhood play where I pretended I was a matador taking on the electrifying danger of the charging bull.
Reality set in one day when I came to the stark realization that the bull is actually tortured and killed during a bullfight—but somehow, I managed to bury my judgment by rationalizing in my mind that bullfights are a fair fight between good (matador) and evil (bull).
For decades, bullfighting has been nothing more than a vague memory from past movies. I never expected I would see a bullfight firsthand—and I long ago made up my mind that I really had no desire whatsoever to do so.
So, when I found out a few days ago that beginning on Sunday there would be an eight-day series of bullfights in Valladolid, I was totally shocked as I recognized that my heart was telling me “Brenda, you are going to attend one of the fights.”
As I contemplated that thought, I was filled with a nervous wondering.
Yes, the lure of another rare cultural experience was indeed very inviting—but on the other hand, a strong hesitation taunted me—reminding me of the time when I shot that innocent jack rabbit so very long ago. I began to ponder how (or if) I might be able to handle witnessing the bloody death of not one bull, but many.
A Test Of Truth
As I contemplated my preconceived attitudes, fears, and judgments about going to a bullfight, I realized that this is a great opportunity to put my spiritual beliefs into practice.
Just last week I wrote extensively about the idea of “Loving What Is” and of simply “being” pure unconditional love itself. I also talk frequently about how our own perception is what gives meaning to everything. The act of labeling things as good or bad, spiritual or evil, is totally an inside job. We can choose to think with the man-made thought systems of the world, or we can choose to listen to our own divine inner voices.
“Just what might happen if I attend this event with a heart filled with love?” I asked myself. “Is it possible to find love in a situation that on the surface seems so brutal and cruel?”
I decided to find out.
Ringside Seat
This is the nineteenth year that Valladolid has hosted a large cultural festival at the end of January. According to published literature, this celebration of local culture and heritage is held in honor of “Our Lady of Candelaria” (A local Virgin Mary). The series of bullfights are part of this twelve-day festival, with the official newspaper-published schedule declaring that Sunday’s event would begin at 3:00 p.m..
As is my universal experience in Mexico, schedules do not seem to mean much of anything. Being eager to get a good seat, I arrived at the arena ticket booth shortly before 2:30 p.m.. However, as I handed over my 200 pesos (about $16 US) at the ticket booth, I looked up and noticed that a beginning time of 4:00 p.m. was actually posted on the sign above.
The afternoon was hot and sticky, so I decided to go ahead and enter the stadium ninety minutes early—hoping to find a nice shady spot where I could curl up with my IPOD before the crowds began to arrive.
As I entered the large round stadium I realized that I was conspicuously the only paying customer in the entire arena. Several security guards and a few groups of soda/beer salespeople huddled here and there, but the remainder of the large arena was entirely empty.
Gravitating to the top row on the west side of the Arena, I selected a shady spot where I could support my back against a blue three-foot concrete wall that conveniently blocked the hot burning afternoon sun that radiated brightly from the clear blue sky above.
Taking a quick glance around me, I noticed that the entire stadium was constructed from concrete. The structure formed a near circle, broken up only by a fifty foot opening in the northwest corner—a place where two large swinging gates separated a small parking area from the interior of the stadium.
Instead of benches or actual seats, the stadium seating consisted of seven rows of stair-like white-painted concrete levels. Each higher level rose about eighteen inches above the previous level, being about two-and-one-half feet wide from front to back. These levels each served three purposes: a flat hard sitting space, a narrow walkway, and a footrest for people seated one level up. The lowest seating level was perhaps eight feet above the ground below.
The ground-level inner circle of the arena was perhaps one hundred and fifty feet in diameter—an earthen rodeo-like arena surrounded by five-foot high wooden fences painted in a bright red. At four strategic places spaced around the arena, a small white five-foot section of fence protected a narrow entryway—a space just big enough for a man to fit through, but small enough to keep a bull out. Behind the fences, a series of narrow walkways allowed staff and others to freely and safely maneuver.
Although I intended to listen to music, I soon found myself intently observing as a group of groundskeepers began to smooth down the arena using an old run-down truck, some rope, and a beat-up plank. Placing the board on the ground about two feet behind the pickup, the men proceeded to tie ropes to each end of the board before securing the other end of the rope to the back frame of the pickup. Then, two men stood on the board, using their body weight to push the plank down into the ground while hanging onto the back of the small pickup truck as it drove around in circles. Repeatedly, the truck would stall, the hood would be popped up, and several men would rush up to fiddle with the engine. Once the engine resumed its rough humming, the earth-grating process briefly continued before being interrupted yet again by another stall.
While the grounds were being manually grated, several other men ran out to pick up handfuls of larger rocks that were turned over in the process. Such unwanted rocks were simply tossed over the red fence onto the inner walkway.
Next, a water truck entered through the large gates at the northwest corner. A young man quickly jumped off the back, unwound a large plastic hose, and proceeded to manually spray down the entire interior of the arena while at the same time following the truck as it drove slowly around the perimeter. The dusty, brownish-white soil gradually transformed to a moistened reddish-brown.
The final preparation came as several men methodically measured and drew two large circles around the outer part of the circle. Using nothing but rope, a metal rod, and one man’s ankle, the men measured the circle’s center, created a large make-shift compass, and marked the circles into the soil. Finally, a young man ran out with a large coffee can on a stick. As he walked around the already-marked circles, he shook the can up and down, causing chalk to fall through holes in the bottom of the can—thus highlighting the circle.
Throughout this entire process, I was amazed and delighted to see how such necessary preparation tasks could be so easily accomplished using manual, homemade means—without the necessity for expensive, sophisticated equipment.
At around 3:00 p.m., a few other spectators began to filter in. The sun had begun to cast a larger shadow over the west end of the stadium so I moved down to stake out my front-row seat. As I continued watching the groundskeepers, I noticed an elderly Mayan couple seated one row up and about eight feet away. Minutes later the lady urged her husband to follow her as she proceeded to move closer, sitting just behind my right shoulder.
“What happened to your foot?” She almost immediately asked me.
For the next forty-five minutes this sweet little Cecilia patiently tolerated my broken Spanish while we explored generalities of each others’ lives. I learned that Cecilia is sixty years old, has lived in Valladolid her whole life, and loves bullfights. When I told her I was single and traveling alone she seemed shocked that I could profess to be happy without being in a committed romantic relationship.
“My husband reads cards to tell people their futures.” She told me. “He can tell people if their relationships will last or if they have love in their future, etc…”
Then she proceeded to let me know that it is frightening for a woman to live alone. “You need a man in your life to protect you.” She emphasized.
I continued to smile, trying to convince her that I am indeed very happy and very safe while living and traveling by myself. I’m not sure if I convinced her—at least she did not seem very satisfied with my answer.
As crowds began to gradually filter in, I was surprised to see that the bullfights were a complete family affair. Countless parents brought their young children, many of whom sat down under the security rails on the lowest level, hanging their feet over the edge—being eager to have the best seats.
Streams of people filtered into the arena, many as late as 4:45 p.m.. Meanwhile, what seemed like an endless trail of vendors had begun to continuously cycle their way through the crowd peddling their wares: sodas, beer, popcorn, potato treats, nuts, french fries, cotton candy, and the like. This never ending supply of vendors refused to let up, walking back and forth, up and down, all throughout the entire evening.
Finally, shortly after 5:00 p.m., two and a half hours after I first sat down on the hard concrete, the crowd began to cheer as a brass band, across the stadium on the mostly empty sunny side, picked up their rhythm. Simultaneously, a lady entered the arena below with her flowing blue and white gown gracefully draped over the back of a majestic black horse, leaving only the horse’s neck, head, and legs exposed. After another ten minutes of pomp and circumstance, I was actually feeling excited as the show was ready to finally begin. I had momentarily forgotten what I was about to witness.
Perceptual Struggle
As the first bullfight prepared to begin, I was quite shocked to learn that the first two matadors were young boys in training, perhaps around twelve years in age. Each wore elaborate sequined costumes. The boy in the white costume seemed very confident as he proudly strutted himself around the stadium. The other boy wearing a tan costume seemed to be more reserved and humble. I discovered later that this was his first fight.
A group of four fancily-dressed men with bright pink matador-capes were standing nearby, one near each of the protected entrances. They seemed ready to rush out of their little hideaways to assist whenever necessary.
When the first bull ran out of the shoot, I was happy to see that it was not extremely aggressive. I found myself beginning to enjoy watching the young boys dodge the bull’s advances while skillfully dancing behind their red capes.
Then the more confident boy stepped out of the way, leaving the arena to his younger inexperienced counterpart. The older men occasionally moved in closer, giving the young boy a rest by keeping the bull occupied. I was actually beginning to enjoy the spectacle—that is, I was enjoying it until what I perceived as inhumane torture began.
When the young boy stabbed his first two barbed spears into the back of the bull’s neck I began to feel uncomfortable. Even now, as I attempt to write, the memories begin to make me feel queasy and faint. I will spare any further gory details because I have no desire to write about them.
Suffice it to say that I felt deeply saddened by the way the bull was repeatedly taunted, tormented, and stabbed. I was close enough that I could hear the bull’s squeals and moans—I could feel the agony of this living, sentient being. I could see extreme stress in the bull’s face. When the bull finally gave up hope, stumbling and falling to its knees for the final time, I had to turn and look away as two of the older men put it out of its misery. Then, the act of seeing several horsemen ride in, attach ropes, and drag the bull away beneath the stadium seemed so inhumane, so matter-of-factly routine and uncaring.
I began to seriously question whether or not I had already seen enough; questioning if now might be a good time for me to leave.
“No.” I pondered. “My promptings were to attend this event and to practice shifting my perceptions and judgments from fear to unconditional love. I need to stick this out and see what I can do to find that shift.”
The second bullfight was solely the domain of the other more into-himself young man. Each time he did something significant, he would strut around almost arrogantly, doing his best to create the appearance of being superior and special. I was still struggling to find my shift into “being” love, especially when the second kill took place.
But I was indeed already beginning to find that shift. I began by focusing on sending deep loving energy to the bulls who must have felt so cornered and trapped. I felt a powerful vibrating energy throughout my spine as I concentrated on sending that love.
Then I began to imagine the life of this young matador, putting myself into his shoes, attempting to understand what would make someone of this innocent age take such great pride in killing an animal in such a torturous manner. I didn’t have to look far when I scanned the crowd. Children are so impressionable, and the stadium was filled with them. As the parents clapped and cheered on, the innocent little learning-sponges absorbed the energy of their parents and did the same.
Yes, in this culture, these young children grow up with the message that bullfighting is a normal, even glorified activity. Who could fault them for doing what their parents teach them as they attempt to win the positive reinforcement of cheering crowds and popularity. Yes, I began to feel a deep sense of love for this arrogant-acting young matador as I realize he was only doing what he had been taught—he was merely calling out for love, trying to win the praise and approval of family and friends.
Then I began to ponder why the parents would behave this way, why they would encourage their children to engage in such an activity—and the answer was again obvious. These parents grew up with the same beliefs that were taught to them by their own parents, their own culture. Through time-honored tradition, these customs and rituals are passed down from one generation to the next. For them, bullfighting is totally normal and reasonable.
Again, I can honestly say that I began to feel love for the parents of these young boys.
I wondered to myself, “If I were raised in the same circumstances, in the same cultural belief system, what would my personal beliefs and behavior be? Would I be any different?”
By the start of the third bullfight, love was indeed beginning to resonate throughout my body. I still found absolutely no joy in watching the torture and death of a living creature—yet I was glowing with peace on the inside as I genuinely loved the people and animals involved.
The third bullfighter was a twenty-something adult with incredible horsemanship skills. Rather than being a traditional bullfighter, this man worked from the back of several beautiful, amazingly trained, large white horses. Four or five times during the fight, the other men with pink capes kept the rampaging bull occupied while the matador rode out of the arena to perform a quick change to a new horse.
As I watched the unbelievable and almost magical maneuvers of this well-composed man on his horses, I momentarily forgot what was actually taking place. The bull repeatedly charged and ruthlessly chased after the horse, but the matador skillfully and calmly maintained his horse’s position, often just inches ahead of the bull’s horns.
Frequently, I feared that the bull was on the verge of taking the incredible horse down to the ground. But through sheer skill, the matador made the horse run both forward and sideways at the same time, at precisely the necessary pace, repeatedly and skillfully dodging the incoming attacks.
In between attacks, the horse strutted his beautiful body, skillfully high stepping in an unbelievable display of equine grace and beauty. The show was so amazing that I occasionally forgot I was watching an equally beautiful animal—a large black bull—being tormented, agitated, and tortured to its death.
As the third bull was finally relieved of his misery, I again had to turn my head. I could not bear to watch. While I indeed felt an incredible love running through my body—a love focused on all participants—I still grappled with my grim perception of an animal being brutally killed in the name of sport.
By now I really wanted to leave the arena, but something inside convinced me to see the experience through to its end. Over the course of another hour, the younger more experienced boy and the horseman each took turns participating in the final two bullfights, the final two kills.
As I walked home, moving quickly down the long eight blocks of dark narrow streets, my watch read approximately 7:30 p.m.. The emotionally-taxing afternoon—an afternoon I will not soon forget—had brought with it a sense of exhaustion and confusion.
Yes, I did accomplish great leaps in finding a sense of genuine love for all participants—but I also left the arena with a mild, but overwhelming, sense of sadness regarding what I had just witnessed. I suppose I just need to sit with the emotions a little longer—observing them, processing them, allowing them to flow through me, exploring my next potential perceptual shift.
Whose Belief Is That, Anyway?
As I reflect and write about this whole powerful experience, I continue to explore my own deeply ingrained belief systems—the very beliefs that lead me to judge or to feel sad as I write about yesterday’s bullfight experience.
Right and wrong used to be so clear and simple, so absolutely black and white. But now, the more I go down the rabbit hole of self-exploration, of truly questioning what I think I know about the world, the more I realize that I really don’t know anything.
My perceptions have been wholly based on a need to survive in a world of being separate—separate from my divine source—and separate from others.
Most everything I thought I knew was taught to me—by my parents, religious leaders, teachers, friends, heroes, bosses, coaches, television, newspapers, books, and by my culture in general.
When I was young, I never chose the language I spoke, the clothes I wore, the prejudices I was given, or the life-views that I espoused. As I grew older and more independent, I took over the role of rule enforcer, self-imposing the same belief systems that were taught to me as a child. I beat myself up with guilt while rarely questioning the validity of the beliefs that created such guilt.
Today, my whole path of spiritual growth literally seems to be a process of continual undoing—undoing belief systems that were taught to me, but never examined by me. As I persist in turning my perceptual thinking upside down, I am amazed by how my entire life has been spent mostly running on autopilot under the control of programs written by well-meaning others—programs that are not even true.
It is time to turn off the autopilot and to tune in more deeply to my own personal divine guidance that resonates from within. Of course, that is what my present journey is all about. The hardest part is recognizing when the auto pilot is still running.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved