Bullish red reasons for our limitations
These two bulls have something to say about why it's so hard to get what we want
Hi, everyone-
Last week, we touched on happiness. This week, I wanted to introduce you to Billy.
I met a young cow named Billy last winter. He was nursing from his mother. He was tiny. But this year, he got bigger than his mother. He grew horns. And every morning, I get to wave hello.
The other day I caught Billy snout-down on his grain bucket. He was still. Very still. He wasn’t dead.
He was asleep. Standing up!
I mean … I cracked up. He needs to teach me how to do that.
Billy wouldn’t hurt a fly.
But he is a bull.
The stereotypical image of a bull is that of limitless huff and puff. Especially in the US. That’s why we say things like:
“It’ll be a bullish market this year,” when the economy is strong.
“Take the bull by the horn” when we want unstoppability.
Even Red Bull sports drinks are supposed to fuel extreme sports.
It all sounds good. Really good.
But Billy couldn’t care less. About strength. About power. Or even about speed. The most exertion I’ve ever seen from him was a lazy prance towards her mother’s grain bucket.
I do wonder, though, what Billy thinks about his limits.
His grazing area is not the largest. The fencing made sure of it. Do you think he would say,
“Why is my fence so close?”
Dr. Temple Grandin’s vast work on the “no dead-end” flow, has helped cattle handling. And oddly, her work also touches on autism and ADHD.
But I wonder how much of her theories also apply to just our day-to-day human behavior?
In the animal kingdom, the question may sound like “Why is my fence so close?”
But in the human kingdom, our questions sound more like:
“Why can’t I do that?
“Why is it so hard for me to do this?”
“Why am I so hard on myself?”
We sense that “hardness” are lines and limitations. Such that they are “so” dead ends. In much the same way that Billy’s fence-lines are his limits.
In the US, we don’t like limits much.
It’s a sign of weakness.
And we glorify superheroes who are limitless. Chris Hemsworth’s recent series titled “Limitless” on National Geographic, proves this. I like Hemsworth. I think he’s worth more than his hamstrings. But the title of the series is misleading. And perhaps it’s meant to.
I recently chatted about the glorification of the superhero with another National Geographic presenter here.
The point is that we’re treating limitations like it’s a disease.
And being angry, bullish, and stereotypically aggressive, is our current solution to them.
But why do thinkers say things like:
“Once we accept our limits, we go beyond them."- Albert Einstein
Is there something more to it?
When the bull-ring lost: Deconstructing how to rise beyond the crowd
This is quite obvious in a real-life bull fight. Bull-fighting is forbidden in most places. But before we point our virtuous fingers at a long-standing tradition, I wanted to tell you about a little place called Granada.
I went to Granada some years ago with my family. When I was out and about one day, I noticed something strange. Everything was closed. But not during their normal siesta hours.
Some kid was twirling around with a red cape. I asked him what’s going on, in my broken Spanish. He only said “El Fandi! El Fandi!”
I didn’t know what he meant.
But the following hour, on the bus, I noticed people were all murmuring the same thing. El Fandi. It wasn’t long before we figured out: They were all going to a bull fight. And the matador of the day is a hometown hero, El Fandi.
I had no clue who this dude was.
I knew nothing about bull-fighting. But the testimony from a grandmother with a cane in the bus, got me curious. I wanted to see what she was talking about.
First, if you’ve never been to a stadium where everybody was shouting the exact same two words repeatedly—you should. My ears were still ringing hours after.
Plaza de Toros de Granada was a circular auditorium. Not the biggest in the world. But it didn’t matter. Because what went on was otherworldly altogether.
The Matador was graceful. He leaped. Jumped. Timed everything. With surgical precision. And seemingly without fear. It is as if there was an internal dance between the bull, the matador, and the auditorium.
It went something like this:
The audience cheered.
The Matador was still,
Eyes locked at the bull.
The bull slowly charged forth.
The Matador, just inches away from the circling bull:
Enveloped—hugged—the charging bull around his side.
The bull retreated.
The audience cheered again.
The Matador’s back was against the bull.
The bull charged again towards red.
El Fandi, back still against the bull, did what can only be described as a mid-air backflip. While planting his sticks onto the back of the bull. All without looking. It was as if he could hear where the bull was going with his eyes closed. And it wouldn’t have mattered if he was blind.
El Fandi was always going to win.
It was a dance.
Since it was a dance, with today’s technology, we could argue that the dance could’ve been done with blunt sticks that won’t injure the animal. But of course, I could only say this because it wasn’t my tradition at stake.
The same way that I could say how modern American football cause long-term brain injury and early death among athletes.
Neither is a story that I grew up with. And watering down the specifics won’t impact my reality.
But I could see how, for others, it would.
The gift and ego of testing our limits
Plaza del Toro de Granada turned a little boy named David Fandila into El Fandi.
The Matador.
In a way that only the physical limitations of the auditorium’s radial wall could.
And definitely only In a way that only the cheering thousands could prompt a mere human to triumph over a bull more than 100 times.
El Fandi didn’t have horns, which of course the bull did.
He wasn’t heavy enough to crush things to death, which of course the bull was.
He wasn’t even fast enough to outrun his opponent, which of course the bull was.
But the constriction of the physical ring, the responsibility of entertaining thousands, the call to upkeep a tradition, and the knowledge of having the talent of being one of the very few alive who can deliver a singular clean death—made El Fandi.
Sheepishly, I couldn’t help but root for the guy. I wanted to see him survive. Even though I also want the bull to survive. I wanted to see human beings who have accepted their limits, go beyond them. Ideally without having to deliver a deadly blow to the bull.
And it was at that moment that I realized something.
Limitations aren’t exactly weaknesses. They are resonators. They are physical barriers meant to bounce back—and therefore amplify and lengthen the life of—what was first exerted.
I don’t believe in killing bulls for no reason. Just as I don’t believe in subjecting good American athletes, or anyone for that matter, to long term brain injury.
But the tradition teaches us something. It teaches us that we are uncomfortable with our limitations. Even when some, like the matadors, are comfortable with that discomfort.
We are so uncomfortable with limitations, that we try to test ourselves against it. We want to see others test themselves against their limitations. And by proxy, perhaps, our own limitations, too.
But few realize that the real test is when we could do all that—without—having to do so at the expense of others. Whether that’s that of an animal or other people.
Imagine if, after centuries of tradition where death ends the game, El Fandi one day decides to do something different.
Imagine if after one of his famous backflips, he clearly and definitively threw his sharp spears to the side. Instead of delivering a deadly blow.
And with mastery that only the most skilled matadors have, he and the bull walk away together. Side by side.
Too mushy? Too icky? I’m sure this would upset some.
But when people say that “tradition is meant to be broken,” I think they’re talking about limitations.
Breaking tradition isn’t a betrayal. It’s taking a position of reverence. To review a long-standing position. And in doing so, to flex and expand our limitations.
If we can overcome our limits—while safeguarding others—that is real limitlessness.
Because it’s far more difficult than bulldozing others.
And once you know how to do what few can, you can do it again. And again. And again.
With every limitation.
To no end.
Next week: What’s upcoming
I’ll be covering:
How supertraders, supermarkets, and superforums earn millions in the US this month,
What this means worldwide if you’re either a solo buyer or seller,
The targeted path to meaningful ownership in any market of our choosing: From Roman Forum to Shopify, from our device screen to Target.
The black-carbon copy for significant buying power
More soon,
-Thalia
So engaging, Thalia, how you move between thoughts. Still sinking in the idea of thriving in spite of limits, because of limits, moving the fence.
I haven’t seen live street flamenco. I wish I had. The one that was available was stage theater, which I heard wasn’t as great