The matador's victories did not end there. With each season, the matador's skills became stronger as he perfected his movements and with each battle, as time passed, the seasons and their landscapes changed. The matador's first victory was in the spring, amidst slow winds of circling air. When the summer arrived, the matador wiped the sweat from his brow, ignoring the stale humid air and once again the spectators cheered and yelled his name. With the arrival of autumn, a red and orange gown of changing leaves draped around the arena and the winds blew more quickly and more bitter. However, even with the wind blowing and the curled leaves against the fences, the matador sternly looked the bloated creature in the eye, victorious yet again.

Then, something different happened. Winter arrived and laid its silver and white crowns over the hills and on the bleachers where thousands of spectators had once sat. None of the spectators would come to watch the matador now as they feared that the coldness would confront their faces and chill their spines. Even still, in the cold, the Matador took his cape and entered the arena on this winter day, when no one came to watch. The matador waited and paced intermittently. The bull lurked under the bleachers now, exactly beneath where all the spectators once sat. No one to clap for the matador now.

The matador's eyes shifted from the ice-coated bleachers down to where the bull's eyes were planted. The bull's eyes were like red pools of vengeance only to be quenched by victory. The bull charged out from the bleachers, his steps bringing the enormous creature closer and closer to the matador. The white and innocent snow crunched beneath his feet. His horns seemed sharper now and more threatening. The matador, once again, anticipated victory but suddenly the bull collapsed into the cold white powder and laid on his side, helplessly. The bull was quite serene now, peaceful. Old age had caught up with the bull and a wound, which had never fully healed over the course of several years, had contributed to his demise. The matador never knew about the bull's wound until this moment. 

Quietly, the matador placed the ruby cape over the bull.  For the first time the matador walked out of the arena with no cape draped over his shoulder and no victory. It was at that moment that the matador realized that without the bull he could no longer be challenged or feel the lust for victory which once drove him. The matador's dreams had died with the bull.

Sometimes we are challenged and must confront situations which arise in our lives. We must realize that there is always a reason for such struggles. Whether our battle be with food addiction, substance abuse or we are struggling with a career change or the loss of a loved one, we will grow stronger for having to deal with such difficulties. Without these challenges to confront we would not appreciate the enjoyment and exploration of the joys, glories and victories of life.