There are moments when an insignificant setback is enough to completely alter the way we perceive everything around us. The landscape does not change, nor the people, nor even the essential circumstances of the day; something changes within us, and with it the whole world seems to transform. That day at Katzensee began under a clear sky, among sunshine, bicycles, and the promise of summer, without my being able to imagine that it would end up becoming a small lesson about the power of thoughts, the fragility of our state of mind, and the consequences of directing our gaze toward where perhaps it should never have rested.
One morning, after getting up, I followed my usual routine as I did every day; then I had breakfast calmly and, when I finished, got into the car to go shopping at the supermarket, as usual. Back home, I decided I was not going to waste such a splendid day: the sun was shining brightly and the sky was clear, so I packed my backpack with a towel, a bottle of water, and a cap, firmly intending to go out and get some exercise.
Since it was Saturday, I called my friend Alvin. Among my circle of friends, he was one of the few who had not yet started his summer holidays. However, being the weekend, there was a chance that he might be available for a short bike ride and then a swim in Katzensee, the Lake of the Cats.
In those latitudes, summer was short and unpredictable. That meant not a single opportunity to sunbathe could be wasted, provided the temperature was warm enough. Whenever the sun made an appearance, you had to seize the opportunity, something that would be almost inconceivable in a tropical or Mediterranean country. Alvin asked me to call him later because he was busy, although he did not say what with. His answer was enough for me not to give it any more thought; I went down to the basement to get my bicycle, the one that had given me so much pleasure on all kinds of journeys: first along a stretch of road and then through the lush forests near Dielsdorf.
The distance between my village and Katzensee was perfect for enjoying the ride without exhausting myself too much: a little over thirty minutes of vigorous cycling.
The most rewarding thing in summer was arriving drenched in sweat and diving straight into the water; a refreshing plunge that washed away the fatigue and dust accumulated along the dirt track that made up the second part of the journey from home.
During the ride, my phone rang at least a couple of times. Back then, we did not have hands-free systems that allowed us to answer calls immediately. “It must be Alvin; I’ll call him back as soon as I arrive,” I thought.
I was not willing to interrupt my rhythm, because afterwards it took me twice as much effort to regain it. So I kept pedalling while the sun’s rays decorated the bicycle handlebars like sparkling sequins, making them shine. When I reached the lake, just as I finished securing the lock, I returned the call.
At the other end of the line, my friend answered in a dry, somewhat annoyed tone. He explained that an extra job he had been offered had become more complicated than expected, so he would not be able to accept my tempting proposal, although I had the feeling that the real reason was something else.
This bothered me quite a lot; not so much because he had turned me down, but because I felt like talking to someone. Nothing profound: just having a conversation about trivial things, joking around, and passing the time without any great expectations. Yet reality was denying me that possibility precisely when I felt I needed it most.
“That is what happens with an untamed ego: it believes itself to be the central sun of the galaxy, with every star and solar system orbiting around it.”
For some strange reason, I took that ridiculous setback as a personal rejection, which caused a radical change in my mood. What until then had been joy and vitality turned into listlessness and a foul temper.
At that time, I was not nearly as aware as I am now of such abrupt changes. They simply happened, and if I was angry, then I was angry because that was how things had to be. End of story. They happened without further thought; I gave them free rein without stopping to examine the inner processes that had been triggered.
You could say that I allowed myself to be carried along by the inertia of the moment, as though it were an unchangeable cosmic script. Which, incidentally, was foolish. Not only can we reverse almost any state of mind through an act of will, but we can also make ourselves less vulnerable to its harmful influence through prior inner work.
To do so, we need to adopt the position of the observer: the one who examines the surge of emotions awakened by certain thoughts. It means tracing those thoughts from the instant they appear to the moment just before they trigger the associated emotional reaction. Within that interval lies our ability to deactivate them through an act of will.
To achieve this, it helps to cut off the energetic flow of a negative thought as soon as it appears. Then we must redirect our attention toward something less disturbing until calmer emotions begin to emerge.
In short, it means avoiding becoming trapped in circular thoughts, the precursors of emotions of the same polarity that ultimately drain our vital energy.
Thoughtlessness, on the other hand, produces the opposite effect: we allow ourselves to be seduced by its ominous magnetism and become subject to the collective unconscious, to chance, or to our own causal inertia, as a result of the exhaustion generated by all of this.
When we allow the subconscious to govern our most visceral emotions, it simply executes its programming, dragging us down paths we never chose and leading us toward unwanted destinations, with uncertain endings and unpredictable consequences. The unconscious works in a way similar to a computer operating system: it activates a function according to the command it receives.
The same thing happens every time, without variation: command “A” executes function “A”; command “B” activates function “B”, and there the process ends.
It is sad but true, I know; I too would prefer it to be less rigid. Perhaps some kind of flexible, versatile code capable of rewriting itself automatically and always in favour of greater well-being.
Unfortunately, only awareness has the ability to modify the parameters associated with those specific system commands. What we commonly call emotional triggers are static programming codes that become activated in response to certain situations.
Until we become aware of them and identify what triggers them, each activation will produce the same response. If we want to rewrite those codes, we must first become aware of them; then identify their triggers; and finally respond differently at the precise moment when the habitual reaction is about to occur.
Returning to Katzensee, I set about finding somewhere to leave my belongings and spread out my towel before heading straight into the water for my well-deserved swim. Fortunately, the dip did more than cool me down; it also soothed the bad mood that had been eating away at me. Rather than feeling as though I had simply emerged from my first swim, I felt as though I had been through a workshop for a complete body-and-paint overhaul. That was how good it made me feel.
As soon as I came out of the water, I felt revitalised; nevertheless, the improvement in my mood did not last long. As I lay on the towel drying off, letting the sun’s rays caress my skin, traces of residual energy from my earlier anger began to surface again. Only this time, the remnants of resentment transformed themselves into “bad ideas.”
More specifically, they tempted me to intrude upon the mental space of one of the many people scattered across the grass.
It was hardly an honourable way to behave in a public place, turning someone who, like me, had simply come there to sunbathe and relax into the target of my anger.
That stranger bore no responsibility whatsoever for my anger, yet for a few moments he became the involuntary recipient of something that belonged entirely to me. With time, I would come to understand that the scene contained a far deeper lesson than I was capable of recognising then: we cannot always prevent certain thoughts from appearing, but we can decide what to do with them when they knock at our door. The true boundary was not between my towel and that man’s, but between observing and intruding, between allowing an emotion to pass and allowing it to take control. And that afternoon, on the shores of Katzensee, I was about to discover just how far a gaze could take me when it ceased to be merely a gaze.
Sobre el autor
Alfonso Corchero
Alfonso Corchero es autor de Entre el asfalto y el incienso, una obra nacida de la experiencia, la observación y la búsqueda interior. Su escritura explora las contradicciones del ser humano, los momentos en que lo cotidiano se quiebra y esas experiencias que obligan a mirar hacia dentro. Lejos de ofrecer respuestas prefabricadas, sus relatos invitan al lector a reconocerse en el camino, las dudas y las transformaciones de quien aprende a cruzar sus propios umbrales.