Tetons and Texas Longhorns: A Story About Listening
by Kristine Kopperud, BJW Contributor
First, let me introduce myself. If we haven’t met in person or over Zoom, I’m the BJW team member behind the emails that arrive in your inbox, posts on social media, and fliers and banners you see around town. The heart of my work is to find and tell the story of mindfulness practice—so, I’m usually the one to convince our founder, Sara Flitner, that yes, she can write about downed Internet and tornados and wedding cake—and curse—and that we will hear what she’s saying about doing what she’s doing. Thank you, Sara, for lighting the way.
I myself first landed in the Tetons by accident, in the early aughts, when a forest fire had closed the south entrance of Yellowstone and I had to re-route from the mapped Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. That high summer day, a friendly soul in Teton Valley, Idaho, connected me with a campsite (when the entire region was booked solid). Another new friend loaned me a dress to apply for my dream (and first-ever “real”) job, as a local magazine writer-editor. And another generous person gave me said job, which mainlined me to this community’s lifeblood, which is to say, its people.
Over the years, I had the privilege of interviewing world-class leaders and athletes including Jimmy Chin, Barb Lindquist, and the avalanche teams that patrol the slopes. I sourced art and original records from the archives of our national parks, courtesy of the historians who tend them as faithfully as a grave. I leaned on the fence, a mug of tea in hand, with then-breakout writer Alexandra Fuller, as we watched horses graze. I scuttled around staging props and other photography equipment, transfixed by the instant rapport that was photographer Flo McCall. And I picked up sticks in pastures—because you just never know when one might come in handy—with former U.S. Senator Cliff Hansen.
That’s all to say that I’ve been learning what it means to listen. Which brings me to Texas longhorns.
On your typical Friday, BJW community members log on to Zoom at 8 a.m. on the dot for 10 minutes together in a (free) guided mindfulness practice. We started meeting this way in the depths of COVID, when “seeing” each other became so suddenly vital to our health, and five years later, we’re still at it.
My job in these Friday sessions is to hit, ‘Record,” when the practice leader starts, so that we can share the practice here with you, our wider community. Often, I’m only half-listening to the practice itself, while I continue to scan for participants who pop on without “muting,” meaning that we might hear their dog barking in the background or their partner shutting the door, or even the clink of their coffee mug on the coaster when they sneak a sip.
But a couple weeks ago, I heard something rare in the modern way of the world: an unguarded, unapologetic willingness to try, without expectation of mastery or authority. I realized I was hearing vulnerability in real time, and it was magnetic.
I gave up my busy-ness and joined in.
Dan Baker, one of our founding board members, was leading the practice. It wasn’t his first time, but like many of you, he’s not a trained mindfulness teacher. He’s just been at this a while, and he trusts the science and benefits of mental fitness. Granted, Dan is very comfortable leading meetings (as chairman of Tate Engineering Systems), and he’s a veteran Zoom-er, but in this space, of mindful awareness, he was just a guy pausing to breathe.
He took off his glasses, because he closed his own eyes when he asked us to close ours.
He gave tiny, careful cues for using the thumb and ring finger of one hand to gently close one nostril, then the other, in sync with our inhale and exhale (a yogic alternating-nostril breathing known as nadi shodhana pranayama, or channel-clearing breath).
The practice balances the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems as the breath stimulates alternating right and left sides of the brain. It’s not a difficult technique, but it’s not entry-level either, especially given that Dan needed to guide not only our breathing but our hands, so we would not poke our closed eyes out!
“You make what looks like a Texas longhorn with your extended fingers, your palm toward your face,” he instructed with a chuckle, before settling into a counting pattern. Within seconds, our group of ten listeners was breathing toward focus, calm, and balance.
At exactly 10 minutes after the hour, Dan had us back in the “room” together, opening our eyes and smiling. He put his glasses back on, and we said our brief goodbyes, each of us off to the needs of our days.
But I’m pretty sure we all felt what I was feeling: that we had done something real together, with only the breath and our intention. What could be more mindful of community than that?
Special thanks to Dan Baker, who didn’t know I’d later be writing about this quietly transformative experience. JOIN our community Zoom practice next Friday!