I met three dear friends at one's mountain home in Leadville, at 10,200 feet. Bright yellow aspen coins carpeted the doorstep and nearby trails. We hiked through rain into sunshine and a rainbow at the lily ponds, our group photo framed by a steaming beaver lodge and mountain peaks. The weekend unfolded with good conversation, local shops and artists (including an eleven-year-old with an origin story), and food that tasted like home.
We touched on current events briefly, then turned toward family news and personal adventures—and the harder things, too. The difficult transitions of the past eight months. One theme emerged through our conversations: how to keep your heart open to the people who matter while protecting yourself from arrows, both stray and aimed.
I read the Huxley quote the day I returned, and it won't leave me. There's deep wisdom in it, I'm certain. But I can't reconcile the paradox: how do you feel deeply while doing so lightly? My personality leans toward feeling intensely, and lightness has always felt like a contradiction. To feel deeply is to be vulnerable. To move lightly sounds like indifference.
Yet maybe that's the misunderstanding. Maybe "lightly" doesn't mean shallow. Maybe it means holding things without strangling them. Caring fiercely but not gripping so hard your knuckles go white. Feeling the weight of transition without letting it crush you into stillness.
My family moves through transitions this autumn. New job possibilities. Letting go of old opportunities. Caring for people we may not see every day. Coaching amazing young people while acknowledging that their senior year is nearly a quarter over—graduation waits in May. Each change requires presence without paralysis, engagement without drowning.
The drought stressed our trees. Many leaves turned brown this year instead of gold. But the healthy trees still managed crimson and gold—their brilliance highlighted by the muted backdrop. Peak season in the high country has already passed. People around town wear "Let it Snow" hats, hoping this year brings a better ski season. The autumn is muddled, neither vibrant nor dormant, neither fully letting go nor holding on.
This in-between season feels like the right backdrop for learning. How to feel the weight of change while moving lightly through it. How to keep your heart open without leaving it defenseless. How to care deeply for the people in your life while accepting that some transitions move them beyond your reach. The autumn teaches this—brilliant color alongside brown, hope alongside letting go, all of it necessary, all of it held lightly.
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