We typically say that “the season has changed” or refer wistfully to “the changing of the seasons,” but I think most of us will know what I’m talking about when I use a phrase which suggests a bit more agency on our part. We’ve all had times in our lives when we must change the seasons ourselves. Perhaps the weather shifts and holidays or schedules sneak up on us, but there are still those times when we find ourselves stuck. The year’s great wheel continues to turn and we are left behind. At those times, we must make a conscious effort to move forward into the next season, or risk falling ever more behind — unaware of the joys we are missing by choosing to live in the past.

But, I am making the effort to move on from summer now. Spending a great deal of time outdoors has helped. The leaves are beginning to change. The sun sets slightly more to the south and ever earlier. The plants and animals are preparing for their winter rest.

I suppose I am looking forward to a bit of a winter rest as well. Lately, I’ve been reading Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May, and it has reminded me in many ways, why I have always loved winter so much. My current busyness is hardly what I would call “difficult times,” but it does make me crave the turning inward that autumn and winter afford. This book was recommended to me several times, and I’m so glad it was. If I had gotten nothing else from it, it’s at least refreshing to read someone else’s writing who loves winter nearly as much as I do. It’s also been a very interesting complement to Six Walks in the Fictional Woods, which I finished earlier in September. Umberto Eco’s work is an incredible, metacognitive collection of lectures about the creating and consuming of fiction (I cannot recommend it highly enough) while Wintering is a metacognitive book about how we think about healing, productivity, seasons in nature, and seasons in our lives.

But perhaps, now I’m getting ahead of myself. So much thinking about our own thinking is really more of a January task, and we are still barely into October. It does get increasingly difficult to ignore the changing season at this point. Here in the United States, Halloween is everywhere (and somewhat confusingly, has been in many places since late August). However, more importantly, we have just passed Michaelmas.

The Feast of St. Michael the Archangel happens every year on September 29th (I am one of those stubborn ones who insists on giving each of the archangels their own traditional feast days [October 24th for St. Raphael and March 24th]). It was one of the traditional quarter days when rents were due and servants were hired or paid, so it naturally still feels like a good mark of time. Its close proximity to the autumnal equinox certainly helps as well.

We began celebrating Michaelmas as a family several years ago when my husband came into the Church and I became more interested in liturgical and historically Catholic living. It was also a logical outgrowth from our devotion to the archangel whose name is a battle cry meaning, “Who is like unto God?”

It was really only coincidence (or was it?) that when we moved to Pennsylvania, our new parish would have St. Michael as its patron, allowing us to grow our celebration more.

My children’s favorite Michaelmas tradition is “Mousey Bread.” I have been making it from the beginning using this recipe, but I learned very early on to adapt the recipe to make more than one mouse. Some people make similar breads throughout the traditional time of the late summer wheat harvest for display, but our Mousey Bread is always eaten, and if there are not enough mice for everyone, well…let’s just say I don’t let that happen!

And so, now that the Mousey Bread has been eaten, I will try to embrace the growing contrast all around. This time of earlier sunsets and changing leaves sharply puts the muted colors of the hazy days of late summer into perspective, just as the Triduum of Hallowtide at the end of this month will put the finite nature of our own lives into perspective. Perhaps, that is the reminder I need most of all. Busy as I might find myself – making, creating, producing, doing — none of it is the True Goal.